

FIRST PUBLISHED IN 2016 (THE WORLD OF SCIENCE FICTION FANTASY AND HORROR) THIS EDITION PUBLISHED IN 2016 BY ALTAIR AUSTRALIA PTY LTD ISBN: 978-1506166414 (PAPERBACK + ELECTRONIC BOOK) COPYRIGHT © CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS 2016 COPYRIGHT COVER ART © BOB EGGLETON 2015 THE RIGHTS OF THE COLLECTED AUTHORS TO BE IDENTIFIED AS THE AUTHORS OF THIS WORK HAS BEEN ASSERTED BY THEM IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE COPYRIGHT AMENDMENT (MORAL RIGHTS) ACT 2000. THIS WORK IS COPYRIGHT. APART FROM ANY USE AS PERMITTED UNDER THE COPYRIGHT ACT 1968, NO PART MAY BE REPRODUCED, COPIED, SCANNED, STORED IN A RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, RECORDED, OR TRANSMITTED, IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS, WITHOUT THE PRIOR WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER AND OR THE AUTHORS

IT IS ALSO NOTED THAT THE READING WORK OF ANNE DAVIES, NONI RUTTER AND ROBIN WESTON HAVE MADE THIS WORK A BETTER AND LESS CLUNKY READ.

The World of Science Fiction,

Fantasy and Horror

Vol. 1 2016

Edited by

Robert N Stephenson

Published by

Altair Australia Pty Ltd

CONTENTS

4. Introduction Robert N Stephenson

5. The Future Eats Everything Don Web (USA)

16. In Blood Comes Salvation Sarah Knight (Australia)

48. Oceanic Harmony Dennis Mombauer (Germany)

72. Just the Messenger Lindsey Duncan (USA)

95. Ghost Ship James Van Pelt (USA)

105. An Author's Lot Andrew M. Seddon (USA)

117. An Incident in Prnjavor Gerry Huntman (Australia)

136. Coves End M. B. Vujačić (Republic of Serbia)

150. Coxley's Black Devine Sarah Totton (Canada)

166. Pale as the Noonday Sun Jonathan Shipley (USA)

181. She Comes Dressed in Flames of Indigo

Dale Carothers (USA)

196. Beach Cricket Tony Shillitoe (Australia)

218. A P.R.I.M Journey Lyn McConchie (New Zealand)

231. Moths Jacob Edwards (Australia)

249. The Burning, The Brightness Patricia Russo (USA)

269. Third Night Charm Gene Stewart (USA)

280. Sea of the Dead Phil Margolies (USA)

299. Bats Domino Gustavo Bondoni (Argentina)

Introduction

In the creation of this anthology I have seen many wonderful observations into and around life, human, alien or simply other and it always increases my appreciation for the cleverness of writers' imagination and skill with words. In this eclectic collection the focus was to be open to anything within the realms of possibility. Some stories will hark back to the established concepts of reality, some will endeavour to fracture understanding and yet others will stand alone in their own small part of existence.

In anthologies we often encounter themes, tastes and guides to hook all the stories together in some fashion, or there are desires that shape a collection to represent a homogenous observation of the writing world. In this anthology the aim was to have everything different, show no connectivity, no theme and no relationships in style or even objectivity in overall design. The collection is just as much about individuality as it is about great stories and storytelling. There has been no conscious effort made to please everyone, or anyone with story selection, as it is my belief all voices have a point and all voices are equal in their conversations with the reader.

Many of these writers will have stories in other collections around the world, some will appear in new publications over the coming years and it is my hope that an introduction into their worlds will cause you to buy and explore their works into the future. For me the creation of anthologies is a labour of love, I enjoy the exploration and discovery and I enjoy seeing works come to life in a reader's eyes and mind. Enjoy this journey.

Robert N Stephenson

January 2016

The Future Eats Everything

By

Don Webb

USA

It was the day of the flood that Matthew D. Smith discovered that the human world faced a menace, always has faced this menace, and will lose out to it.

Central Texas had been enduring a three-year drought. The weather was so hot and so dry that even the staunchest of the "global warming" deniers had begun to doubt. The Catholics had prayed to Mary, the Protestants to God, the Muslims to Allah, the Wiccans to the Goddess, and the Thelemites had practiced sex-magick for rain. Someone or something had heard the call. Matthew pictured this as an old man in a white robe saying, "Me-damnit! I'll give these S.O.B's rain!" It had begun with a lightning storm about eight the night before. Matthews and his wife kept their windows open all night – if you haven't heard rain in many months, it is a sleep-inducing bliss to hear it. Several times in the night Matthew had awakened from vague and uneasy dreams to the sound of a huge downpour. At 5.15 the automated voice of Doublesign Data Systems Inc. had called and told him that work would start two hours late. "Great I can sleep late." Matthew thought. Then at 5.25 the Austin Independent School District automated voice called Kathleen and told her that school would not start until noon. Then at 6.30 his assistant called and said to him if the message was for real that work was delayed. And finally at 6.45 Kathleen's principal had called her to see if she had got the 5.25 message.

Common sense told Matthew that he should allow extra time to drive from his south Austin two story brick home to the one story white stucco building in Doublesign. But the sweet sound of rain told him to sleep longer. After all he had driven the same back-road route for nine years and the roads had never been closed. There had been one snow and two other floods in that near-decade and there was no problem. Matthew took his old black Chevy pickup out at eight, waited for the school traffic to ease up and headed south. He noticed that no cars were streaming north of Austin on FM 118. Perhaps that was only an early morning problem. The sky glowed a lovely grey mother-of-pearl colour. Matthew always drove to work in the dark; it seemed almost like a luxury to be driving so late in the day. About a mile out of Austin, two orange and white sand filled trashcan style road blocks were set up with a protruding ROAD CLOSED sign. But there was space enough to drive between them. He could see another car a quarter of a mile ahead where the road twisted through a grove of live oak. If that guy could make it, he could make it. He was, damnit, a man; even if his big blonde wife sometimes disagreed. Matthew drove his car very slowly between the road blocks, his car very gently brushing one of them.

After his car rounded the bend, he saw the river, which was a surprising sight because there had never been a river there in nine years. There wasn't a creek there, or even a dry creek bed. It was scarcely a dip in the road. The cream coloured Lexus he had seen seconds before was making a difficult three point turn to head back to town. Matthew was sure he would have to turn in the same spot, so he waited for the Lexus to navigate its turn. He pulled up slowly to the fast moving river. It was at least waist high in the oaks, and Matthew could see that where the road dipped there was an angry muddy gap in the pavement, and he could see hunks of asphalt falling off into the foaming white water.

This would be a perfect picture to put on Facebook. Matthew pulled a little off the road. No other cars were coming; apparently others were not as foolhardy as him. He left his white Chevy pickup and walked up to the crumbling shore line. He slipped in the tall wet grass twice. He planted his feet on an exposed limestone ridge and focused his phone at the exposed red earth bank, thinking how it looked like a wound. He hoped the cloudy morning light would provide sufficient light for his picture, when he saw a really big bug break out of the earth. At least a foot in length and half as much in width the pallid segmented being looked like a cross between a trilobite and a cockroach. It had seven legs on each side of its thorax, and a pair of crablike pinchers, and glistened with mucus. It had tiny mammal-like eyes, with light blue irises. As it pushed through the earth, Matthew saw that it had a few brothers or sisters climbing up on the grass heading toward him at a fast scurry. He broke into a run, fell, got up and ran some more. He lost his iPhone in the process. He got his pickup, turned around in record speed and was going down the empty highway at 70 mph, before he could even order his thoughts.

What the hell were they?

Should he go back and get pictures?

Who should he call?

Is there any money to be made from this?

Should he keep his trap shut so that he didn't look like a nut?

Matthew thought of Gordon, the science teacher on Sesame Street, who never saw any weird phenomena that other kids and Muppets saw. So he became the voice of skeptical reason -- he was always wrong, of course, but he was supposed to the smart, credible adult. Kathleen would know, she taught high school science.

Matthew thought his wife would be all practical and skeptical. Instead she was thrilled. She tossed back her mane of blonde hair and demanded that they drive out to the site right now.

"Look, the road is still closed; if you wait until the morning, it will be open again. This could be our Discovery."

He definitely heard the big "D."

It was a scary drive. Rain had continued to fall all day albeit much more gently, and the road was slick. There was no oncoming traffic; apparently no one else was foolish enough to risk the drive. He didn't pull his car into the red mud of this morning. He figured it would be way too squishy. Kathleen practically flew out of the car, carrying the giant flashlight she had bought for emergencies. She found one of the creatures almost instantly. "Matt, hold the flashlight while I snap some shots."

The pale fleshed trilobite (or whatever the fuck it was) didn't seem to like the light. It began pulling itself toward the scar in the earth.

"Matt grab it."

Matthew made a grab, dropping the flashlight. The bug hissed at him, and he jumped back. It had three rows of sharp looking teeth – translucent and like shark's teeth, but much smaller.

"Ok. Maybe don't grab. Can you get the flashlight back, Sweetie?"

Matthew recovered the flashlight and kept the scurrying bug in the centre of the beam. It climbed over a grey green rock as it headed toward the mud. Matthew swung the beam in long gentle arcs. No other creatures were in evidence.

"Move the light back to that rock."

Matthew did so, and he observed what Kathleen was about to comment on.

"Something is written on the rock."

Something was. A piece of grey plastic with a word in black letters was embedded in the siltstone. XUTHLTAN. Matthew picked up the stone. He tried to knock the plastic tag off, but he could see that it was truly embedded in the rock.

"Hey it's really in there. Why would a rock have a piece of plastic stuck in it?" asked Matthew.

"I don't know. Time travel maybe. Maybe some future person journeyed back to trilobite times and dropped his portable Xuthltan in the muck, probably when of these little fuckers hissed at him."

Her large brown eyes were shiny with excitement. This was suddenly the sexiest moment in the marriage in the last ten years. Matthew stepped forward, but Kathleen said, "Look!"

They were everywhere. Matthew could see at least twelve of the bugs all headed toward him and Kathleen. Suddenly they all started to whine like summer locusts. Each bug had a slightly different pitch and each seemed to be modulating its tone. As he grabbed Kathleen by the waist, he thought they might be talking. He had the presence of mind to shove the rock into his pocket.

The warm Texas sun ruled for the next three days. Flood water receded. The middle class neighbourhood of Onion Creek dealt with property damage and the poor neighbourhood of Dove Springs dealt with homelessness. The closed streets were opened and Matthew found the strange insectile visitors had vanished. No tiny claw marks in the drying mud. All that was left were a few badly lit photos and memories of a night of fear and love-making. Kathleen pointed out that in an era of Photoshop, bad pictures didn't mean squat.

But there was the rock.

Five years ago, as Kathleen was getting her degree at the University of Texas, she had dated a man named Randall Wong. Randall worked in the Accelerator Mass Spectrometry lab, was a careful and thoughtful lover – and was dating three other co-eds. Like catnip these AMS lads are ... Anyway all the girls dropped him but Kathleen, who remained his friend (at least on Facebook). He had said to her in a PM just weeks ago, "If you ever need any Carbon 14 dating, just ask me."

Matthew wasn't too keen on all of this. In his heart he knew – or was at least 85% positive Kathleen and Randall engaged in a little affair last year when he'd had to work in Dallas for six weeks. But she seemed so excited by the mystery. It had led to the first time they'd made love in five years. Besides he still cherished the hope that "solving" the mystery would mean leaving his dead-end day job. At least Kathleen could stop dogging him about that.

He was (of course) quite surprised. It's not that often you see plastic encased in siltstone. Kathleen told him that she couldn't tell him about the artefact, but hinted her uncle in the CIA needed to know. As Uncle Fitz did payroll this would be unlikely.

Randall didn't like the results.

"Look don't tell anyone the University lab had anything to do with this. I could lose my job. This will bring every nutcase out of the woodwork for miles."

Kathleen and Matthew had met him at the Kirby Lane café. They looked up from their pancakes and said "Why?" almost at the same time.

"I'm not giving you the printouts. I'm not giving you nothing. The plastic is from now, which shouldn't be a surprise. The matrix was laid down about three million years from now."

Randall dropped the stone on the café table. Before they could speak, he said, "No. Just no. No I don't understand it. No I don't want the publicity. No. Stuff like this ends careers. Investigate if you want, you're a High School science teacher – and you do whatever it is you do. But for me. No."

Randall walked out.

Matthew and Kathleen stared at each other.

Of course the next step was the Internet.

"Xulthan" was the name of a government official in the Maldives, a word for an evil village in a short story by Texas writer Robert E. Howard, a character in a multi-player online game, and a church in a bad Austin neighbourhood.

Austin it was then. The phone number from the website had been discounted. Matthew decided to visit on Saturday, he told his wife to stay home "in case there was any trouble." Matthew didn't know what trouble you could have with people that had artefacts embedded in siltstone millions of years from now. The internet wasn't really of advice for that one.

The Church of Xultahn was part of a cheap looking row of shops in East Austin. It shared its parking lot with a pawn store, a 7-11, and a store that sold replicas of famous perfumes, a tattoo parlour, a loan office, and a botanica. Some guys were working on a white car near the door. The light was off, but Matthew could see someone inside – an old white guy in faded blue jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He had a long scruffy white beard and a blue baseball cap. He was watching a tiny television. Matthew knocked on the thick glass of the shop window. The old man looked up and gave him a wide grin, perhaps one of idiocy. The guy got up and ambled to the door. The church had four rows of rusty folding chairs facing a pulpit. There were bookshelves on two walls. A cash register and what could be a baptismal font. The old guy turned on the overhead fluorescent lights and unlocked the door. He smelled like he had not bathed in a while, but there a cinnamon-y odour coming from the church itself.

"May Xulthan eat your woes!" said the old man.

"Hello," said Matthew.

"Come in," said the old man, "The Grand Chronopastor is not here, just me. Are you here to buy a book? Light some incense, say a prayer? Or just shoot the shit?"

Matthew saw the open fake marble pillar he had guessed was a baptismal font was full of grey plastic tokens with the word Xulthan printed in black letters. These were identical to the one embedded in the stone he was carrying in his left pocket. Matthew pointed at the container as he walked in.

"What are those?"

"Prayer stones," said the old man. "They're free if you are a member, and a buck (tax included) if you ain't."

"What do you pray to?" asked Matthew.

"Well I ain't much of a theologian," said the old man, "I'd say they was bugs. Hardy bugs of the future, I'd say. Makes more sense than praying to a dead Jewish carpenter, if'n' you ask me."

"Why's that?" asked Matthew.

"Well what can a dead Jewish carpenter do fer you? Build something in the past? Heck that's over two thousand years ago. Let's say you wanted some bookshelves. You could pray 'Dear Jesus make me some bookshelves and hide them so I can find them!' Well even if he did make them and hid them real good, you'd have to get on a jet and head off to the Holy Land and try and find them. And if you did find them, they'd be two thousand years old – and what kind of shape do you think they would be in then, I ask ye?"

Matthew wasn't prepared for this line of reasoning. So he asked, "So what can future bugs do?"

"What do bugs do anyway? Eat of course. They can eat up your problems if you chant on 'em."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Praise Xulthan! I had two no good sons. Never took care of me. When they was out of jail, they would literally rob me out of house and home. Took my car. Took my tiny savings from the bank. Hell tried to sell that silver jar that held their mother's ashes. I used to live over there on Chicon. One day I walked past this place. Door was open on account of the AC not working. They was all prayin' and chantin' up a storm. Xulthan! Xulthan! Xulthan! And rubbing these little doodads. Then one of them jumped up and said, 'Praise Xulthan! My husband's gone!' And she showed everybody her ring finger and there was no wedding band on it. I came in and asked just what the holy hell was going on."

"And these bugs had eaten her husband?"

"Of course I didn't believe it at first. But I was hurting so bad from the way my no-good kids had done me. I dropped down and started chanting along with the rest of the morons. I chanted for three days – took the talisman home and chanted. Then I looked up. I used to have a framed picture of Ed in his graduation robe in a little frame. It was gone! I looked around my house – it ain't very big, so this did not take me very long. There was nothing belonging to Ed. There was still some of Mark's stuff, so I went back to chanting, and guess what?"

"Mark's stuff disappeared too?"

"Well eventually. He called me on his cell phone. All I got s a land line. He called me and told me his house was full of roaches that were hissing at him, could I come over and help him? I told him I could've had he not stole my car. I said I'd ride over in the bus tomorrow. Told him he could've called his wife except that she was smart enough to leave his ass. Hung up. Unplugged the phone. Chanted for three hours. Next day I took the bus to his neighbourhood. Different family living there. Looked like they been there for a spell. They had a swing hanging from the sycamore in the front."

"Don't you feel bad?"

"No. That's the beauty of it. The bugs are just trying to get here. They're in some crazy war with flying octopi or something in the future. When the Reverend Nadis first found them they were 100 million years away. Now they're thirty million."

"Closer than that," said Matthew.

"You've got Word?" asked the old man with a look of holy awe, his backwoods crazy set aside for a moment.

"No," said Matthew, "I don't know why I said that."

"They can come through inattention, through synchronicities, through certain shapes, as well as the shape waves of the mantra. Their name isn't really Xulthan. That just has the right vibrations. You must meet Reverend Nadis."

Matthew felt the hairs on the back of his head stand up. He didn't want to meet Reverend Nadis. He looked over at the books for sale. Most were used paperbacks on the paranormal - The Truth About Mummies, The Truth About Werewolves, UFOS in Colonial America, etc. There were a few antique hardbound books with hard to read titles in German and French. Money. Money could buy time. Little church like this must need money.

"I would like a couple of the Xulthan talismans. And let me make a little contribution toward the Church."

Matthew took a twenty out of his worn black wallet. Kathleen had given it to him four years ago for Christmas. He never bought wallets for himself, he hoped that she would notice and get him another.

"You don't have to give us anything. Sure we look like nothing now, but the time will come when only this little church in this little strip mall is the only thing standing."

Matthew could picture what the man was saying. This stupid strip mall on a grey featureless plain surrounded by the bugs. They must have intelligence to have worked this. Somewhere there would be their vast cities, their haunted hives where they fought another incomprehensible race. And their fight used pure human selfishness as a weapon. Matthew stood there, shocked at the vision – it was as though he was really seeing it. He could almost hear their hissing song.

"It gets through to you, don't it?" said the old man, his eyes now full of intelligence. Matthew wondered if this were the Reverend Nadis. The old man went on, "I see you have a wedding ring, that means you'll be wanting two of the calling cards. Here you go."

The plastic felt slimy in his hands. Almost as if they were alive. He felt – or imagined he felt – the rock twitch in his pocket.

"How long? How long have you known about them?" asked Matthew.

"Now that sir is difficult to explain. Working with them plays hell on your time sense. If you started with a lot of enemies, then, how hollow your mind would get. On the one hand you would know them, remember them. But on the other hand you would have a great hollowness in your mind. Things echo in hollow spaces, you know."

Matthew turned to leave.

"Come again!" The old man's voice had gone all hick and stupid again.

Matthew said, "I won't. I'll throw your plastic prayer stones away, and I'll forget this place."

"Doesn't matter." The old man said, "Just you coming starts another cycle in motion. Don't you even want to show me the rock in your pocket, boy?" He laughed a little.

Matthew turned his back and stepped out of the shop.

"Praise Xulthan!"

On the way back to his house Matthew edited and re-edited the story he would tell Kathleen again and again. He stopped at McDonald's and had a large chocolate shake. He would tell her about the talisman's supposed ability to make people disappear. He would portray the old man as a crazy hick. Overdo the accent when he told his wife – make him sound East Texas, bayou country. He wouldn't mention the vision, and of course nothing about the bugs. The whole thing should be a dead end. He thought about throwing away the talismans, but found he didn't want to handle them. He needed to see Kathleen laugh at them. She was so sensible. She was a Science teacher for god's sake. Then after she had destroyed their magic by a good laugh, he could drop them in his document shredder. It was strong enough for credit cards, and these were a little smaller than that.

By the time he drove home he was all smiles and sheepishness. It had been such a waste of time.

"So he really chanted his sons away?" Kathleen asked.

"He was a crazy old man in a closed down storefront. He was probably homeless. You should've seen the junk they had for sale."

"But you bought two of the cards?"

"I offered him twenty bucks for them. I figured the guy needed to eat."

"And he turned your money down?"

"I told you he was crazy."

She looked at the cards, shrugged; laid them on the kitchen counter.

She spent longer than usual on her computer that night. He felt sure she was chatting with Randall. He took a long bath, listening for the sound of her going to bed. When he left the tub about midnight, the calling cards were gone, and she had taken the rock out of his pants pocket.

A day passed, and then a week and the memory of the strange bugs and the stranger church were obscured by bills and problems at work. WDS lost two technicians, so everyone had to pull an occasional extra shift. Matthew drew Sunday morning. He crept out of the house at 6:45 and drove into Doublesign. He took great pride in not waking Kathleen, although she got two months off in the summer plus Christmas, fall and spring breaks. He stopped at the Sac-n-Pac store and bought his diet Dr. Pepper and multivitamin packet and let himself in at work. The mainframe was up, the satellite systems were (mainly) up, he checked the night log and the e-mails. He put coffee on and raided a banana from the boss's fruit bowl. He began file maintenance, when he heard something in the server room. Probably rats (rats had given Arjay a huge fright a couple of months ago.) He ignored it, and then he heard someone say something. He jumped out of his chair. Should he dial 911 or confront? Probably kids from the Discipline Alternative Program.

He moved to the back and threw open the white painted door. The servers were warm happy and alone. He stepped inside and walked up them.

Something fell from the ceiling behind him.

He turned.

It was one of the bugs. Larger than before. Two feet long, seven sharp legs on each side, and two crab like pinchers. It was bigger, he knew somehow, because it had eaten its way closer in time. Two more were crawling along the walls, their blue human like eyes focused on him. One spoke, not a hiss this time, with his wife's voice, "Xulthan!" Matthew could see the three rows of glasslike teeth clearly reflecting the yellow, green and red lights of the servers.

Two scurried out from under the server rack. One spoke with the slightly Chinese accent Randall Wong effected, "Xulthan!" Another hissed.

Then they rushed him. It was quick, but not quick enough.

(For Matthew Carpenter, super-fan)

In Blood Comes Salvation

By

Sarah Knight

Australia

Rust stains marked the walls of shed B. Its single light over the main doors flickered, meaning there was life inside. Payter crouched low amongst the mounds of scavenged steel hoping, no, willing his daughter to be inside and unharmed. Rain had started falling again, the concrete clearway shone in the artificial light. The rain fell in a sharp angle across his view as the wind picked up and blustered about the Iron Monger's foundry. Over the sound of the water vibrating the metal roof of the building little else could be heard, which was good, because if Payter couldn't hear his fighters then it was possible those inside couldn't hear them either.

"Powder's wet," Dara said into his ear. She had a small group of flintlockers, who would now be out of action when the shooting started. "We'll have to follow you in with blades."

"Then circle round back and follow the cutters in, don't attack until we have the Mongers distracted." Dara nodded, her wet hair lank over her face and pewter eyes barely registering in the flicker about the darkness. He would have liked to attack during the day, but airships were in the sky making them too easy a target. The airships of the Slabbers often protected Mongers' factories, especially when weapons trades were on.

Dara dropped back, saying something to her group before they set off for the back side of the building. There were plenty of scrap metal mounds to hide their movements, but to get to the huge front doors they would have to cover ten metres of open concreted ground and would be easy targets should anyone be watching. Payter reached for the binoculars he had lost that morning and cursed for his shoddy vision. The large sliding doors of the foundry, maybe ten metres a door, had a smaller door in a bottom corner. It was closed but he was sure they would have at least one peephole to the outside and a few around the upper part of the building. Attacking was a risk, but in reality all he had to do was get the men inside - shooting and generally everything would take care of itself afterwards. The Mongers had fully automatic projectile weapons, they had their own small foundry and could make guns and shells easily enough, but they were still basic compared to what the world once had, very basic compared to what some of the Slabbers would be armed with. He looked down on his sprayer, it was low on charge because the overcast day limited what solar regeneration he could obtain, but it had enough kick to kill a few dozen Mongers outright. One break in the clouds in the morning gave him an hour's charge, enough for one long or two short sprays of the neutral disrupter pulse. It was very high tech equipment and very hard to repair. Payter knew he had to be the first through the door, fire one spray right and then one left before hitting the floor. The discharges would kill quickly. Not all of them though, there would be others in the upper gallery away from the shock who would open fire as soon as he discharged his weapon.

The sky thundered in the distance, there might have been lightning but it was too far away to light up the sky around them. Dara's group of six, along with the four cutters, would cut through the building's back wall, well away from its small door; they would use the storm to hide the noise. He looked at his watch; it was five minutes to nine, five minutes until he took his group of seven out into the open. The door would have a lock on the inside and his group, armed with small calibre pistols and a few ancient grenades, that might or might not work, were ready to blow the door off its hinges. The minutes moved slowly and every breath brought the thoughts of his daughter stronger in his mind. She was seventeen, hard-willed and athletically adept at hand-to-hand. Yvette had been taken during a sojourn into a shoreline fish cannery; long rusted out but still a good hunting ground for canned food, if you knew where to look and didn't mind the occasional wall collapse. She had been standing watch on the shoreline, looking for flashes of light from Monger rowers. This was technically their ground, their hive for metals and they didn't seem to care for the tins or the fish in them, just the steel in the fallen roof girders and wall stanchions.

He heard her cry but by the time he and others had got to her location all they could hear and see was the grunts of the Mongers as they rowed out into the deeper water. He had lost them in the dark and had to wait until morning to see where they might have gone. On the other side of the bay was their foundry shed, the smoke from which drew a thick line across the grey sky. It had taken Payter and his fighters, his Scavengers as they were known, two days to get around the bay by electric cars and carts, crossing through areas that held no liking for their kind. The light in his watch showed nine, the illumination coming from a technology not only lost but completely baffling to those around him. He could have explained it, maybe even made something similar but this was the new him and the Scavengers did well without all the extra complications. He waved the group forward, a dead run through the thick rain; their movements almost strobing in the flickering light. Handrelly was quick to the front and hung a grenade on the door's hinge side and quickly ducked to the side of the iron building. In seconds the door was gone and the constant mumble of the rain was interrupted by a sharp and chest rattling bang. Payter jumped through the opening, fired left, right then dropped. He heard the whistle of bullets overhead and the metal thunk as they hit the iron doors. The inside of the foundry was light in dull yellow, open barrel fires and cloying smoke. He rolled out of shooting range, putting a large iron ingot between him and what he could see of the upper balcony. Handrelly screamed as he came through the door, his chest blossoming out as a large calibre bullet tore through his chest. Payter rose, his small pistol at the ready, and fired into the smoky haze, once, twice, before ducking down again. Large weapons' fire drowned out the sound of the pistols and he hoped some of his men had made it through.

He pressed his back up against the heavy block of iron he was hiding behind and felt its coldness through his wet clothes and felt the warmth of the air in his lungs. He coughed and heard others coughing. It had to be his men, the thick smoke would be uncomfortable; he was feeling the tickle and drag on his own lungs. How did the Mongers live with it?

"Payter." It was Leonid; he'd hidden behind what was now easily seen as a large metal bucket. A rattle of weapons' fire then an odd little pop, pop of pistol fire followed the call. "Down here is clear." Rattle of large calibre machine gun fire; more holes in the wall nearby, some were large enough that he could see the flickering light and the rain outside.

Payter grimaced, the sprayer had at least done its job and if he knew anything about Mongers they would have his daughter, in fact any prisoner, hung by their ankles in the upper storey. He wiped wetness from his face and saw it was blood, a harmless graze on his forehead but enough to smart when he touched it with his fingertips. Regretfully this wasn't his first rescue from Mongers and even more regretfully few had been successful, generally the prisoners were already dead by the time they'd forced the Mongers to run out of ammunition.

The shooting had stopped but Payter couldn't be sure it was because they'd simply run out of ammo or were reloading, then came the pops of the other weapons. His fighters must have cut through the back wall. Dara's scream was nightmarish and Payter thought she liked the killing just a little too much. Soon the shed reverberated with the yells and screams of fighting and the occasional rattle of automatic gun fire, but soon even that was replaced with the clash of metal on metal and the curses of his men and women tearing down Mongers. That was the real difference between Mongers and Scavengers, Scavengers knew how to fight, the Mongers knew how to make weapons and shoot a shit load of bullets but they weren't fighters. Iron Mongers knew steel and most other metals they could recover, they knew metallurgy and the value of new metals with the additions of silicates, stuff desired by Slab Town but useless to Scavengers, except maybe the lead finds they had for making ball shot for the flintlocks.

Running through the chaos and firing a shot here and there at one or more of the bulky Mongers he made his way up the iron stairs and into the office areas. The whole place had been gutted and large benches lined the walls where cartridge packing would have taken place. Hanging from the ceiling were three bodies on chains, blood was pooled on the floor around their heads and the yellow glow of candle light made it difficult to make out who the prisoners were. He was only missing Yvette, but there were other tribes around the out-lands and Mongers didn't really care from where they got their sacrifices, just so long as they appeased their god.

"Is it her?" Leonid said coming up beside him; his face was streaked with blood.

Payter didn't want to look but found he was drawn into the bizarre scene before him. All three people had their throats cut, faces and hair awash in dark blood, but as he grew closer he knew Yvette wasn't amongst the hanging. She was finely defined as a woman and the three hanging were thick set leaning towards fat. He just stared, relieved and in shock. She wasn't there so where was she?

"Is there another foundry around here?" Leonid squatted and looked at the faces of the hanging triplets. "If she was going to be here then she would have been right here." He looked up at Payter. "Sorry."

Holstering his pistol and holstering the sprayer on his other hip he tried to think. They had clearly seen the row boat heading out into the darkness and there was only one place of billowing smoke across the bay. There were no other plumes close enough to suggest they had been mistaken, so where was she? What had they done with Yvette? Leonid stood, his brown and black clothing creating shadow about his body in the candle light. He also holstered his weapon and wiped at his face with his shirt sleeve, leaving dark patches on the brown material. The smell of death slowly crept up over his desensitisation from the fight; it mixed with the stink of candle wax and the dirty smoke of the coal fires beneath. The fighting had stopped and slowly others gathered in the room with the bodies.

"She here?" someone asked. Leonid held up his hand while shaking his head.

"Are any Mongers alive?" Payter turned to look at a greatly reduced number. Dara was smiling and wore a covering of blood that gave her a possessed appearance.

"A few, most are either dead or got away. Some of the injured are spread about on the landing and some the sprayer didn't kill outright I stabbed in the knee so they couldn't escape." Dara showed her knife and bloody hand. "They will never learn. Mess with Scavengers, you die."

"Dara!" Leonid snapped. "Yvette's not here." The woman lost the smile and stared hard at Payter, looking for confirmation.

"Dara, take Ormith and question the Mongers that you haven't silenced for information on Yvette. She wouldn't have given them her name so use descriptions." Payter didn't want to think she was dead already. All he really knew was that she was not in the foundry, so that equalled being alive, somewhere. Ormith could speak some of the more aggressive Monger language so he'd get the information eventually and then he'd be back to finding his daughter.

"Yes, yes, sure thing," Dara said, waving Ormith to join her. Where Dara was solid and strong looking Ormith was thin and sickly so, they didn't look like an ideal pairing. Ormith knew how to deal with Mongers better than Dara, but Dara knew how to dig out information when none was forthcoming. Both clattered down the stairs and into the smoky gloom of the ground floor.

Waiting for the information would take some time so Leonid and Payter left the building and stood in the rain, allowing the steady fall to wash the stains of blood from their clothes and skin.

Payter thought he could hear the odd scream but the thunder of the rain on the iron roof made all sound tenuous. He stared up into the darkness, allowing the water to fill his eyes and hide his tears. She was still out there. She was still alive. Leonid stood to one side and behind, not speaking but ever watchful; while it would be unusual for the Mongers to come back before dawn others could be lurking.

"Payter!" Dara yelled from the small doorway. "She's on her way to Slab Town."

Picking up a trail in ruins after a storm wasn't easy as everywhere had been washed flat, water had flowed and erased tracks and tell-tales of the Mongers' night fires, if they could have lit any; even the remnants of coal fires had been erased by water. Payter sat back in the passenger seat of the buggy listening to the rattling whir of the electric engine. The engine and drive weren't meant to sound like that but without any electricians or technicians, and tech knowledge negligible, he would just have to keep on charging and using the vehicle until it ground to a shuddering halt. Not for the first time he wondered if his time with the Scavengers was at an end. He would reconsider his position when he got his daughter back and when everything was back to normal. Yvette was still alive, he knew and could feel it in his heart, he had that kind of connection with her, a secret connection for sure but it was there, but what were the Mongers doing, why would they be taking her to Slab Town? They had little knowledge of the place other than its trade in weapons. It troubled him but he couldn't show it and couldn't share it, even though Dara tried to be consoling when she gave him the news. She'd cut up a Monger pretty bad before he grunted out that the blonde-headed girl was off to the Slabbers.

"Battery's low," Dara said from the driver's seat. "Need to put up the panels for a charge, unless Ormith has some spare bats in the wagon."

"Pull over; we could all use a stretch." The vehicle crunched over the shards of store windows and gravel, slowly whining down the generator. Payter needed some time to plot the course anyway. Taking a straight path to Slab Town was a sure way to get killed and they had already lost more than they counted on with the Mongers. He looked to the west and knew what was there and wished he didn't.

The sun was still high and cloud cover thin so he helped Dara put up the flexible panels to catch some charge; it wouldn't be much but the fast circuits could buy him a few more hours. Then it would be 'wait till midmorning' until they could head off again. Ormith had the wagon and the two horses while the others, a rag tag bunch of twenty or so marched along behind. Leonid was talking to a young woman, new to the group and it was clear, going by Dara's solid clumping back to the vehicle he didn't have any charged batteries. The march would have been tougher if he hadn't ordered the group to put all their weapons and supplies on the wagon. The threat of attack rarely came during the day, and you could hear airships coming hours before they hovered overhead. Dirigibles were cumbersome beasts, their grey-black skins looking like dirty smudges against a clear blue sky. No, they weren't in any danger yet, but come nightfall everyone would gather their weapons and set up watch posts to make sure the few whose turn it was to sleep could do so in safety.

There was a problem with the setup of the panels and they wouldn't create any new energy until the morning, if it was clear, so the order went out to make camp early. Weapons were distributed and the group took their packs with whatever food they had scrounged and made comfort amongst the rubble. It was Dara's turn to watch so Payter got first sleep, four hours of restlessness and cold sweats. He would have liked to take the first watch at seven but Dara was no late-nighter and would, and had done so in the past, shoot someone accidentally with her ancient flintlock. She had yet to kill anyone with the weapon but the lead balls did make a mess of an arm or a leg and, given medical supplies weren't really plentiful, infections could easily end a life. He'd leave Dara to sleep the second shift.

Visions of Yvette crowded into his thoughts as the sun set and the sounds of insects started up. The clatter was crickets mostly, with the odd extra noise of some bug to interrupt the high-pitched thrumming. The noise did little to calm him and the more he tried to force his eyes closed the more he wanted to stare up at the sky and the stars and try to get the image of a suffering daughter out of his mind. He wanted her back. Everyone knew and everyone agreed, it was the Scavengers' way and they had welcomed him and his daughter into the fold when she was still a child; they were Scavengers true according to them, even to Dara. 'None is to fall as a sacrifice to the Mongers, all are necessary and all are vital to survival.' The claim was big and chest filling but in reality they were mostly individuals who for some strange reason thought following Payter made sense; if he said all commit suicide he wouldn't have been surprised if they did to a soul. Instead of sleeping he stared at the stars, some moved and he knew they were man-made objects, technology from a bygone era. Did people still live up there? He wondered and hoped he could escape the filth of the world to that place one day. With all that space up there surely he could find a place just for him and Yvette?

"Payter." It was Dara. "I let you sleep longer; you looked like you needed it."

He looked up at the shadow that was Dara and grunted thanks. "I'll let you sleep till sun up, seems fair." He climbed to his feet and eased some kinks out of his back with an exaggerated stretch.

"You just don't want me to take a pop shot at anyone."

He could hear the laughter in her tone. "I like watch," he said, patting his side arms and swallowing the grime that had coated his mouth. "Got any water?"

She handed him a plastic bottle with brownish glop inside. They hadn't seen fresh water for days and even though the glob was probably bad for them he savoured the small sip none-the-less; it was gritty and bitter with a foul odour like socks. He handed it back and sighed, the grip of grief was barely held at bay and his hope was tested constantly by simply thinking the worst.

"There are some vehicle bodies to the south, good protection and clear vision down the wide road leading in."

"Thanks, I'll give you a shake at dawn."

"Not if I see you coming first."

He left Dara to rest while he made his way through the moonlit camp. A small light glowed on the dashboard of the electric car and he could see someone asleep beside it, probably Millie, she was new to the group, the one he'd seen talking with Leonid. She'd come from a Scavenger unit on the coast somewhere; she'd come of age and fled. Not all groups respected women like Payter's. He was glad she felt safe enough to sleep; it had taken her days to settle in. Ormith, the lanky old man, took a liking to her and helped out which saved him a lot of problems. He thought Leonid might be developing feelings for her.

The vehicles were badly rusted but he could still ascertain that one had been a truck and the other a bus, though their roofs were long gone. He settled beside the bus, made himself comfortable and set to watching the shifts of moonlight over the silver grey world. By mid-morning they would be skirting a dead zone before touching the outer reaches of Slab Town; he hated dead zones, people died without being touched in them. He knew what made them but couldn't explain it to the others, to do so would say too much, he would just steer them clear and keep them safe.

"Psst!"

Payter turned to see Millie squatting next to him. He didn't even hear her approach. He was either getting old or she was very light footed.

"Go back to sleep." He turned his gaze back to the road. Now wasn't the time to be distracted.

"There's an airship nearby."

"What?" He looked at her in the dim light; her dark eyes were unreadable, her face so young.

"I thought I heard a sound and when I went to investigate I saw it; its lights are low but I saw people about it."

"You mean one's on the ground?"

"I just told you, didn't I?"

On his way back through the camp he woke everyone with either a tap on the shoulder or a gentle nudge of his boot. Millie led them all through the tangle of old buildings to a clear space of rocky ground and open air above. The dirigible was huge. Payter had only ever seen them high above, their many engines thrumming at the air creating a constant rumble. He didn't need his binoculars to see the people milling about the vessel's grounded stalks. Given the dirigible's size he would guess it could hold fifty, even one hundred men and from the light spilling from the gondola styled control room he could see about twenty men in Slab Town uniforms standing about. Sentry duty, he'd guess. The large engine nacelles were silent and he wondered what kind of power cells they used to turn the big props. Solar would be his main guess but it wasn't uncommon to have chemical fuel engines as well. An airship of this size would have at least two dozen prop engines.

The things were a danger from above, raining down machine gun fire, energy flashes and the occasional pain web when they were in a capturing mood, which wasn't often. Payter had never seen one up so close before, not even in his other life. In the centre of the bulbous body a ramp ran down to the ground with a guard standing in the lighted opening. Another way in, he thought, as plans started forming.

"A good shot in the guts will blow that thing to cinders," Dara said, a smile of excitement frightening in the dull illumination.

"Non-flammable gas," Payter said. "And to blow something like this up you would need to place charges inside the thing, big charges." He pulled back and gathered the group in close; the full moon bathed the world in silver and his group looked grey and lifeless. Unlike the Mongers they couldn't just rush in on Slab Town guards. They would be well armed, well trained and given what he saw hanging about their necks they would also have night vision goggles. They were useless if looking about a lit up area but if they started chasing them back into the ruins they would be easy targets.

"I think we might have an easier way to catch up with the Mongers and get Yvette back." Payter kept his voice low, but the opportunity to save his daughter threatened to spill out as a scream.

"On that thing?" Millie might have looked small but her voice was solid, its firm resonance came as a statement rather than a question.

"We don't know how many are on it, they could outnumber us easily two to one, and they have proper weapons, and are smarter than Mongers." Dara didn't like delays in killing or attacking but she also understood the might Slabbers wielded. "Who do you think's going to fly it?"

Dara was right; attacking a dirigible on the ground was questionable if you were also planning to capture it. Payter knew she could get in close and set a few big explosive charges to blow the vessel in half, cripple it but that would get them no closer to saving Yvette and only aggravate an overwhelming force against them. What he needed was to create a subtle distraction that would cause interest but not panic. Dara was far from subtle. Leonid was smart, lithe and very quiet when he had to be, Payter knew of his secret encounters with Millie. A man who can be that quiet in a close group should be able to get onto the air ship.

He sent Dara to watch over the guards and make sure none ventured in their direction while he instructed Leonid on what he had to do; it wasn't much, just a couple of green smokers, some weedy smouldering balls that would create a haze of stinking smoke in a confined area. They used them to drive rabbits out of holes and thus get much needed meat.

"It will be dawn soon so you have to move fast, we need to get as many of them out in the open as we can while it is still dark."

"I think three of these should do the trick," Leonid said showing the balls he had already made.

"Won't get everyone out, there will be men and women inside the rigging, in the crew quarters, that these things won't reach," Payter said. Leonid looked at him in confusion. "I know a little about these craft." Leonid nodded acceptance.

"Where do you want these, then?"

"Clear the gondola and find the weapons area. We won't shoot unless we really have to." Payter knew they didn't have enough ammo to get into a long shootout and after seeing what Dara did to the surviving Mongers he'd already had enough of sadistic bloodshed.

Leonid nodded and headed into the dark. Payter gathered the others; made sure all were armed with at least a sword and set up in a part half circle around the light area of the dirigible. There were nine guards in the lights with maybe a couple sitting in the darkness. He waved his group down and they took up a general attack position. It was unlikely Yvette would be on the Slab Town ship and with this knowledge the group would also be unlikely to easily sacrifice themselves for nothing. They had all agreed taking the ship intact was a priority, but one that would also mean at no cost. Leonid was the one who could make that possible. He called over Millie, she was good with weapons, basic ones but still better than most, a skill that secured her acceptance into the group. He pointed to the far end of the air ship, which sat in deep shadow. He pointed out where he wanted her to take a few men and how to get close to the open hatchway and ramp.

"Come in underneath the balloon and hide in its shadow. Once you see about thirty, maybe forty, outside climb out and get up that ramp and inside," he whispered. "Stay low and follow the smoke, Leonid will be expecting you, and if you have to kill someone, use your knives, no shooting." The three nodded and moved off.

Payter looked to the sky, it was still dark and stars spread across the night like a river, a grand sweep that awed him at times and saddened him at the moment. He and Yvette would often just watch the stars and talk about life, sometimes even mention the death of her mother at the request of the over-mind. He broke away from the gaze, now wasn't the time for memories.

Guards moved around inside the gondola, their shapes could be seen through the windows spilling light into pools on the ground. The men outside seemed to have relaxed a little more since Millie first pointed out the ship. The night had almost passed and they would be thinking they were safe; the observations would have decreased as the idea of threat diminished. Yells sounded from within the ship, smoke could be seen coming out of one of the gondola's open windows. In moments men and women filed out through the open control room hatch and down the central ramp. Coughing and spluttering, some went down on their knees drawing in breath while others simply bent over vomiting. There was no panic, no real commotion, just an orderly file out, well trained and well-armed men and women. Typical of well drilled Slabbers, their minds wouldn't be fully their own existence, their individuality having been long driven out and their panic suppressed.

Two men, tall and wearing the same uniform as the others, barked a few orders, the tallest was black, the other oriental. There must have been close to forty people standing about the craft, all holding weapons but not pointing them anywhere in particular. Smoke billowed from the doors and the windows. From where Payter watched he could see few were paying attention to the dark shadows that surrounded them. All seemed to be just staring at the smoke. The nine on-duty guards turned to eighteen as others came running from the darkness to join the growing group. All eighteen wore their night vision goggles around their necks, protecting their eyes from the bright lights of the ships gondola. Payter was thankful for luck. When no more people were leaving the air ship Payter stood and waved his group forward, a slow march out of the shadows and into the murky light of the dirigible. Dara dashed for the hatchway and in the confusion of smoke and yelling, she slipped by and made her way into the ship.

By the time the second shot registered from his gun all faces were pointed in Payter's direction and, after a few confused looks, everyone registered they were not in a good place. Two men moved quickly amongst the armed guards and took their weapons. No one dared move while facing twenty-five dangerous looking Scavengers.

"Scabs," the tall, black man said, spitting on the ground.

"Mr Scab, to you."

"You can't fly this thing," the oriental man snarled. His face was all hatred and anger. The Slabbers had been slack and had probably seen Mongers moving away the other day and figured they would be safe to set down for a night. "You won't even know how to use our special weapons."

"No, we won't, but your flight crew can and they will be happy to take us to where we're going." Dara stepped into the throng, a struggling woman pushed before her, her hands pulled back in a tight grip. Payter exchanged a glance with Dara.

The woman screamed as she was forced to her knees. Dara pushed a long, sharp knife to her throat, drawing a line of blood. The screaming and struggling stopped.

"Those who have not yet given up their weapons now would be a good time to do so," Payter said, seeing some men try to hide shot guns amongst the group. The angry officer looked away and some men moved forward but stopped when they, too, could see the blood in the feeble light. Slowly the Scavengers pushed the people into a closer group and picked up their weapons, throwing the bulk of them out into the clear space behind them. Others left the air ship down the ramp with their hands behind their heads to join the growing number of prisoners. Ormith walked behind them, a gun in each hand.

"All I need is the flight crew, and no one will be harmed if you just do as I say." No one came forward.

"They won't follow your orders," the black officer said, his brilliant white toothed snarl turning to a satisfied smile.

Payter nodded and Dara pulled the woman's head back by her long hair. The woman cried out. Someone yelled 'no,' and two men stepped forward out of the group.

"I command you to stand down," the officer barked.

"I need all the flight crew, and, as I said, no one will be harmed."

"She's the navigator," one man said, pointing to the woman at the mercy of Dara.

After a few minutes there were fifteen men and women gathered to one side of the group and Payter knew there needed to be more; there would be nacelle crews, upper rigging crews and while the gas bags were individual cells with their own control systems there had to be monitors. Dara let the woman go and came over to Payter. She didn't look happy and he knew she could feel the crew's plotting as well.

"Commander," Payter said to the still defiant officer. "How many people does it take to keep one of these things in the air?" The man spat, his square face hard in the climbing dawn. "I figured that would be your answer. Dara, kill one."

Dara jumped forward, snatched a small man from the prisoners and threw him to the ground. He tried to fight back but she flipped him onto his front, pulled his arms up and across his back and straddled him, pinning his arms beneath her thighs. There were small gasps and complaints but the Commander said nothing. Dara pulled her long knife, raised it high and behind before slamming it down on the man. A few women screamed, again some men tried to come forward but were urged back by Scavenger guns. The man cried out.

"I could get her to kill another," Payter shouted quickly. "Kill as many as it takes to get you to answer me."

"Thirty," the commander said softly; as he waved his hand another fifteen men and women joined those who had already come forward. "But they will only take orders from me." The man also stepped forward and joined the group.

Dara laughed, climbed off the man's back and dragged him to his feet. The Slabber was pale in the light, his face white with ashen dirt. He checked the shoulder of his dark, blue jacket and the newly created holes. She pushed the man into the group of prisoners and sheathed her blade. Payter didn't really know if she would just play out the kill or really kill the man; it was always a risk with her. He sighed, this time it had worked out well but he knew not to rely too heavily on compassion from his key fighter. She really liked killing.

"The remainder of you will stay here until we return." Payter signalled at the others with a sweep of his arm. "Once we have what we want we will return and you will get your air ship back. If you wander too far, know there are Mongers about and they don't really care who they sacrifice. A Slab Towner is the same as a Scavenger to them." Forty odd men and women stared at him, fear evident on their faces. He would leave them no weapons but some food for two days, though he hoped to be back by evening.

He turned to Ormith who was standing at the foot of the ramp, proudly showing his newly acquired hand guns. "Leave them food and water." The Commander was quietly talking to his group and Payter thought he heard 'at the first opportunity'. He couldn't blame them for planning to overthrow his raggedy band, but he was sure his seasoned Scavengers were a better match for soft sky soldiers who didn't even know how to guard and protect their vessel properly.

While some of his men piled up crates of food and water beside the central ramp, Payter, Dara - who now had a nice shiny rifle with three belts of shells - and five others, herded the thirty into the control room; the large gondola that hung beneath the massive balloon. Payter knew a lot about the airships but wondered if he should let on. It would only confuse things, he thought and with Dara confusion could be dangerous. The gondola had a modern flight system, small computers and guides, a row of flash screens and a bank of communications instruments. The Scavengers would not know any of this stuff, so that meant neither could he.

"Listen up," he said to the group but directly to the Commander. "You will perform your duties as if you were returning from any other mission. You will fly low so I can find a caravan of Mongers heading towards Slab Town." He caught movement in his peripheral vision and caught a whisper. "You have already seen them, haven't you?"

The Commander, standing stiff and straight, spoke. "They were crossing Two Rivers yesterday when we came over. They would be gone by now."

"How well do Mongers get along in Slab Town?" Payter had to ask the question, Mongers were solid traders of projectile weapons with the Slabbers and while their relations seemed organised he knew there was always a risk of the Mongers going off and shooting everything in sight. Yvette would be at a higher risk if sold to the Slabbers, just like her mother.

"Like you, they would have camped for the night," Payter said considering his next move. "We will be able to get over them before they reach the edge of town; we can go straight, they will have to navigate the paths of Fallen Scrape and Shard."

"Why do you seek the Iron Mongers?" the Commander asked.

"First order your people to their posts, and explain to me what they are doing before they go. Each group will have one of my fighters for company and they get kind of jumpy when they don't understand something. Technology, whilst not exactly alien, does cause concern amongst them."

The Commander sent off his teams to their tasks explaining about the nacelles engineers and the engine maintenance, the ballast adjusters, the gas regulators and even the vent operators. With the exception of the engineers the other tasks were rather simple for such a large ship. Dirigibles were filled with a combination of helium and flylight, which allowed fast lift and easy manoeuvring. Payter might have been a Scavenger now but he hadn't always been. He'd been a Slab Towner once, a skilled technician that made mind parts for the overseers. When he fled with his family he'd become a hunted man for many years. Then Slabbers gave up looking and he began his new life.

"Payter," Dara interrupted his gazing down on the ruined landscape of the world. "There's smoke ahead." She pointed to the other side of the gondola and past the Commander. "About five kilometres from Twin River crossing' the Commander says."

"Right." Payter pushed aside memories and details of the old life, he hadn't expected them to ever come back, but being on an actual air ship woke something deep inside and he didn't really like it.

The Commander handed over his binoculars and Payter gazed out the small window into the near distance. The smoke was white, could be coal or wood if they were lucky to find some amongst the ruins. "Mongers?" he asked, handing the binoculars back to the Commander.

"Probably but that isn't going to help you much," he said with just a little too much smugness. "There's another ship nearby."

The journey had been quite simple thus far and no one in the command room had done anything Payter didn't really expect, except one thing he knew they should be doing but weren't. He didn't want to mention it as it would give away that he knew more than they thought he did, things worked better when someone thought you were stupid; they made mistakes and gave too much away. Across the forward command bench were small screens and lights, gauges and dials, all what he would expect given the highly developed technology of Slab Town, but one light remained red and he knew well enough that red usually meant danger of one type or another. He wanted to go have a look but would the Commander get suspicious?

"How long until the ship gets close to us?" Payter moved towards the light making out as if he were looking through the portals for the other ship.

"They can already see us. They will come alongside and when they see we have Scabs on board they will shoot us down. Your only hope is to land now and let us go." The Commander spoke as though this was already worked out and all he had to do was implement the plan.

Payter looked down on the red light and the small print beneath. 'Emergency Beacon.' Beside it was a switch, a touch switch that was flat and hidden by the uneven surface of the console. He looked to the Commander who was looking first at him and then down at the light. Payter lowered his hand and touched the switch and felt the slight tactile give as he moved it to off. The Commander's stern look seemed to sag slightly.

"I also know you have a transmitter, a digital signal decoder if I may offer."

Dara looked at him with mouth agape. "You know this stuff?"

"Who are you?" the Commander said, a frown shading his bright blue eyes.

"It is time to do your job, Commander." Payter pointed to the only chair that did not get occupied when he gave his orders. "Signal the other ship; let them know you are returning to base. Tell them the flylight is low and needs replenishing."

"Again, who are you?" The Commander didn't move, his face was hard and his expression one of shock.

"Scavengers aren't all stupid animals feeding off scraps. Now send the signal. I also know some of the codes for distress if you were thinking of sending one." Payter drew his sprayer and aimed it at the Commander's head. "I have this on low yield, it won't kill you but it will leave you messed up enough to need nursing for the rest of your life. You see, Commander, this is where things start to get serious."

The Commander waved to a woman at one of the other screens, she shifted seats and touched a flat spot on the control board and it came to life with an image, an insignia of an eagle holding a ribbon. On the ribbon was written something in ancient text. Payter couldn't read it but he was sure it had something to do with the flying corps. She touched icons and the screen until a green light came on. She turned to face the Commander.

"We are in the clear," he said. "You aren't a Scab, are you?"

"I am now, but we do prefer to be called Scavengers. You don't really like when we call you Slabbers do you?" Payter lowered his weapon, he had to wait until the other ship visually moved away; he needed confirmation he could trust.

"I'm Captain Bothos Ohni," the Commander offered after a time of silence. "If you tell me what you are looking for maybe we could help in a more, official, manner. Maybe without the need for drawn weapons, for instance." The man had lost a little of his hardness: having a sprayer pointed at your head will do that.

The other airship was moving away, turning slowly to head in the opposite direction. Dara took the binoculars from the Commander and studied the view for a moment before he saw her shoulders drop in relaxation. A relaxed Dara meant he could consider his options without the need for someone to die. The black man looked visibly relieved, but could he trust the man at all? Could he actually tell a Slabber anything of the truth of why they needed his ship?

"How far are we from the Mongers' smoke?" Payter said, glancing to one of the three controllers at their stations. None of them spoke even though they did consider him briefly.

"How far?" The Commander sounded tired now.

"Ten kilometres north–west," a young man said, snapping out the clipped words.

"The Iron Mongers are our enemies as well."

Payter looked at Captain Ohni and understood what kind of enemy he meant. The Mongers supplied Slab Town with weapons and ammunition, the same materials the Slabbers used to fire down on Scavengers if they got too close to their fallen city. Mongers were no more an enemy to the Slabbers than air was to lungs. No, he would not tell him what they really wanted.

"We want their weapons; the ones they are going to deliver to your people." Dara looked to him but she kept quiet.

"They won't surrender to you."

"But if we force them to fight they will fill your over-sized balloon with holes and from my encounters with them they generally don't stop shooting until they are out of ammo." The Captain's face confirmed Payter's assessment. "But if you were to hover above and signal them to lay down their arms and get ready for a chat, then you can have your ship back intact and all your people returned safely."

The man considered and Payter could see plan upon plan form and crumble behind his eyes. Here was a man caught between duty and survival, a wrong-footed commander with very few options. Threaten his people and he pauses, but threaten the safety and longevity of the ship itself and you get a more malleable man. The command room was getting stuffy and through the opened portals and windows came the strong scent of burning rubber; it wasn't only coal the Mongers were burning. They were near and only a few steps away from getting Yvette back.

"Send a signal to the Mongers," the Captain said to the communications officer. "Tell them it is time to trade and we have what they have come for." The woman again touched icons and symbols on the flat screen, but also started to subvocalize something. Mongers would have receivers for sound, nothing more complex than that. A grunting, growling sound filled the gondola, a coarse rattle from speakers somewhere in the console. Monger speak, part English, part pig.

The woman turned to the Captain, surprise on her face. "They don't want trade."

"Then why are they here?" Captain Ohni looked to Payter, the confusion real.

"They say they have found her." The woman now looked as confused as the Captain. Payter felt a sinking in his gut. "They have come for their reward."

"How close can you get us to the site?" Payter said, drawing the attention of the Captain away from the woman.

"What is really going on here?" the Captain said, a scowl returning to his face. "Who is this woman they are talking about?"

Payter wanted to shift the conversation but he was cornered. He could just order the Captain to set down ahead of the Mongers but somehow seeing as they had now opened communications with them the element of surprise was gone. His one good gamble had backfired worse than a flintlock's blow back. The Captain stared at him, unblinking and ready to fight. Dara had joined Payter, one hand on her blade and the other holding her newly acquired pistol. The binoculars had been discarded. Payter checked the hatchway to the interior of the airship, two of his men stood weapons poised. What lie could he tell the Captain to keep him on track, to keep his secret safe?

"What is he talking about?" Dara said softly. Captain Ohni looked to her, equally as expectant of an answer.

"Tell the Mongers we have what they need and will make the trade. We have their reward." Payter found he had been holding his breath, so his words came out in a strained rush.

"You have me at many disadvantages, Mr Scab." The Captain stood as still as stone. "But unless you answer me that one question I will not allow you to add to them."

The sprayer came up, Payter's mouth felt dry and the stink of tyre smoke was sickening. Captain Ohni didn't even blink, not a flinch when Payter pressed the muzzle of the weapon to the centre of his forehead. The Captain was solid and stolid. He could also feel the boring eyes of Dara beside him, she would be feeling edgy and death followed that feeling closely. She would want to know; then the others would know. He licked his lips and knew the man in his sights wasn't going to give any more orders, answer any more questions until he revealed at least some of the truth.

"Payter, what's wrong?" Dara drew her blade, the soft slide of it from the leather scabbard a small point of concentration and distraction. "Obey his orders or I will kill your Captain," Dara said softly.

"No, Dara." Payter sighed and again lowered his weapon. He'd threatened others for long enough, had hidden and run for even longer. "The Mongers have my daughter."

Captain Ohni considered for a moment. "But why would we pay a reward for a Scab... Scavenger?" He frowned. "Unless."

"Unless she had value to Slab Town Authority," Dara offered.

Dara raised her pistol, the squarish muzzle pointed to the side of Payter's head and a slight hum could be heard from its charge mechanism, something Dara wouldn't be aware of. The lock cage was still in place and would shunt any discharged power back into the user, a safety system designed to fool Scavengers and Iron Mongers should they ever get a hold of such weapons. The Captain reached forward to take the sprayer from Payter.

"You do that and I'll cut your throat," Dara said, showing the man the blade.

Captain Ohni considered Payter while Payter wondered just how far he could push Dara, he decided not far enough. The others in the gondola joined in the silent staring match, the communications woman subvocalizing while a low set of grunts and growls wafted on the stinking air. Sweat broke out all over Payter, his panic was rising and just so near rescuing Yvette and getting away from Slab Town.

"Is it him?" The Captain asked the woman after she finished talking. She nodded, her expression changing from determination and duty to one of surprise and shock.

Dara wasn't looking comfortable, the gun had a slight shake and her knife hand started a little swirling action, the tip of the blade rotating in small circles. "One of you had better start talking." Her voice rattled on the edge of turmoil; Payter had heard that kind of edginess before, the night she had to decide between killing a child or saving her mother. The end result was two dead but he was sure it was the driving force behind her violent anger.

The gun clicked. Dara had depressed the trigger to engaged, she would think it was first catch, she wouldn't know a killing shock was being prepared. He couldn't let her die no matter how desperate he was to keep the secret.

"I'm Peter Wayfield," Payter snapped, dropping a quick glance into Dara's eyes. "I'm a Slabber."

Dara smiled. "I always knew that. Not much of a secret to get all crazy over. Some of the best Scavengers were once Slabbers."

"He isn't being clear," Captain Ohni said, looking at Payter with a new level of understanding. "He is 'the' Peter Wayfield, the creator of Slab Town's Overlord Intelligence System."

"She won't understand that." Payter sighed, resigned to the hard truth. "Have you ever seen Slab Town, Dara?" She shook her head, the knife and gun remained in position, but some of the tension seemed to have faded. "It used to be just a collection of giant technological data slabs filled with technicians feeding real time data into the core." She looked troubled. "I made the Slabs into living entities, I gave them life and self-determination."

"He imprisoned us," the Captain interrupted. "Then he fled, leaving us to survive under the calculating minds he created." The Captain showed a strong sense of self; maybe the tension of being captured had broken his conditioning, released his self-control.

"I don't understand." The gun found a tighter grip and the hand shake increased. Captain Ohni let a twitch of smile slip.

"Don't pull the trigger," Payter said. "The charge in the gun is set to reverb. Pull the trigger and the gun will kill you."

"I don't believe you."

"Shoot the traitor," the Captain said. "He has probably betrayed you like he has us."

Dara slashed and the Captain fell to his knees holding his throat, blood gushing between his fingers. The communications woman screamed. Dara flicked her wrist and the blade stopped its flight sticking out of the woman's chest. The woman slumped forward as Dara lowered the gun and stared at Payter intently.

"We still have to get Yvette," she said, looking down at the gun and its collection of dials.

"Land us within a hundred metres of the Mongers." Payter turned from Dara and stared straight at the gaping controllers. "You either do what I say or I let her deal with you." The three men set to work manoeuvring the dirigible. Payter felt the rock of the deck as they changed direction and began to lose altitude; pressure built in his ears and thankfully muffled some of the sound. Dara was screaming at the three controllers, something about gutting and shoving testicles somewhere unpleasant. Payter wanted to close his eyes for a long moment and just forget everything, but he couldn't. He created Slab Town; an experiment to take away the madness humans wielded on each other in the name of progress. He started at the rich blue uniforms of the controllers and understood that meaning more than anything; uniformity was something the intelligences had called for, something Payter hadn't reasoned on. Everyone in Slab Town had to wear the exact same uniform, no distinctions, no individualism and it was Payter who had set it loose.

"Fire some shots at the Mongers," he said, waving over the two door guards. Dara went to speak. "Please, Dara, I know what I'm doing. It's dangerous but I know what has to be done."

"The Iron Mongers are shooting at us," one of the men said. "We can fire the automatics back at them."

"We only need one blast," Payter said.

Dara went to a window, which shattered, showering her in glass. "Shit and metal!" She ducked low holding up her questionable weapon. "How do I turn this thing on?"

"Turn the blue knob away from the barrel and depress the trigger once." Payter moved to the three controllers who were nervously guiding the enormous craft down. "Just keep going down."

"But..."

"But nothing." He squeezed the nearest man's shoulder. "Once we are down we will all have to fight the Mongers, unless you want to die inside your precious ship."

The three looked to him; one stared down on the dead Captain while the others looked at Dara peeking over the lip of the shattered window. Payter could read the altimeter, the digital display said two hundred metres, one ninety-five metres, they were getting closer to the weapons' fire. Another window shattered. Ormith came running into the gondola with two others at his side, their hand guns drawn and faces stern.

"Payter, Dara." Ormith looked to the dead.

"Prepare the fighters, we are going to take on the Mongers on the ground," Payter said, catching Ormith's attention before he could say anymore. "We will hover as long as possible, let the Mongers use all their ammo until we land."

"We are going down fast," one of the controllers said. "It's the only way to save the ship." The sound of rushing wind rose about them as windows were shot inwards and the great balloon of the ship was riddled with holes. Payter order Ormith back to get the others and to inform the remaining Slabbers that they were now fighting against the Mongers. Mongers didn't really mind who they killed.

Blustering and gushing air though the windows was deafening and it was a little hard to breathe as the air began to fill with debris from bullet impacts. The thick metal of the gondola was starting to hole the closer to the ground they got. He looked out of the shattered forward ports and could see flashes from weapons ahead and below, they were dropping right into the heat of the fire. One of the controllers slumped forward, a piece of his head missing, the other two climbed from their seats and ducked beneath the control board.

"Get down and hang on," Payter screamed. The two door guards lay flat on the deck, the two controllers crunched up under the board while he and Dara strapped themselves into chairs. The ship shook; they could now hear the continuous explosion of heavy gun fire and slowly around them pieces of the gondola were being blasted away. A hot sensation sprayed out from Payter's upper arm but he was holding on too tightly, fighting too hard to concentrate and spend any time on it. They were going to crash and he knew it was going to hurt.

The sound of bullets ricocheting off metal brought Payter around. He was crammed up against the forward bulkhead still strapped into the chair. In the mess of destruction, he couldn't see Dara. He did caught sight of the two controllers, looking quite dead, crunched close together beneath a crushed control board. In the crush of metal, he saw the stray leg of what he could only presume was one of his own men. Where was Dara? Not even the chair he remembered her being strapped into was where he remembered, it was gone along with a chunk of decking. The gun fire was light and he could hear the pops of return fire, less erratic and frantic. The smell of fire was strong but as yet there was no smoke in what was left of the gondola. The front view ports were a wall of stone, the side windows showed flashes of sky and ruins. The only way out was through the door into the body of the balloon and, as he saw, that was where smoke was beginning to billow in from. Dirigible gas reacted when exposed to oxygen - it didn't burst into flame but it did become noxious, but the skin was flammable if the temperature was high enough, the aluminium composite could burn like paper once ignited.

The exit was partially blocked by a bent cross member, the top of its support obviously giving way to the pressures of the metal above. He would have to crawl out, which was fine, because his arm was difficult to move and he could feel a sharp pain in his back. Probing delivered a metal shard but his fingers were too slick with blood to yank it free, and his basic medical training said that wouldn't be a good idea anyway. The Mongers would have to run out of shells eventually, but did he have enough of his own fighters left to confront them hand to hand if the event arose? He hoped it didn't come to that; if the Mongers were really cornered they might just kill Yvette and be done with it, fleeing in all directions in the hope of self-preservation. Payter crawled his way through wreckage and towards a rent in the access way they had entered the ship through, the smell of burning aluminium choking and bitter in his throat. Breathing was painful. Exposure to the gas would not be harmful so long as he got clear quickly. Through the hole in the shell of the metal balloon he saw Dara's boots; she was coming back for him.

"Payter, Payter?"

He groaned back, finding he couldn't form any words because of the metallic taste in the back of his throat. She climbed under a narrow beam and entered the wreck, she had blood on her face and blood stained her right trouser leg. Pain shot through him as she slid her hands under his shoulders and dragged him from the ruins of the airship; once outside he could see the crumpled mess on the ground and it was burning fiercely back by the engine nacelles.

"There's actually liquid fuel back there," Dara said, pulling him to a protection of broken walls. The sound of bullets hissed about but he could tell the ferocity was decreasing. "Under normal circumstances we'd bleed off some for trade." He looked up at her with a frown. "Well, it's all going to blow soon enough."

She sat him with his back against a grey pocked wall, protected away from the blast should it come. Pain arched across his shoulders and his arm was difficult to move. The sleeve was soaked in blood and some explorative probing found the wound was not actively bleeding anymore.

"Why did you leave me?" He shifted so his weight wasn't on the metal sticking out of his back.

"Leave you?" Her brow furrowed. "I was thrown out through the front view panels. Ormith released me from the chair and headed out to carry out my orders. I had to climb around a great chunk of wreckage to get back in to drag your arse out of the place." Dara sat beside him, one hand clasping at her thigh. "It wasn't easy; I'm bleeding like a stuck Monger."

"In my breast pocket," Payter said, suddenly feeling too exhausted to move. "It's a patch, peel off the back and stick it over the wound."

"I think I need more than a bandage."

"It's not just a bandage, it's a micro healer. I've had a few since fleeing the Slab, been keeping them just in case of an emergency."

"I guess this rates as an emergency." She tentatively pushed two fingers into his pocket and pulled the blue square out. She examined it briefly before tearing open her trouser leg to reveal the pulsing hole in her leg.

"Peel off the white side and then press the sticky side over the wound." Payter grimaced at the pinching pain in his back.

Fingers caked in blood, she peeled off a white side and pressed it into the hole. "Shit!" she cried.

"Oh yeah, the micro machines kind of hurt when they start their work."

The shooting died down to the occasional pop of hand guns, his people. The smoke from the burning airship was streaking high on the steady breeze. The white and black plumes seemed to grow thicker with each passing moment.

"We have to find Yvette," he said, grabbing Dara's hand and squeezing. "That patch administers local anaesthetic so you should be able to walk."

"What about you? It's only an arm wound." She probed the hole in his shirt sleeve. "Not even your shooting arm."

Payter moved his right arm around to point in the rough position of his not so obvious back injury. Dara felt behind him, her touch gentle but still painful. "I only had one patch."

"There has to be a medical bag on that airship, they'd have something for sure." Dara sounded desperate, a sound he had never heard in her before and it frightened him. "I can't just let you die, Payter, not now, not when we are so close to getting Yvette back."

Through the growing pain he watched the wide eyes of Dara searching his face, she had regained some colour as the patch stimulated red cell manufacture and began the process of blood replenishment, something he knew he could really use pretty soon himself. He couldn't hear any shooting, so the Mongers were out of ammo but they would still fight for their reward, given they knew exactly who Yvette was. Carefully he eased himself up and with Dara's help, stood.

"They won't give her up."

"They don't really have to, we are going to surrender to them," she said, the smile she offered enough to make him shiver. "Ormith is already in talks with them.

"We only just came down." He tried to take a step but his back had already started to stiffen.

"We crashed in on top of the things, it was either start shouting your real name or get killed. Things are happening fast, Payter and I are doing everything I can for our survival here." She looked sad, her face covered in blood and dirt. "I'm sorry, but I can't see things working out any other way."

Payter wished he could step away from her, take stock of himself and the situation but everything was out of his control. He was losing blood but nothing a tight bandage wouldn't slow, if he had a tight bandage that was. He rubbed at his face, the bristles of his beard soft and the sensation of touch distracting. Dara was surrendering him to the Mongers, and while his mind found it hard to accept, his body and heart said it was probably for the best. The great dirigible creaked as it settled, the balloon not collapsing but holed and venting gas. It might take a few hours before it was fully deflated and its supporting structure, compromised, would give way to the weight of the fabric. The underside was a mess of crushed metal and glass, the gondola's whole front section buried into a mound of rocks and old building, and the two side hatches yawning maws of tragedy. On the ground around the openings were a few bodies, some in uniform and some he knew. Closing his eyes, he fought back the rush of emotion that was the end to his running and hiding, for the years he had been with the Scavengers seemed to have been a waste. The Mongers would return him to the Slab and the over-minds would have him assimilated into their matrix like any other human mind they required to expand their capabilities. The heavy reaction gas from the airship was slowly affecting him and the slowness he felt in his reactions and thoughts was a blessing; he couldn't fight back now even if he wanted to.

A thump of percussion rattled his body and slapped at his ears, an explosion from the rear of the airship. The explosion was quickly followed by another, then another; the liquid fuel cells were erupting.

"Dara," he relaxed and allowed more of his weight to fall on her shoulders. "The Slab will..." How could he make her understand the thing he had fled when the Scavengers barely understood the functions of a gun and a can opener. "The Slab will turn me and Yvette into machines."

Her face was pale with blood loss but her mouth dropped in confusion, this was something far too complex for her to understand. She raised a hand and placed it on his lips to silence him; he tasted dirt and oil, and he smelt the course odours of cordite and sweat.

"Trust me," was all she said.

Ormith emerged through the smoke followed by three stocky and half-naked Mongers, they were far enough away from the dying dirigible to be safe from other explosions but the tang of gas was on the air, the reaction with oxygen taking place. The Mongers were unarmed but Ormith carried a small pistol in one hand and wore a Slabber's hand gun through his belt. The Mongers were grunting and gesticulating but fell silent once they caught sight of Payter. The lead man standing beside Ormith pointed, mouth agape and eyes fixed; his piggy squint unreadable.

"Wayfield?" the man asked, still pointing.

"Yes, Peter Wayfield," Dara replied. "Is the girl okay?"

"Yes, yes, girl is alive. We know she is daughter; we know many things you Scabs don't."

Except how to fight, mused Payter; he wanted to see Yvette but he couldn't speak, he didn't know what Dara was doing and any action he took now might undo whatever it was she had planned. The Mongers approached slowly, Ormith looking to Dara briefly before turning his back to watch for anything coming from behind. Who else was out there? Payter wondered. Dara stepped between the three men, her hands free of weapons, her right leg patched but stained dark with blood.

"We want some of the reward." Dara stood straight-backed, shoulders tight.

"What need you of copper and gold?" The lead Monger's chest was slick with black stains of oil and soot, his hairy underarms were wet with perspiration, long streams ran down his sides and the white skin of his torso bore the scars of hot metal sprays. The greater the scars the lower the rank of the Monger.

"For future trade with you," she said calmly. "We need guns and ammo for hunting in the wilds, so we need something to trade with."

The man frowned. Payter could see one of the silent ones was the true leader; he had fewer scars and less soot on his body. Mongers might have been stupid in some areas but they could be clever with negotiation, they had to be when they traded weapons with the Slabbers. Trading with Scavengers was different, as it was rare for them to have anything a Monger would need or could not get for themselves.

"Why not just take weapons now, and then you will have no need for copper or gold?" He might have frowned but it was hard to tell on a heavily scarred face, the brows were burnt away and the eyes sunken.

"Gold and copper is a small weight compared with guns. Ammunition is even heavier and we know you have none of this to trade at this moment." Dara stepped close to the man. Payter saw the true leader smile slightly. "I am sure a single weight of gold could buy us enough ammunition to last out two or even three seasons."

The lesser scarred man nodded. "A reasonable position," he said, drawing the attention of Ormith and Dara. "But you will use these weapons to attack our foundries, so why do you think we would trade with you?"

Dara hesitated, was she affected by the gas? Payter sucked in a breath, tasted the tang on the air and felt the twinge in his back and bit his lip before speaking. "For trade, the Scavengers of this area will declare a peace with the Iron Mongers."

"You do not speak for them," the man said.

"I will make this promise," Dara cut in. "My people will leave your foundries in peace and you will not abduct our people for your worship and sacrifice."

"We cannot..." the scarred man started.

"Agreed," the unscarred man said, cutting off the original Monger speaker.

"I want to see the girl." Dara stepped around the first man to stand before the second; Payter could see the tightness in her stance and the repressed anger at having to deal with the very people who had sacrificed her mother and sister many years ago.

The Mongers stared with their little eyes and faces round like moons, their lips were straight lines of contempt but Payter knew they would have to make the trade regardless of their basic instincts about Scavengers. He just wanted to see and be with Yvette, he just wanted to be reunited with his daughter and have the years of running come to an end. How bad could it really be to become part of the system and mind he had created? How bad could it be?

The three Mongers stepped back from Dara and Payter; the scarred one left the group and disappeared into the rubble, the sounds of escaping gas through ragged holes a slight sigh on the breeze. The smell of citrus clung to the ground, the reaction of lift gas and oxygen. The odour dulled his senses even more, and while not poisonous the heavy reaction gas could overpower people with a sense of lethargy. There would be no fighting around the fallen air ship now. He looked to Ormith, whose gun hand was at his side and his eyes half lidded. He wouldn't know of the gases' effects, neither would Dara, but telling them now would make no difference; even he felt the growing decay in his spirit.

The scarred man returned with two others leading a hooded figure. The scarred one pulled the hood free to reveal Yvette, face filthy and hair a knotted mess about her angular face. He gazed into her deep blue eyes and tried to convey safety but with her hands manacled before her and a thick chain about her neck she just looked like a frightened girl. For a moment he caught the raise of a smile and relief until she saw the situation and the blood that would be staining his back.

"We will give you three bars of gold and five of copper," the unscarred Monger said.

"Five gold and six copper." Dara spat out the reply but Payter didn't think she even knew what the two metals were and what their value was.

"Five and five."

"Trade completed." Dara turned to Payter, took him by the elbow and led him towards the five Mongers and his daughter. Ormith looked weary and troubled by everything but said nothing, he knew Dara better than to question anything she did. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, everyone except Dara.

"We must take the Wayfields to Slab Town to collect our reward," the leader said. "You will stay here." The man yawned, the others yawned. Payter couldn't help himself and he yawned along with Yvette. Ormith looked like he could fall asleep any moment.

"I suggest you chain them together," Dara said, closing in on the Mongers. "Although injured I think this one could still put up a fight."

The leader removed a bulky key from his leather waist band, made several intricate twists of its head then inserted it into the manacles around Yvette's hands: they opened with a clack. The first Monger dropped with blood flowing from his throat, the second fell clasping at his face while a third dropped to his knees trying to hold in his stomach. Payter grabbed Yvette and dragged her down to the ground; it felt as if he were moving in slow motion. Dara was screaming, cursing the Mongers for her family, something he had never heard her do before. Payter could only hold himself over his daughter, who held onto him, her sobs pushed up into his chest. He heard the pop of a gun and knew Ormith had fired; a single shot. Payter's back hurt from his wound and he was finding it hard to breathe. Holding his full weight off his daughter was getting harder. He collapsed and rolled to one side, giving in to his injury. With his face pressed into the ground the stink of citrus was stronger and he felt even weaker, the urge to close his eyes was strong. He closed his eyes and surrendered.

There was blood everywhere and more bodies than Payter wanted to count, almost all of them Mongers. Ormith had shot the leader once in the head while Dara had killed four with her knife and killed another five as they ran in to help. She could have shot them, could have easily disposed of them with little effort but she had taken a more active role in killing these Mongers. Payter felt for his back wound and found the smooth texture of a medical patch. A wind was blowing stronger now and the low hang of the citrus smelling gas was gone, dissipated quickly. He could see the great balloon was sagging lower and its back was engulfed in flames. They had to move further way.

"We have to get out of here," Yvette said, coming into view. She knelt before him, he with his back against a wall and legs out in front. "Slabbers would be on the way and I don't think Dara would last too long fighting against tanglers and sprayers."

Dara joined Yvette, a smile as wide as daylight. "Ormith found a medical bag, heaps of medical stuff actually. Yvette here patched you up."

"You better get out of here then," Payter said. "The Slabbers will never give up looking now and you will just be putting yourself in danger with me around."

Dara patted Yvette on the shoulder; she stood and moved away leaving Dara and Payter alone. She lost the smile and fixed him with a hard glare that seemed to suggest she was getting ready to cut his throat. "It took all my control to save yours and Yvette's arses." He looked to the bodies. "I am not letting my new family go because of a few Slabbers, Payter."

"But the Slabbers..."

"You are the first person I have trusted since the Mongers took my..." she bit her lip. "You know stuff we need, you know technology, you know this medical stuff, so you are an asset and we aren't about to let that go." She stood and offered her hand. "And if it wasn't for that patch thing you made me stick on my leg we'd all be dead, it also stopped that stink from making me sleepy like the rest of you."

He took her hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet. His back caught and he gasped, but it didn't cripple him or force him back down. She pulled him into her and hugged him, an action that left him not knowing what to do. He hugged her back and felt a slight tremor in her body. She was crying. He looked to Yvette who was standing nearby with Ormith, they were both smiling. Dara held on tight and he could feel a wet patch on the front of his shirt. He relaxed into the embrace and realised in a way he had saved two daughters from torture.

Oceanic Harmony

B y

Dennis Mombauer

Germany

\- I –

Lyre music played softly in the distance, and Franshisma had the impression of waking up into a pleasant dream: there was a thick carpet beneath her feet, and the air had just the right temperature to make her feel comfortable despite her wet clothes.

Wet clothes... Franshisma looked down at herself, saw a puddle darkening the brown carpet and realized that she wasn't asleep. Why was she wet? What kind of place was this?

Regularly spaced ceiling lamps provided a steady illumination, and rows of identical numbered doors stretched into the distance in both directions. There was a wooden railing on one side, and as Franshisma touched the marble-grey walls, she felt the coldness of metal underneath the paint.

There was nothing betraying the nature of this place, at least nothing Franshisma could readily see. Her phone seemed to be gone, as were all her other belongings, her wallet, keys, even the lighter she still carried around from her smoking days.

She tried the handle of a door and almost flinched as it opened without resistance. The room behind it was kept in the same colour scheme as the corridor, all quiet shades of brown and grey. It looked very much like a hotel room, the bed made and untouched, the table decorated with a flower vase, one wall covered by murals of fish and other aquatic creatures.

Franshisma slowly walked around, ran her hand over a dresser, switched the lights off and on again, still wondering where she might be. Then, she reached the far end of the room and drew aside the curtains, revealing a round window – and suddenly, she remembered.

Lightning split the sky in a rapid succession of forked lines, and for a moment, the men and women in the yellow lifeboat could see something huge rising up in the distance, just before the rain and darkness rushed down again.

Every one of them was on their own, drifting through the storm in a vessel so tiny it got lost between the waves, holding on tightly to not be washed away into almost certain death.

The storm still raged outside the porthole, beyond the metal hull of the ship, the hammering rain barely audible through the thick glass. For a moment, Franshisma thought she saw something small and bright out there, just before it was swallowed by the crushing darkness of the waves; but it might have been nothing more than her imagination.

The ship had to be huge for the sea to be so far below her, and even though it was ploughing through a heavy storm, Franshisma could feel no heaving, no rolling, no up and down.

As she exited the cabin, she looked left, then right – and was hit by shock, invisible foam waves flooding through her mind, as she saw someone standing there, just a few doors away. It was a woman, and she appeared to be just as lost as Franshisma: her make-up was smeared, her dark hair tangled like seaweed, as if she had been running through heavy rain – but there was no trace of wetness, even her clothes seemed to have dried up completely.

"Hello...?" Franshisma hated the weak, doubtful sound of her voice, so she called out to the woman again, much firmer: "Hello."

"Hello." The woman approached without reservation. "You were on the plane, right?" She smiled and reached out a hand. "I'm Emolia." Her handshake was reassuring, and Franshisma would have liked to hold onto it for a little longer. "Do you remember how we got here? After the crash, I mean?"

Impressions of thunder and turbulence flashed before Franshisma's eyes, of static electricity dancing over the wings outside the cabin windows.

There were screams and chaos as the plane plummeted toward the roiling ocean... the smell of the pilot's burnt flesh, the panicked beeping of the instruments, the respiratory masks coming down.

Another puzzle piece of Franshisma's memory... the plane had been in mid-flight, en route to Bali, well above the Pacific. It was a vacation she had desperately needed, and since no one had been able to accompany her, she had anticipated it as a complete break from everything: her work, her friends, and her private life.

She remembered the check-in at the airport terminal, the plane climbing above the clouds, the sun rising over an endless expanse of white. She had tried to sleep and finally dozed off – but after that, the events were still a confusion of disjointed images, of the falling plane, the waves, the lightning... and an immense ship towering out of the ocean.

"I think we are on a cruise ship, probably a big one... just look at all these rooms and corridors. Back there, a sign said that this was deck six... but I don't know how many decks there are. We should find someone else, I think."

"Yes..." Emolia's suggestion made sense, but this situation didn't: Why was no one here? If this was a cruise ship, it should be full of people – or at the very least, their traces. The ship's condition was so pristine as if no passenger or crew member had ever set foot on it, an untouched wilderness of earthy carpets and spotless walls. Franshisma saw no stains, no signs of wear and tear, no luggage, and no litter, not even used towels in the bathrooms.

"Where is everyone? The ship can't be empty when it's out at sea, can it?" Emolia looked around before she summoned a smile to her lips: "Maybe this is a test trip, and there is only the crew on-board? Maybe we should try to reach the bridge?"

Franshisma nodded, and while the two of them walked, they talked about their lives, if only to drown out the haunting background of the lyre music. The woman had a similar job as Franshisma – and with her forthcoming attitude, her soft voice, the way she listened, she actually reminded Franshisma of herself in social settings.

"There, look!" They turned a corner and reached a lobby area, with an unmanned reception desk, elevator shafts and a staircase with white lights. Fake Corinthian columns with elaborate capitals protruded from the walls, and some kind of mosaic god with a trident was embedded into the floor.

Emolia immediately rifled through the orderly arranged papers and prospectuses on the desk, diving into an investigation the way Franshisma dove into the sea of conversations at a party.

"If we go this way," Emolia pointed along a random corridor, "we will come to the central area of the ship, something called the 'Agora'. This whole thing seems to have a sort of 'Ancient Greece' theme... see, there is a Dionysian Theatre, an Acropolis, and even the hydropark has an 'Oracle Grotto'."

"What about this 'Agora' area, what does it contain?"

"Let's find out, shall we? Come on, this is a little bit exciting."

Emolia's energy and constant chatting provided a less disturbing ambience than the ship's lyre music, but it started to turn into an irritation itself. Her voice came in waves that rolled on against Franshisma's patience, ebbing away just before she got annoyed, then trying to continue the conversation after a pause.

"Shouldn't we rather head up to the bridge?" Franshisma looked at the elevators with their dully shimmering doors, then back at Emolia.

"Come one, there must be people at the Agora, and it isn't far from here. We just have to talk to people, and they will help us out. Who knows if we can get access to the bridge – but this is definitely a passenger area."

They moved through the ship and down a wide flight of stairs, which led them one deck lower and directly toward their destination.

The Agora was enormous, with a high glass ceiling lit up by dozens of artificial lights. The storm-ravaged sky was visible as a dark circle in its centre, and when lightning crossed the clouds in crackling flashes, all the lamps flickered and went dead for a heartbeat.

The room itself was a round plaza, with a wide promenade extending left and right, and several smaller corridors on the opposite side, leading back into the ship. The promenade seemed to be several hundred feet long, but it was shrouded in grey twilight, with only a few electrical fires turned on, just enough to make out silhouettes and vague outlines.

Franshisma and Emolia slowly stepped into the open, treading over imitated stone slabs and passing the food vendors and restaurants along the outer walls. The space under the glass dome was a mock-ancient ruin of weathered sculptures and pillars, very much like the postcard image of an Aegean archaeological site.

"If this wasn't so spooky, it would be really nice for a vacation, don't you think? This is an impressive ship."

Emolia's words echoed back from the vast dome and made Franshisma shiver, even though they had been spoken softly. Newspaper pages rustled like birds in a forest, driven by a sudden gust of wind – but as big as this plaza was, it was still a completely enclosed space, well protected from the elements outside.

"Let's leave." It was uncomfortable standing here, not knowing if someone was watching them from the darkened stores or out of a shadowy entrance. Franshisma didn't wait for Emolia's response, but instead moved toward the other side, quickly crossing the central area of the promenade.

There was a gourmet restaurant right next to the exit, and Franshisma looked through the windows and open kitchen doors, getting a glimpse of long countertops and empty sinks while they passed by. Emolia was telling her about some office party or another, but Franshisma didn't listen while she took in the familiar monotony of corridors and numbered cabin doors.

Without warning, the ship's speaker system came to life in a burst of grey noise, like a radio tuned to no station. There was a high-pitched buzzing, followed by hissing static, only a few seconds long, but more than enough to make Franshisma's heart pound faster.

"Did you catch anything?"

Emolia shook her head, but her eyes never left the nearest speaker: "No, just noise – but this has to mean that we are not alone here, doesn't it?"

\- II –

The longer they walked, the more the corridors seemed to transform, increasingly showing signs of deterioration and disrepair. Franshisma felt as if she was leaving a model apartment and finding out that the neighbourhood around it had gone bad, that the windows had been smeared with dirt, the doorways covered in garbage, the streets claimed by green weeds.

"This is odd." Franshisma spoke to her companion without looking, too occupied by the rapid change of the environment. Every step this side of the Agora seemed to remove her further from the unspoiled cabins on the outer hull, to lead her into the rusted heart of this place. "Why isn't the whole ship in the same condition? Emolia?"

Long, creaking sounds vibrated through the air like distorted whale songs, the audible aching of strained metal. Everything appeared to slightly tilt now, as if the ship was lying half-erected on the ocean floor, its weight constantly shifting.

"Emolia?" Even before Franshisma turned around, she already sensed that Emolia was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared. Franshisma was alone, and in both directions, the cruise ship's clean, empty corridors had changed into the decrepit hulk of a wreck that had sunk a long time ago.

"Emolia!" The air was damp and rotten, making Franshisma gag with every breath. Where there had been spotless walls before, rust now crept down the metal in ugly streaks, and the wetness had turned the carpet into a rotting and moulded undergrowth.

How was this possible? Franshisma walked a few steps, and her feet splashed through the puddles and rivulets that now covered the ground, occasionally rippled by water dripping from above. Shadows obscured large sections of the corridor, and the few functional lamps flickered and sprayed sparks.

"Emolia!" Franshisma's shouting travelled along the green-tinged corridor and around the next junction, but she didn't get a response.

There were footsteps in the distance, as if someone was wading through the swollen carpet, and Franshisma kept still and listened, getting a sense of the rhythms and background noises of the ship. There was definitely something moving, something as big as her... another human being.

"Emolia?" Franshisma's first instinct was to hide, to open one of the algae-overgrown doors or run back toward the Agora – but she reminded herself that she was looking for someone, that as annoying as Emolia had started to get, she was still better than being alone here.

"Who is there? Hello?!"

It wasn't Emolia, but a man of about Franshisma's age, who appeared at the junction and immediately sized her up, not in a sexual way, but like a carpenter might size up a piece of wood.

*

"It's a cruise ship! Hey! Here we are!" A man tried to stand up and tumbled as another wave made the yellow lifeboat almost keel over. "We have to get there, now!"

Lightning illuminated the sea, and they could all see what the man had pointed at, an enormous structure towering into the darkened sky, like a mountain of metal and brightly lit windows, almost a thousand feet in length, with a course that would take it directly toward them.

"You were on the flight with me." The man had lean, muscular forearms, and his rolled-up sleeves made him look like someone used to taking charge. "I remember you from the lifeboat."

"You were the one who told us to swim, weren't you? Do you know that we're on a cruise ship?"

"Oh, yes, and not just any cruise ship: this is the 'Oceanic Harmony'. It was quite the story three years ago, when it vanished just before its maiden voyage, with over three hundred crew members aboard. It was one of the biggest cruise ships ever built, and its loss nearly bankrupted the line."

"Really? How do you know this?"

"I'm an industrial architect, such things interest me. I haven't seen any labelling yet, but this has to be the Oceanic Harmony, one hundred percent – there are no other lost and abandoned cruise ships, certainly not of this size."

"So this is a ghost ship?"

"As far as you believe in such things." The man stood arms akimbo and looked around. "It definitely seems like a ship that has drifted on the open sea for years. I'm Grin Gelborg, by the way."

"Franshisma. Do you remember how we got here?"

His brow furrowed, and that alone answered her question. "Not exactly. We must have climbed up, I guess, but when I came to me, I was nowhere near a window." He shrugged. "Regardless, we are here now, and we should get moving. Maybe the equipment on the bridge is still functional, so we can send a distress signal."

Franshisma had worked with men like him before, men who seemed to naturally gravitate toward a leadership role, staying friendly only as long as others behaved subordinately and followed their commands. Her office was full of those types, with their quips and remarks that were always mechanical tools to build up dominance – and she knew this was the route to success, the name of the game.

"There are elevators where I came from, just on the other side of the ship's central area. I was with a woman; we had tried to reach the Agora, then crossed i..."

"Why? What did you expect to be there, other than some shops and decoration? Did you want to buy souvenirs? The bridge is where we need to go – come on."

They turned back in the direction Franshisma had come from, and at first glance, Franshisma thought they had taken a wrong turn – but as she recognized more and more structural elements, it became disturbingly clear that the Agora had changed.

It reminded her more of a grotto now, with slimy algae creeping up the fake pillars in virescent veins, glistening with wetness like a monsoon forest. Newspaper pages drifted in the dirty streams across the floor like real vegetation, and there was the sound of dripping water everywhere, as if the darkened glass ceiling was about to crack under the ocean's weight.

"This is all wrong..."

"Listen." Grin Gelborg put a hand on Franshisma's shoulder. "Everything here is rotten and decrepit, because this ship has been left unattended at sea for three years – but we have to keep going. Sometimes, what you need is action, to do something, not just talk about your feelings." He turned away from her, but before he could make a step, there was another noise, one that promised peril.

It was a distant banging of metal on metal that travelled along the pipes and mould-infested walls, like mismatched machinery parts grinding against each other. The sound came and stopped, came and stopped, from three alternating directions – and every time, it got a little closer.

"What..."

"Shht." Grin put a finger to his lips and stood slightly crouched, as if he was trying to imitate a primitive hunter. "Follow me."

He began to sneak around the puddles, and Franshisma went after him wordlessly, employing the polite smile she had cultivated at work, combined with a calmness that didn't betray her true emotions.

They crossed the Agora and moved in the direction that Franshisma originally came from, but the incessant banging closed in on them, blocked their way, funnelled them into another corridor.

It was like the war drums hunting down a movie adventurer through lush jungles, and Franshisma felt sweat slickening her neck, her heart hammering, her breath going faster. This was not the sound of work being done, which she had heard often enough at construction sites – it was the sound of something malevolent circling them, something that used those noises either as intimidation or some form of pack communication.

"Where are we going?"

"Away from them." The man hissed angrily and turned another corner, entering a lounge area with battered, avocado-coloured armchairs, which Franshisma didn't remember from her way to the Agora.

"But they are herding us somewhere, don't you see? Maybe we should stay here; maybe we should wait for them..." Franshisma's voice lacked the confidence necessary to convince someone, because all her instincts screamed at her to run, reared up in her mind and almost shuffled off the rational part.

"Alright." The man straightened himself and looked around, then walked toward a glass-enclosed fire extinguisher. "We can stop and make a stand here."

As he broke the glass, the clank resounded through the corridors, and the banging stopped for longer than usual, as if its initiators were listening, pausing, hesitating, before they continued their hunt again.

"What are you doing? Are we just waiting for them to come? This is a terrible plan, we should at least –"

"Shht!" Grin flashed an angry look at her, and Franshisma decided that this was enough, that she was tired of his condescending arrogance.

"Don't think –" She raised her finger and met his stare, just to see his eyes turning, reacting to another sound nearby.

Something rushed out of the corridor, and Franshisma could glimpse scrawny limbs and something like a dangling trunk before the fire extinguisher went off. The entity vanished in an explosion of pale fog, transforming into a vaguely humanoid, vaguely monstrous shape, thrashing and struggling, with a misshapen skull, giant insect eyes, naked skin and something metal in its claws.

Franshisma felt her shoulder bump into the rusted wall, and realized that she had unconsciously moved back while staring. The creature's outlines seemed to bleed out of the amorphous cloud that Grin continually sprayed at it, retreating back into the corridor, but not clearly enough to feel safe again.

Franshisma fought down her panic, tried to focus on something – and couldn't find Grin anymore. She was alone amidst the derelict corridors, abandoned by the man and his fire extinguisher, surrounded by inhuman beasts.

She didn't dare to shout for him and turned round and round instead, looking for anything, anyone, any sign of movement. A noise swelled up, but it was not the metal banging of the creatures – it was another activation of the ship's speakers, an unintelligible cacophony of interference.

\- III –

What was happening? Franshisma searched for Grin Gelborg, listened for his voice and footsteps, or those of the faceless creatures.

The banging on the walls had stopped, but there was something else in the distance, a series of beats and clattering, fading out and beginning anew after a couple of seconds, each time increasing in volume, as if an immense machinery was starting up.

"Emolia! Grin? Anyone!" Franshisma blindly ran along a corridor while the strange engine noises swelled up around her. Everything was fluctuating: the ubiquitous rust discoloured to a shade of dried blood, the puddles evaporated and filled the hallways with steam, the algae withered and peeled from the walls.

There was no sign of the creatures, no sign of Emolia or Grin, no sign of any other living organism – but Franshisma kept running and didn't slow down.

The ship's illumination shifted, and the machine-driven clamour in the distance kept getting louder, making it difficult to concentrate, to think straight, to really access the situation –

The floor unexpectedly gave way under Franshisma's feet, and she was flying down a staircase, crashing hard into a flesh-warm wall. She stumbled to the side, lost her balance again and found herself rushing down another flight of stairs with too much speed.

She landed on the floor with her hands first in an explosion of bright red, and two needles of pain drilled through her wrists. The carpet seemed to stick to her, tried to hold her down and pull her closer to the ground, but she scrambled, fought herself into an upright position again.

The ship's hallways loomed up like the nave of a cathedral, higher and more pointedly than before, and in parts, Franshisma could see lights flickering behind crevices, as if the walls were interspersed by a smouldering fire.

Where was she? Franshisma listened for sounds, but heard only a layered orchestra of noises, the muffled base stomping of large pistons, an array of hissing steam and turbines, louder solos of high-pitched clanking, of rotating gears and burning fuel.

The whole ship was working, filled by invisible motion that heated up the walls and air, purging it of all signs of rot, as if it were being brought back up from the bottom of the sea... or dragged deeper down.

With no reference points, Franshisma just walked straight ahead, letting her aching wrists hang down and carefully watching for any sign of danger. The hallway merged into a smaller tunnel, an airlock sealed with Erythraean curtains that led her into the upper ranks of a theatre.

A contracted flower of drapes and panels spread out over the ceiling like some arachnoid nightmare, and empty rows of seats descended toward a darkened stage below. The whole room seemed to be easily capable of containing a thousand or more people, an audience greater than many city theatres of which Franshisma had seen the plans.

The stairs leading down between the rows were illuminated in hushed carmine, analogous to the white lighting Franshisma had seen in the lobby long ago, before she even reached the Agora. She looked around and noticed something down on the stage, at its very corner: a woman huddled together, face buried between her knees.

"Emolia?" Franshisma's whisper faltered before the overwhelming silence of the theatre and the noises from outside, and she slowly made her way down the stairs. The woman looked vaguely like Emolia, but there was no way to be sure, not from the distance while she was crouched like this.

"Emolia, is this you?" Franshisma reached the ground floor – the theatre had to span several decks in height – and climbed up to the stage.

As she stepped closer to the huddled figure, it became clear that it was not Emolia, but someone of roughly equal stature, with hair as dark and tangled as Emolia's, or also Franshisma's own.

"You there, can you hear me? Are you awake?" Franshisma approached, but held a safe distance, uncertain what to do – until the woman slowly raised her head.

The water splashing over them was freezing cold, and the people inside the yellow lifeboat could only hold on as they helplessly bopped up and down with the roaring waves.

"Maybe we should stay here, not try anything stupid... we will never make it to the ship." The voice came from the back of the boat, where several people tightly clasped the railing, and it was hardly loud enough to be heard amidst the chaos of the raging thunderstorm.

The cruise ship steadily steered toward them, and in the glaring brightness of yet another lightning, long ropes with lifebelts were visible at its side.

"We should wait in the boat, try to survive the storm and wait for someone to rescue us."

"Go away." The woman looked terrible, her eyes shadowed by tired skin and full of broken blood vessels. Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken in a long time, and Franshisma strained to understand her.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"My name is Apathema... and I'm doing nothing, I'm just hiding, sitting here, waiting for it all to be over. I can't go anywhere, because they are around me on every side... only this place is safe, I can't go anywhere else, not out there, please don't make me."

"Who are 'they'? Have you seen the creatures? What are you talking about?"

"I just want to be left alone..." The woman's whimpering was pitiful, and it reminded Franshisma of a cat she once had, who fell sick and had to be put to sleep. "Everything shifts, everything is offset... the ship changes in circles, but I'm stranded here, with the noise everywhere, with these fiends working all around me on their infernal machines. Why do they do it? I don't know, I just want them to stop, to leave me alone."

"You don't have to be alone." Franshisma offered her hand to the woman, but she just stared at it with glassy eyes. "We can reach the bridge together and call for help. Come one, get up."

For a moment, something like a shooting star seemed to trail through the woman's red-streaked iris, but it extinguished as quickly as it had flared up. "You are like everyone else, just afraid of getting lost... there is no help, no way off this ship... it just goes on and on, until we finally go down with it. The ship is you, and you are the ship. Don't you think I've tried to escape?"

Apathema slumped down, withdrawing back into herself just as Franshisma did after a hard day at work, when she came home in the darkness and wanted nothing more than to be given some peace.

"What exactly have you tried? Let's think together, do this methodically."

"There is only one method here, and it's the ship's method, the Oceanic Dissonance. It is an endless cycle of repetition, coming around and around again, like being reborn into one life after the other, unable to hold on. You are alone, you are stalked by fiends, you are surrounded by the fiends' machines, and then alone again... and every time, you are different, not yourself."

As Apathema's words ebbed away, Franshisma realized what her subconscious had been trying to tell her for a while, a change in the rhythm of the ship's sounds: a banging of metal against metal had started to close in, from the theatre's entrances as well as from behind the stage.

"There they are... you have brought them here, you and your infernal noise. Go away, so I can retreat into myself again..."

"Shut up! Let me think for a moment, or is this too much to ask?" Franshisma felt like she sometimes did at work, when her superiors needed a project finished, but some assistant came to her with meaningless blueprint details – only that it was her life at stake here, not her career.

The curtain swayed in an otherwise unnoticeable breeze, and the banging had almost reached the room. Franshisma began running, down from the stage and toward the stairs, but there was already movement up there, a semi-naked figure with a metal pipe.

It was hunched over and had no face, just an insectoid horror mask with a dangling hose, seemingly writhing of its own volition. Where could Franshisma go? Where could she hide? She ducked between the front rows, but more of the creatures entered the theatre and swarmed out along the ranks, violently smashing their iron pipes against the seats to keep up their rhythmic banging.

Apathema didn't seem to care, even as one of the beasts trudged past her, the hose of its terrifying face glistening in the theatre's dim light.

Bang. Franshisma cringed as metal crashed down very closely, and she crouched between the ranks, trying to find a way out. One creature was almost directly above her, two others advanced from the stage toward the stairs, and several more streamed out of the upper entrances.

Franshisma had only one choice left: to make a run for it before these beings found her. She took one deep breath, a second deep breath, then leaped up and sprinted.

The creatures' inhuman heads turned, and their gaunt arms swung like wiry pendulums as they set themselves into motion. Franshisma accelerated and headed for the nearest exit on the ground floor, even if it wasn't where she had come from, and she had no idea where it might lead.

It was a corridor connecting to some sort of backstage area, a maze of dressing rooms and prop warehouses. Mirrors with rings of burnt-out light bulbs marked make-up stations with little partition walls between them, and Franshisma could see her own reflection fractured in three, tired eyes, tangled hair, rolled-up blouse sleeves.

Open doors revealed closets with costumes, like drained skins hung up to dry, but Franshisma had no time to look, she had to run, the booming sounds of the creatures on her tail.

She passed the next door and entered a hot and humid corridor, a passage through deafeningly swollen machine noises. There were gears and tubes coming out of the walls, like the teeth of milling jaws, and Franshisma got caught in one of them, shredding her clothes, her skin, feeling warmth streaming over her arm.

She looked backward and saw a creature crossing the dressing room, then turned around again, only to discover other movement before her.

"What do you want from me? Stay away!" There was no weapon in sight, only the mercilessly grinding gears and the sweltering steam. "Stay back!"

Something rolled itself through the corridor and directly toward Franshisma, a flash flood of meat, of clawed legs and needle-sharp teeth. At first, it appeared to be a whole swarm of creatures, but somehow, this disgusting mass of blood and softness was conjoined together, one single organism thundering in her direction.

The speaker system activated suddenly as always, a layer of red, shrieking noise over a distant chorus of voices. Franshisma thought she heard something like the ground floor of a stock exchange, a multitude of screams and cries, driven by adrenaline as well as something deeper, by pain and anguish.

It was short, but it penetrated Franshisma's body almost to the bone: and when it ended, the creatures were gone.

\- IV –

It was as if Franshisma was waking up from a nightmare, soaked with sweat from head to toe, but unharmed. The ship appeared exactly as it had in the beginning... abandoned corridors, soft lyre music, quiet shades of brown and grey.

There were no engine noises, no flames or hissing steam, no mould, no wetness, no sign of any living being. The Oceanic Harmony could have just as well been launched from the dry dock an hour ago, and its purity seemed almost more disturbing than everything else Franshisma had seen.

She looked down at herself and discovered a dark puddle staining the carpet, a déjà vu of her first awakening on this ship, and a reminder that she was not actually unharmed. As soon as she saw her arm and the blood running along it, dripping to the floor from her fingernails, the pain returned, making her clench her teeth.

She hadn't been dreaming of that theatre, and she wasn't dreaming now: this was all real. A part of her wanted to follow the example of Apathema, to just find a place to hide and stay, waiting for the creatures and this ever-shifting ship to disappear – but a stronger faction of her mind revolted against that.

Through a series of high windows, Franshisma could see the storm-ravaged sea outside, a chaos of spraying foam and towering white-water, before the corridor curved back inward and led her into a chamber with dim lights. It had the atmosphere of a museum: a gallery of ancient Greek art, with vitrines full of vases and paintings, of sculptures, metal figurines, tools and weapons.

Franshisma made a few steps, then stopped. Everywhere she looked, she saw horrific images, scenes of spiritual darkness: amphorae with black-figure painting, silhouettes of shackled men and women, of infants smashed against rocks. Another monochrome composition showed a faceless figure drowning in clay, people wearing yokes, people being flogged; a partially ruined fresco animated a tableau of war and slavery, where a man pulled out another man's throat surrounded by swords hacking down, spears goring flesh like the horns of a bull.

There were gods above the slaughter, far removed and uninterested, their eyelids closed toward the suffering beneath. Franshisma saw a broken shield, its rim adorned with rows of painted teeth, and her arteries suddenly tightened as she smelled the thing from behind the theatre, the avalanche of flesh that had come crashing toward her.

Every contraction of her heart echoed painfully across the length of her body, vibrated through her fingertips as if they could burst open at any moment. She had felt so helpless, unable to do anything... Grin would have tried to stop it, escape from it, and find some way to deal with it – just as Franshisma always found a way to deal with her own problems at work.

A serrated dagger gleamed behind another glass casing, and as Franshisma turned away, she suddenly realized the life-sized female statue standing next to it, with marble skin and arms ending at her elbows. For a moment, the statue merged with the image of the gas-masked creatures, and a glistening worm seemed to wind out of her open mouth, crawling over her breasts like a gargantuan slug.

Franshisma hurried out of the art gallery, following signs without reading them. She descended a short, white-lighted set of stairs and entered a bar area, with a counter interrupted by columns that carried a joint entablature, like a colonnade filled with glasses and liquor bottles. A turned-off fountain lay dormant amidst the tables, its water mirror-smooth over pebbles and archaic grey coins.

Franshisma rolled up the remainder of her sleeve and immersed her arm in the coolness of the water, watching a cloud of blood disperse. She waited until the cold had numbed the pain of her cuts, then carefully stood up again and looked around, realizing that someone else had entered the room.

"Emolia!"

"Fran!" Emolia stood there and waved as if it was the most normal thing in the world, as if nothing had happened. "I'm so happy to see you again, you know? This ship is very empty; I haven't crossed paths with anyone!"

"You haven't seen the creatures?" Franshisma quickly closed the distance between them, as if that alone could prevent Emolia from vanishing again. "The rust, the machines, you have seen nothing?"

"What are you talking about? I've been following these corridors, searching for you or somebody else, but there is no one, not a single soul aboard this ship."

Grin had disappeared when the engines started up, and Apathema had seemed not only unwilling, but almost unable to leave her spot on the theatre's stage. Strange though they were, there seemed to be rules to this place, regulations and rhythms, unnatural laws of nature.

"I've met this man, Grin Gelborg, from the plane and the lifeboat. He wanted to get to the bridge, but then these creatures started stalking us, and we... got separated."

"Then we should head for the bridge too, don't you think? He might be there, and we can all find a way to be rescued together, as a group."

The speaker system began to crackle, and Franshisma reacted immediately by grabbing Emolia, keeping her eyes glued to the other woman while the strange noises and piping washed over them and through the brown-grey bar area.

\- V –

Franshisma and Emolia observed rust flowers blooming on the walls, the metal changing its hue to an underwater green, mould and lichen creeping up from the carpet. Franshisma didn't let go of Emolia's arm, and Emolia didn't seem to mind: their body warmth joined them together and granted them some sort of protection against the ship's transformation.

"This is what you were talking about, isn't it? What does it mean? How can this be?"

Franshisma followed Emolia as she started to walk, moved her hand over the damp surface of the walls, then opened a cabin. It was pitch dark outside the portholes, and the floor was covered by shallow water, reflecting the cabin lamps and projecting swirling patterns on the walls. For a moment, Franshisma couldn't breathe, her mouth and lungs blocked by a pressure from outside, as if she was drowning deep underneath the sea – then, it was gone, and she gasped for air.

Bang. The sound reverberated along the corridors like a hunter's shot through the forest. Bang. Somewhere in the distance, another clash of metal against metal answered the call, and Franshisma finally let go of Emolia's arm, staring into the ship.

"What is this? What should we do?"

"We should run." Franshisma took the lead and tried to orient herself, to find the fastest way to the bridge before the ship changed once more.

Bang. Bang. Bang. There were three sources of noise in different directions, and Franshisma could already tell from their interplay that they were encircling them. Something moved behind the next corner, a wet pitter-patter of feet through the growing puddles – but it was much too close to be one of the creatures already.

"You?" Both women sighed with relief as they saw Grin, his clothes drenched with sweat, a signal pistol in hand.

"Franshisma! Where have you been? Who's that?" He shook his head, as if to get rid of some bad thought. "Doesn't matter. Quick, do you know the way up? We have to keep moving, or they'll get us!"

He set himself in motion, and they hurried through the Oceanic Harmony, trying not to be slowed down by the sponge-like carpet or slip and fall. They reached a staircase and climbed up several stories, to deck three, six, finally eight, where the stairs ended and they had to enter the maze of the ship's entrails again.

For a moment, Franshisma felt surrounded by water – algae swaying in the sluggish current, plankton floating through dim celadon – until they turned the next corner and the mirage vanished.

All three of them stopped as they saw the thing behind it, a thing that quickly came toward them: gaunt, with pallid skin stretching over sharp bones, a body like that of a starving man, fleshless fingers clamped around the handle of a wrench.

Grin aimed his pistol, but Emolia stepped in his way while Franshisma tried to fight down the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

"Wait, wait, don't shoot it! Let's try to communicate with it... you, can you understand us? Can you speak?"

There was only a soft, gurgling sound from behind the glistening mouthpiece, as if someone was attempting to breathe while completely submerged. Water trickled down from under the mask, leaving murky trails across the creature's androgynous chest, but no comprehensible words followed.

"Do you need something from us? Do you need help?"

Grin struggled to steady his trembling pistol, and Franshisma felt her heart hammering as Emolia approached the creature, which tilted its grotesque head and allowed her to get closer.

"Or can you maybe help us? We need to get to the bridge, you understand? Up on the ship, do you know the way?"

More water sloshed out at the mask's edges and seemed to secrete from the tentacle-hose, accompanied by almost inaudible blubbering.

"Come back!" Grin side-stepped Emolia and pointed his weapon at the creature again, but Emolia moved fast to block his field of fire. "We don't need this thing; it's only stalling us until his freak friends are here!"

But even while he was saying it, Grin's voice trailed off as the creature began to walk a few steps, then looked at them from lifeless glass eyes the size of human hands. It made another step, and Emolia followed it down the corridor, where it started to bang the walls in regular intervals and set off on a hunched run.

The creature led them up through the labyrinth without hesitation, without stopping at the many junctions or the staircases flooded by rust-tainted rivulets.

They had to wade through partially submerged passageways and across a hall full of tiny fish flitting away, all the time accompanied by metal crashing against metal, swung through the air by the creature's wiry muscles. Franshisma and her companions could hear movements in the distance, and always the voiceless calls of the other creatures, which seemed to neither get closer nor farther away.

Franshisma more and more feared the moment the ship's speakers would sound and it would change again, from this drowned wreck to the working engines, the heat, the machines – but then, the creature stopped at another set of stairs, and Emolia gave it a warm smile. "This leads to the upper deck? You've been very helpful!"

"Yes, very helpful, thank you." Grin smiled as well, like some great predator of the jungle might smile. "But we have to keep moving."

Without averting their eyes from the waiting creature – who had finally stopped its banging –, they climbed the stairs and stepped outside. There was no rain, no wind, no lightning, not even a sky; only banks of thick fog rolling softly over the ship's superstructure, like the waves of a spectral sea.

"The bridge has to be on the bow," Grin rotated around, then stopped, the flare gun pointed. "Which is this direction." Franshisma stared at him, and he hesitated: "Do you all agree? Then come with me, please."

They followed Grin through the fog, which absorbed the sound of their steps completely and restricted their view, until all they could see was the ground and some shadowy silhouettes. Franshisma walked over wooden planks, which felt very light and hollow under her feet, probably nothing more than a decking to cover the metal hull underneath.

The sounds of lapping and burbling water echoed and resounded from somewhere not far away, distorted by the fog, and Franshisma hoped that Grin knew where he was leading them, that it had been a good decision to let him take charge.

"How far?"

"Not very. The Oceanic Harmony is one of the biggest ships in the world, but Emolia's freak friend has brought us up very close to the bridge. I estimate we just have to cross the pool area to reach it."

The ground narrowed to some sort of walkway, with duckweed-covered basins peeling themselves from the mist on both sides, and Grin slowed down his march to prevent slipping on the wet wood.

Marble faces with snake hair and green patina gurgled up steady streams of water into the sludge below, their eyes lifeless and uncaring. How much time had passed? Franshisma wanted nothing more than to get off this ship with Emolia and Grin, but there were murmuring voices inside her, telling her it wouldn't be that easy, that it couldn't be that easy.

With a crackling discord, loudspeakers all around them turned on and resounded words across the deck, inhuman and distorted, but clearly comprehensible: "Attention all passengers: The Oceanic Harmony will now approach its home port, the end of its journey. We hope that you enjoyed your stay and will visit us again. Attention all passengers!"

\- VI –

As soon as the announcement faded away, the water began to steam. It created a strange phenomenon in the air: the fog, which had hung over the upper deck like heavy cloth over an exhibition piece, lifted and was immediately replaced by finer, hotter, more humid vapour.

Everywhere around the two women and the man, ghostly forms manifested in the air, coalesced into each other and vanished again, a kaleidoscope illuminated by flickering red lights that emanated from beyond the ship's sides, as if this was a foundry or some other superheated workplace.

Franshisma slowly let go of Emolia and Grin, whom she had grabbed as soon as the loudspeakers activated, and listened to the startling rattle of the engines beneath their feet, the hissing and piping and pounding that was gradually building up.

"We need to get off, and we need to do it now."

The walkway collapsed under their feet, and all three of them plummeted down through the mist, right into the steaming water. It was far too hot, and Franshisma couldn't see anything, just started to sprint, half running and half swimming in a surge of panic.

She reached the edge of the pool, climbed up and looked around, but Emolia and Grin were gone. Through the screen of water vapour, more of the ship had become visible, but only as faint, hazy contours, as if through the atmosphere of an alien planet.

There was a strange glow rising up from the ocean, as if the Oceanic Harmony was accelerating toward a submarine sunset, and in the flickering reverberations, Franshisma saw the creatures. They were straying through the mist in packs of three or more, dragging their improvised weapons along the planks or carrying them over their shoulders.

Franshisma fled, and the mist whirled around her, touched and caressed her skin, stuck to her in fine layers, accumulating to an incorporeal cocoon. Wisps of fog hung from her arms like bloated leeches, fraying out as she moved, trailing behind her, then sinking back to the ground.

There was a hill of artificial rocks rising up between the basins of water, with the opening of a grotto in its flank – and behind that opening, Franshisma spotted a figure, a woman with dark hair, huddled in a corner against the elements outside.

"Apathema?"

"You have come to me again... are you tired of trying to get off this ship, to get out of this?"

The inside of the cave was wet and pleasantly temperate, the rock walls drowning out all machine noises, replacing them with a hollow melody of dripping water. The wavering glow from outside only reached the entrance as a pink hue, and the rest of the grotto was filled with softly swaying shadows.

"When... how did you get up here? Do you want to come with me now?"

"No... I'm not going anywhere, I want to stay here... and if you want, you can stay here with me, in this grotto, where we are safe."

"I was with two people. I have to find them!"

"Why? What do you really have in common with them? They are just what their environment makes them, chatty amidst people and busy among work... but you are different, you are a true person, even alone, especially alone. Let them wander into the fog and get lost, while you stay here with me, where it is safe. The ship's journey is almost complete."

"No..." Franshisma slowly backed out of the grotto, then turned and began to run. "Emolia! Grin! Where are you?"

The mist wrested the words from her, carried them away, made her voice falter – and then, it brought back a response.

"Fran?"

The ground had turned into a nightmare of revolving cogs and steel spikes, but Franshisma maneuvered resolutely toward Emolia's position. There she was, and Grin beside her, a trickle of blood running down his grimly smiling face.

"Let's move!" A glowing comet flared up from his signal pistol and exploded in brightness, transforming the deck into a pattern of blinding light and stark geometrical shadows, revealing the creatures closing in on them. "There, do you see it? Follow me, we are almost there!"

Something towered up before them, a massive structure with walls that were red-hot in several places, steam hissing over them like fast-flowing water. A set of double doors led in, and Grin was there first to push them open, shouting for the others to come.

Franshisma mobilized her last reserves, while the glowing ocean got brighter, bathing everything in heatless fire – then, she spurted through the doors with Emolia at her side, and all three of them entered the bridge.

Franshisma felt the ground moving beneath her, and there was cold wetness lapping at her feet. She opened her eyes to a panorama of blue and yellow: an endless expanse of blue ocean blending into the horizon on all sides, and the yellow walls of a tiny lifeboat surrounding her like a broken shell.

Where was Emolia? Where was Grin Gelborg? How had she gotten here? Franshisma didn't understand what had happened, but there was a feeling of release, of unity, of parts and pieces fitting together into a single frame.

The sea was calm and empty in all directions, just on one side framed by a few clouds – and for a short moment, Franshisma thought that she could see something huge and dark vanishing there, a shadow towering out over the waves – or maybe just a wisp of fog that dissipated in the hot evening air

Just The Messenger

by

Lindsey Duncan

USA

In the borderlands binding the northern kingdoms together, babies died frequently and were only named on their sixth birthday, usually for traits they showed. Thorn had such a name. Her father had given it to her.

She crouched, stretching out worn leg muscles from the trip through the shadow realms. The guard-post had been burned to its foundations, if it could be called that – it was only a hut, occupied when the village could spare someone. The scent of smoke and charred flesh stirred dread in her; the mare did not react.

Thorn rose, then hesitated. Under the hood, one dark eye flickered with apprehension. Easier to keep walking, not confirm the carnage. She had a mission that did not call for detours.

Yet she moved into overhanging trees, through an arch cut by frequent passage. The crows had beaten her there. Impossible to guess how many homes, though probably not more than thirty.

"Scion? Are you real, or is my mind finally betraying me?"

Thorn might have mistaken the figure for a corpse, so grey was his skin, so unkempt his appearance. The man straightened, flashed a smile that missed half a tooth.

He strutted closer and poked Thorn in the chest. "Real, then," he said, "or I'm poking a tree I never noticed growing here before."

Thorn resisted the urge to bat the hand away. "What happened here, old man?"

"Old?" Blue eyes swept down, and he chuckled hoarsely. "I suppose I am, at that. Thank you for the reminder. You can call me Squirrel."

"I'm Thorn. Are there any other survivors?"

Squirrel sighed gustily. "None. The raiders came, slaughtered everyone like animals – except the animals. Those they set loose. Some came back to their barns." He smiled without mirth. "I would be eating well, except it's beyond my ability to kill a pig."

Thorn placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and started to lead him up the path. "I'm sorry for your loss. I'll escort you to the next town, where you'll be provided for."

Squirrel cocked his head, an inquiring gleam in his eyes. "Where are you bound, young Scion?"

"Coerth's capital. Dangerous things are happening," Thorn said. "The king needs to know before it's too late."

A nonchalant shrug. "I shall come with you, of course. I am a healer, and could doubtless be of service to his majesty in these trying times."

Thorn stared. This man, help a king? Even if he was trained in medicine, the thought was ridiculous. "You've had an ordeal, and you're not thinking clearly. Some rest..."

"I am thinking very clearly," Squirrel said, drawing himself up until his back cracked. He fought a groan and leaned against an oak possibly younger than he was. "You will take me with you. Your shadow mount can carry two."

Thorn turned, irritated – tempted to leave him, destruction or not. Someone else would happen by, and an elder this feisty didn't need assistance. If by some slim chance the raiders came back, he would annoy them into retreat.

"Scion," Squirrel repeated, "if you do not take me, I will inform your superiors you are masquerading as a boy."

Thorn burst out laughing. She removed her hood, revealing a close-shorn mass of auburn curls, along with the all-white eye – left, in her case - that was the mark of a Scion of Whispers. "You think they don't know?" she asked.

"Your hair is cut," Squirrel said, looking wounded, "your erm, that is to say, your chest -"

"Wireriver women have always had mountains," Thorn said. "Do you know how much riding hurts if it isn't bound? And short hair is more practical." Why was she bandying about with him? Her message skittered between her brows, both what she had been told and the part locked away that would reveal itself only in the recipient's presence. Though meant to prevent sensitive knowledge from falling into the wrong hands, it was an itching nuisance.

"Then you're in luck," Squirrel said brightly. "I used to cut hair for my relatives. I can give you a trim that will be out of your way and flatter you."

Thorn found herself speechless. Her eyes went from the burnt husks to the chipper figure and back again. She settled on offense as her best strategy. "Are you saying I'm homely?"

"I did think you were pretending to be a man," he pointed out apologetically.

She didn't respond, continuing up the path. Alish snorted at her. The bone-white mare had eyes the colour of the wind, and her tail and mane didn't so much end as fade into their surroundings.

She placed a palm on Alish's neck. "Well, milady," she said, "we have company. I hope you don't mind."

The mare regarded Squirrel and bowed her head.

Squirrel genuflected from the waist. "It would be my honour."

When he straightened, Thorn saw the quiver in his shoulders and the weight in his eyes. Guilt threaded through her. To have lost everything, at his age, too late to start anew – impossible to imagine. She had come from a village like this.

And her mission would – she hoped – defend the next village.

"The nearest town," she repeated. "People will take care of you there."

"No, they won't," he said placidly.

She helped him onto Alish's back and mounted in front. "The mortal road," she murmured in the mare's ear. She could spare the few hours it would take to ride that route. She nudged the mare with her knees.

Alish set a strenuous pace, one no mortal horse could maintain for long – but her gait was smooth and the ride familiar. Thorn leaned into it, relishing the wind on her cheeks and relieved as the village vanished behind. As long as she was away from the scene, she didn't have to think about the destruction.

Except for Squirrel's dishevelled presence, now prodding her in the back with a bony finger. "What message are you carrying?"

"Nightshade's forces mass on the edge of the borderlands," she said. "The raids have become more frequent over the past three weeks. Looks like their first target is the city of Highfall."

"Do you think the northern kings will defend it?" Squirrel asked.

His question echoed her uncertainty. She twisted her head over her shoulder to glare. "I don't know. I'm just a messenger. The war is out of my hands."

"I hope they will – and they succeed." He sighed. "It's not right that ordinary folk should be mashed up between great powers."

"You make it sound as if there's a choice," she said, "and not a shadow sorceress and her armies breathing down our necks."

"Ah, but you are just the messenger." Squirrel's tone was cheerful. "You have every choice in the world."

"And I choose to stand by my homeland," she retorted.

"That is a choice, indeed."

Thorn snorted and bent further over Alish's neck. The mare quickened her pace. Squirrel said nothing more other than to occasionally point out scenery.

"I've never heard the goldbirds so melodious," he observed once. "It's as if they sing a eulogy for the fallen."

"That's morbid," she said.

"Is it? Hmm."

They arrived in the next village before sunset. Thorn leapt down and offered him an arm. He took it with exaggerated dignity. She led the way into the town hall, a combination gathering spot, seat of governance and tavern.

She had observed in the past the easiest way to find the mayor was to look for the person with the smallest drunkenness-to-companions ratio. That proved to be the case here. She explained her purpose.

"We'll pass the news on, Scion," the mayor assured her. "Some folk have family in that direction. I hope..." He sighed.

"Nothing to be done now," she said.

"Is there anything we can do for you?"

"Take good care of him and you'll have my thanks." Her stomach rumbled. "Some bread for the road wouldn't be amiss, either."

"Patience!" The mayor waved a woman over. "Get her stocked up."

Thorn followed the woman into the back and accepted three days of bread. She carried money, but most people never asked Scions to pay. With quiet thanks, she returned to the main room. Squirrel was nowhere to be seen. She felt a trace of relief at being spared what was likely to be a singularly bewildering farewell.

When she stepped outside, she found him feeding an apple to Alish.

Squirrel beamed. "We are ready to depart, yes?"

"I am ready to depart," she said. "You're staying here." She grabbed the saddle-horn.

He scurried about to the other side. "A shadow mount can carry two as easily as one," he said. "I will not delay you."

"When was your last hard ride?" She mounted, gathering the reins. "You've lost your village. Stay and mourn."

"Of course I am sorrowed, but it was not my village," he said. "I had been there only weeks – yet knew them to be people of strong heart. The best way I can honour them is to ride to the defence of others like them. Coerth is the place to begin."

The words were serious, no trace of laughter in his eyes. Thorn regarded him, hearing the ring of truth – but what could one old man do? Coerth had plenty trained in using herbs and setting bones.

"Fine. Ride with me. But we take the shadow road." She thrust a hand down and hauled him up. "Cry hold and I'll stop, but you'll have to fend for yourself. There's no more time to detour to civilization."

If she had hoped the sharp note in her voice would chastise him, Squirrel disappointed her. He offered a gap-toothed smile. "More than fair. But don't worry about me."

She kneed Alish into a trot. As they left the village, the mare increased her pace.

The first steps into shadow – the realm of the unsure that lay entwined with but separate from the physical world – were subtle. A keen ear would notice that only three hooves drummed on the ground, then two. The darkness thickened and took on character: sounds of crystal thunder rumbling, a smoke-like scent that defied description. The air did not so much chill as lose all sense of temperature.

Then imagined shapes became real, warping out to greet their passage and disappearing as Alish surged past. Human forms, thrusting angles and blurred curves, beasts seen in bushes whose only parents were shadows and imagination... each rippled as if on water. Each tree was a menagerie, every rock a city corner.

"Remarkable..." Squirrel whispered.

"Keep your eyes fixed ahead." Thorn spoke low, tense. "Look on anything too long and you make it real. Don't even daydream – dreams can come to life."

"It seems quite real already."

Did she hear a quaver in his voice? Even years of training couldn't keep her from ducking as overhanging branches in the real world became a tangle of striking serpents. Misty venom hissed on her arm, and she winced before she could remind herself it was only illusion.

Thorn lifted her head, scanned the horizon. Her left eye ached slightly, but both eyes showed the same scene. Good. That meant no creatures had noticed them. If the landscape writhed with possibility in the shadow realm, then its denizens were impossibility made flesh. She had seen them only a handful of times and been lucky that Alish could outrun them.

"Blank your mind," she instructed her passenger. "Think of nothing."

Silence – she assumed he was taking her advice. But then he spoke again. "That seems like a singular waste of time."

She snorted. "So is dying."

"Not under all circumstances."

How could he treat this like a game? "Under this one -" She broke off as the image of her father's face swirled out of a tree-trunk. She swallowed hard and shut it out quickly enough; his arm snapped like the twig it was. She had been free of him for years, memories the only tie left between them.

Alish flew, hooves skimming the air. The mare never shirked – this was her home. She galloped over the reflection of a lake. Fish-gleams of water danced about her steps.

Time in the shadow realm blurred. Thorn used the mare's breath and her own heartbeat as a sundial to decide when to lean forward and pat Alish's neck – their signal to veer back into the physical world. She wanted to press on, but exhaustion in the shadow realm could be fatal.

The darkness thinned and lost its aroma. Midnight chill spat in her face. One hoof sounded, then another, until all four drummed on the road.

Thorn reined the mare in, scanning the darkened path for a likely campsite. "How are you holding up?" she asked her passenger – surprised he had made it so far.

"I don't believe I am holding anything." His tone was placid.

She turned in the saddle and saw that, if anything, he looked better than before, a schoolboy's flush on his cheeks. Village elder indeed! He had said it wasn't his village, and perhaps she should have inquired as to what that meant. "Can you go on?" She tried to hide the fact she knew the answer behind her brusque tone. She flailed inside her thoughts. Should have just hit him with the flat of her blade and rode off at the village.

"But of course," he said, then added politely, "Can you?"

There was no civil answer to that. She pointed towards a gap in the trees. "We camp there."

The clearing, set back from the road, had obviously been used before, though their predecessors left only charred rocks and a mound of refuse to mark themselves. Thorn wrinkled her nose and tethered Alish.

"If you get water, I will build the fire," Squirrel offered.

Thorn nodded and turned. Halfway to the river, she wondered what she would do if she came back to find the forest burning down.

What she found on her return was a pleasant blaze and a pile of herbs. Squirrel smiled cheerfully. "I hope you like mint."

Thorn had no energy to hunt, but dried rations in the pot soon plumped up, and the herbs – plus bread - made a decent meal. Not used to traveling with company, she ceded him the bowl and spoon and drank the rest directly from the pot. He watched her with a bemused expression.

She scowled. "One comment about my manners - "

"Oh, not that." He shook his head. "Just thinking."

Thorn sighed and stretched out her legs. "Earlier today," she said, "you told me - " She paused, alert to rustling from the road.

"Yes?"

She hushed him with a raised hand, and was vaguely astonished when it worked. Four leather-clad men sauntered into view, lurking at the edge of the firelight. Three had hands on their swords in varying degrees of casualness; the fourth flung his arms wide.

"Good evening, sir and miss," he said. "A friend told me I might find a rich messenger on the road." His eyes lingered on the mare, apparently gauging the worth of horse-flesh.

His companions fanned out. Thorn rose into a crouch. They halted, watching with wary eyes. Alish pawed the ground.

"Goodness. Is there a problem?" Squirrel held up his bowl. "You're welcome to soup, if you don't mind some spittle."

Thorn wondered if it would provoke them if she reached over and slapped Squirrel. "If what you want is warmth, we have no quarrel," she said. "Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?" The leader arched one gold-haired brow.

Her nerves twanged. His band was mismatched – one rail-thin giant, another with a twitchy off-hand– but she had seen enough fighters to recognize the stances.

"Otherwise I chase you off." She met his eyes.

His lip twitched. "Why should I be frightened of you? You're just a messenger."

"Which means I have every power in the world," she said, edging forward to cradle a firepit rock.

Squirrel smiled serenely. "Well put."

"Take her," the leader snapped. "One swift kick in the head should do it for the old man."

The others drew their swords and advanced. Thorn surged out of her crouch, shouted, "Alish!"

The mare shrilled and reared. The last man snatched for her bridle. Her hooves struck him in the chest. He went down with a cry. Thorn hurled the rock at the leader; it glanced off his arm.

She spun, drew. She ducked under the giant's swing. The flash of the twitcher's blade threw firelight in her eyes. She blinked, jerked backwards. The point ripped through fabric on her hip.

Thorn swallowed and twisted the thread of fear into anger. "Alish!" she called. "Go home!" The mare whirled, galloping into the forest.

"They told us it was a shadow mount," the leader snapped to the fallen man. "Worth more than a king's war horse, and you let her go."

The bandit moaned and made an unenthusiastic attempt to sit up.

Thorn back stepped, trying to keep both opponents in sight. She hoped Squirrel had the sense to hide. The giant bore down, weapon wielded like a club. She evaded him, turned for another attack only to be forced on the defensive. Her nerves snarled for an opening.

Their leader observed the fight. He couldn't know she had served three years in the border patrol before becoming a Scion. If it hadn't been for the whispers about being her father's daughter... she fled them for the whisper of messages.

The twitcher thrust high, aiming for her heart. Thorn rocked back, planted her feet – waited. Knew the consequences if she misjudged. Breathed.

She dropped and lunged up under his guard. Her sword ripped into his shoulder – even as his blade snicked past, harmless. He howled.

The leader lunged for Squirrel, who had crept to the bushes. "Hold off, girl, or I'll skewer your grandfather," he said.

"Grand?" Squirrel puffed up with indignation.

"Since when is your vanity a priority?" Thorn wondered, pivoting. "He's not my -"

The leader hauled Squirrel upright. Something happened too fast to see, a flicker in shadow. He released Squirrel with a shout, clutching his thigh. A bright red wound sprouted there.

But Squirrel was unarmed, hadn't touched him – had he? One thing was no mystery: the rage in the blond bandit's eyes. Thorn dodged a stroke from the giant and vaulted across the fire.

"He's not my grandfather – or my father," she said, "but he is my companion. Back off."

The leader's head snapped up. He stared, fury becoming a smirk. "You can't win this."

The bandit Alish had struck recovered his feet, breathing heavily. "Boss, should I -"

"No, hold off." His blade wove a lazy pattern. He watched her stance, the way her eyes moved, measuring...

Impulse wanted her to make the first attack, but she waited him out.

"Little coward." His lip curled.

"I'm just a messenger," she said.

He closed with a darting jab. She found herself parrying a second strike before she could respond to the first. She had to clench her arm to gain the strength to disengage. Once free, she lunged low. He batted the blade aside, grimacing as that forced him to weigh on the mysterious injury. That wobble told her what to do.

"Is this a matter of honour," Squirrel said, "or may I inquire - "

"Stay back," she directed.

She conserved her energy as the bandit leader advanced, pushed her – skilled enough that holding her ground made her shake. She kept an eye on that leg and saw the tremor intensify...

She twisted to one knee, aiming for the opposite leg. She saw a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye where it could not possibly have been and jerked. The point of his weapon gouged into her sword arm under the elbow and sent bolts of black fire spinning through her arm.

The pain arced in the form of laughter as the leader vented his scorn. "Fell for it, did you? Thought I was that hurt? Someone wants you off the road, and it seems I have the honour."

Thorn landed in a half-crouch, thoughts beating past pain and focusing on the weapon. Strength enough to hold it – with agony, but it would do.

She half-sensed the easing in his muscles as he brought the sword around for a blow. He thought he'd finished her. She dragged her sword hand up, concealing the movement under the arc of her body.

Just before he moved, she thrust upwards... turned her hand at the last second so the sword edge grazed his chest rather than drove into it. She ended with the point under his throat.

"Move," she rasped, "and I'll keep going. Drop it."

His eyes widened in shock, but he snorted. "You'll lose your grip in a moment."

"Try me."

The clearing drowned in silence not even Squirrel saw fit to break. Slowly, deliberately, the leader swung the blade away and dropped it.

"Leave," Thorn said to the others, without shifting her attention. "Squirrel, get his sword."

"No, thank you," the old man demurred. His voice sounded ragged and thin.

"Please."

Squirrel shuffled behind the bandit leader and plucked the blade from the ground as if he expected it to bite. The band exchanged looks and backed off towards the road.

"Oh, go on." The leader sounded disgusted. "There will be other marks."

At those words, Thorn considered driving the blade home, but she couldn't kill him in cold blood. If there weren't a message, if a detour with a captive wouldn't take so much time off their route... if she hadn't already taken the time for Squirrel...

It was too important: the words locked in her mind, and the border-folk waiting for someone to ride to their defence. She watched him levelly, her will fixed on the arm that wanted to shudder. Once his companions were out of sight, she rose stiffly and stepped back.

"Good riddance," she said. No sense asking who had sent him, but this was no random encounter: someone had wanted to stop her. "Squirrel, start packing."

"But the horse -"

"She'll be back."

"You'd better move," the bandit said, stepping around the fire. "Or we'll catch up to you."

Thorn didn't blink. "Feel free."

He snarled, swallowed a reply, and disappeared into darkness.

She swayed, then collapsed. Belated fear banged up against her throat, and she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of feeling it now. Every Scion had to deal with bandits and other threats. It went with the territory.

"How are you feeling?" Squirrel hovered over her. "May I help?"

"How do you mean to do that?" The words came out snappish.

"I am a healer," he said, unperturbed. "It's what I do."

"Right." At least he could bandage it. She extended her arm. He cupped her elbow, running deft fingers along the skin. She hissed as even that light touch sent pulses of pain through her. His hand moved on to the injury. A breath of blessed cold ebbed over the wound with the touch, soothing rather than freezing.

She sucked in a breath. "You're not just a healer," she said. "You have a gift."

He shrugged. "Of course."

She looked up – it took a moment for his face to swirl into definition. So that was why it had not been his village: an itinerant, lingering wherever he was needed... and why he wanted to see the king.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

"Would you have believed me?"

She regarded him and said nothing.

He smiled faintly. "There, then."

"You did something to him in the fight," Thorn said.

"Reverse healing, to make an old wound reappear. Yes." Squirrel clucked. "A ragged blow. He could have done more damage if he had struck cleanly."

"Just as glad he didn't," she said dryly.

"It takes a lot of energy, reverse healing," he continued. "Had to save it for the right moment."

"And you can still fix my arm after that?"

"Of course. Destruction is difficult. Healing is nature's way, the way of time." The icy sensation diminished to a faint chill – and behind it, Thorn realized, she felt no pain. "Time, as you might imagine, is something I am very good at."

"You can't have skill with time," she objected.

"Move the arm and see how it feels."

Tentatively, she stretched it out, swept it across her body – it felt normal. "Thank you," she said.

She released a low whistle. To most ears, the difference in pitch would be inaudible, but she knew – from long practice – how to make sounds that echoed in the shadow realm. "We won't have much sleep – I mean to be moving by dawn," she continued, "but it's better than none."

Alish trotted into view, head tilted in inquiry. Thorn smiled and rubbed her flank. "You didn't really think men of that quality could hurt us, did you?"

"It doesn't take quality to hurt someone," Squirrel said.

Thorn snorted and led the way to the road.

She found a campsite off the next fork and spent a restless night. She woke in a foul mood, not improved by the bright chirping of her traveling companion. He had found birds' eggs and fried them up for breakfast.

They mounted and rode into shadow. It was subdued that morning, inky and pale with things that oozed and quivered. Hollow light struck the scene obliquely as Alish cantered out of the forest.

"We've made decent time," Thorn said softly. "Forest marks the border of Coerth. Should reach the capital before noon tomorrow."

"That's Linnian's Day, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Suppose. What of it?"

"I haven't seen the festival in a city in ages," Squirrel said. "A world in miniature, dancing in honour of the goddess of joy. Beautiful, I think."

"And half of it has to get roaring drunk to forget the fact their neighbours might watch them dance," Thorn observed. "I'll stay out of the fray, thanks."

"But you risk this?"

Birds made of iron and steel swooped overhead, shedding colourless sparks. "It's my job," she said.

He made no reply. The ground rushed under them until they approached what – on the other side – was the banks of Coerth's largest river. Something rippled on the surface... but when she closed one eye, it vanished, the river as smooth as glass.

Thorn tensed and tugged the reins. Alish subsided, snorting. She peered at the water, but there was no further movement in either realm – which in itself was unnerving, when shadow never held still, writhed like imagination in delirium. Whatever it was had left the river.

"Thorn?"

"Stay sharp," she said. "If it comes at you, duck."

"You said that nothing is real - "

"And if a figment isn't actually a figment, then what is it?" she countered.

"Oh."

Under other circumstances, she might have felt pleased at stumping him. She twisted in the saddle, following the tumble of land to the left. She strained, willing herself to see something...

Cold silver flickered out of the corner of her right eye.

"Down!" she yelled, shoving backwards with one arm as she flattened herself against Alish's neck. Squirrel tumbled off the mare just before a set of massive claws raked down Thorn's back, ripping away skin like a gale blowing leaves. Agony shot down her spine, locking her jaw.

Alish whinnied and danced sideways. Loosened by the blow, the saddlebag tore free. Thorn reeled upright, facing her attacker. Bipedal, bear-like – more beast than man, fusing both together – the creature had coarse umber fur and six-taloned paws the size of her head.

It glanced towards the fallen Squirrel, then sniffed and returned its attention to her. As she stared, it stared back, poison green eyes alive with triumph.

It hadn't gone after the easier target, and that fixed gaze left no doubt. It was after her – no, not her. The message.

She hissed, grasping onto frustration as the better cousin to fear. She knew better than to bolt. Anything sent to catch a Scion would be able to outrun a shadow mount – and it would mean leaving Squirrel.

She nudged Alish backwards and vaulted down, wincing as she landed. She drew her sword, tightening her fingers around the hilt to force out the shaking. The creature lumbered closer in an oblique circle, blocking the route to the river.

Not randomly, no. Now she was sure.

"Take Alish and go," she called. "She'll drop out of shadow. It doesn't matter where."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Squirrel asked with a trembling semblance of politeness.

The beast lunged, filling her vision. Strands of its coat flapped away from its body, and her stomach twisted: each of the massed hairs looked like a human form, stretched out in agony or tangled in each other. Hypnotized, she wrenched back and felt the air hum as its paw swept past.

"It's possible," she gritted. She thrust at the hairy arm. The creature shifted; the blade glanced off a talon.

"You. On this horse. With us."

She wasn't sure whether she wanted to throttle him for protesting or kiss him for listening to her. "It'll chase us. And catch us - "

The beast lashed out. She went low, rolling under its swing. The ground turned to lava in her tumble; fiercely, she rejected the illusion, but her off-hand sizzled as she pushed off. She went for the knee and hacked into fur. A clump struck her cheekbone with the unpleasant sensation of sticky flesh.

The startled roar deafened her. As the beast twisted, grabbing for her, she sprinted out to the right. Alabaster cobwebs swarmed around her; she plunged through and pivoted to face her opponent.

"Ride!" she snapped. "You know the broad strokes of the message. Tell them there's more, and the enemy will bind shadow to stop it."

She eyed the beast, but it didn't react. That meant one of two things: it didn't understand human speech, or only the full message mattered. Thorn wanted to grab her head and tear it open.

Except the beast could do a fine job of that. She heard the receding hoof-beats with relief; the shadow realm warped them into growling thunder. It stormed by the river, raindrops like tears.

The beast charged, double-fisted. She darted aside, sensing the landscape twist on the periphery of sight. Focus. The realm was harmless if she didn't acknowledge it. The beast whirled, following her flight. She started to bring up her sword, but its arm slammed into her body. She stumbled, almost splayed over the discarded saddlebag, and regained her balance with a frantic wrench of her shoulders. Her bleeding back screamed in protest.

The beast's size made it slow – but not slow enough. Thorn struggled to stay out of reach, black spots flicking in front of her eyes. She tagged it on the arm, spun behind and managed a shallow score on its back... but though gouts of fur ripped free, there was no blood.

Maybe it didn't have blood... whereas she was losing it fast, and the cloying scent clung to her nose. It turned into citrus perfume, heavy and sweet.

The thing had every advantage on her, except one. It wasn't fighting for its life.

Thorn gritted her teeth and pressed close to the shaggy form – close enough it couldn't bring its claws to bear. Instead, its jaws snapped, tearing inches above her head.

She had told Squirrel there were practical reasons for short hair.

No foul breath wafted in her face, and that frightened her more. She twisted, compressed herself, and brought her sword up close to her body. The beast's maw stretched down. Curled hairs of wracked souls lined the opening.

Thorn stabbed upwards into its right eye. Viscous black fluid poured down her arm. Its howl shook her bones as she leaned into the blow, trying to lever the blade past the eye into the skull. Its head snapped about, shaking like a rabid dog's. She clung to the hilt until slick fingers lost their grip.

Momentum sent her flying. Her head slammed against a rock. The world vanished into night – faded back into the haze of shadow with the beast looming over her. Her head throbbed as if it would burst and spill all its secrets. Her eyes refused to focus.

She scrambled, feeling for the sword. Not there – no longer wedged in the beast's eye... where?

"Beast!" a crackly voice called. "Over here."

The creature lifted its head, snarling. Thorn rolled over onto all fours and scrambled backwards. She glared blearily at a double-image of mare and rider.

"Don't you listen?" She bumped into the saddlebag.

"The young are supposed to listen to their elders," Squirrel said calmly. "It says nothing about the other way around."

An absurd spurt of anger shot through her. The heat burned off some of the fog of pain and fear. Her awareness flowed back.

The beast squinted at mare and rider, but when both remained on the ridge, it lumbered after Thorn. She cursed and pawed at the saddlebag, coming up with the cook-pan. Better than nothing. She wobbled to her feet, still hunting for the sword – there, a few paces past the beast. A flash of silver in the phantasm of a pile of bones... and the only glimmer that held steady under her gaze.

She brandished the pan, feeling ridiculous, but if she could manage a strike solid enough to distract the beast, she could dive past.

It thrust one paw at her head. Instinctively, she swung the pan up to block. Talons slammed into the metal, shredding it to the handle. The shock vibrated down her arm and spine. She jerked back, releasing the pan. The beast came for her, but the mangled metal stayed wrapped around its talons. She dove away, hitting the ground in a roll that made her body flash red.

She whimpered from the pain, but her fingers found the sword hilt. She rose, planting a wide stance. Nothing would move her now – she wasn't sure she could.

It charged for the final time... one way or another. Thorn watched, acutely aware of every jostling motion in the eerie horde of its fur. The talons swept in to crush her. She dropped, torqueing her body under its grasp. A dull clang echoed over her head.

She came up into its heart.

The beast stiffened, suspended above her. Then it crashed down, and a thousand small bodies slammed into her along with a single large one. Choking, she blacked out.

Fingers scrabbled at her wrist. The desperate tug wasn't strong enough to lift her off the ground, and her clawed back skidded across stone. She thought she howled, but all she heard was a whisper.

"Sorry, sorry," Squirrel said. "You'll be fine in just one moment..."

"Out of shadow first." The words took tremendous effort. "Attracts attention."

His arm looped under her shoulder. She tried to put her weight on him; they both swayed, rocked, nearly toppled. She found Alish's stirrup and pulled herself up. She might have passed out again – the next thing she clearly remembered was toppling to cool, vivid grass. Real grass, with afternoon sun overhead. Alish whinnied and nudged the side of her face.

"It's still today?" she asked.

"It usually is," Squirrel replied. "Lie still."

Thorn groaned. She wanted to throw up, but her body wouldn't exert itself.

Frigid cold washed over her, numbing the pain and jarring her senses. She inhaled sharply.

"Easy," the healer continued. "Starting on your back – that's the worst. Then the head – that blow was bad..."

She jerked. The pain cut through, and she gagged, but she managed to get an arm between them. "No. Leave my head alone."

"Thorn, do you know what a concussion is?" She recognized that veiled impatience: she'd used it on him several times. She was too exhausted to protest the turnabout. "I have to do something for it. If you fall asleep like this - "

"Then I won't fall asleep." Sleep... she wished he hadn't said it. For an instant, it was more important than anything else she could imagine. "Can't heal it," she repeated. "Hidden message – it's like a disease. You could destroy it by curing it."

"Or maybe it doesn't work that way?" he coaxed.

"Won't risk it. Thing tried to kill me for it." She let her arm fall.

Squirrel sighed, but resumed the light touch on her back. "You're the messenger."

Alish pawed the ground and hovered in an almost human fashion as the healing chill spread through Thorn's body. Bruises rippled and became memory, but clarity eluded her, giving the real world an uneasy lacquer of shadow.

She lifted her eyes to Thorn's and saw the exhaustion in his face. She cleared her throat. The throbbing of her head was only going to get worse. "Can you keep an eye on me?"

"I can spare both." His lips crinkled into a smile. "You may need it."

She reached out a hand to the shadow mount. "Are you ready, girl?"

The mare snorted in a manner not dissimilar to Thorn herself. She pushed upright; her muscles remained sore, a dull ache. "Let's go."

Alish skirted reality for longer than usual before plunging into the shadow realm. The first hours were easier than Thorn had expected; keyed up and nervous, braced for another attack, she had little trouble concentrating on the route and keeping the figments at bay.

Then the pain intensified and weariness set in. Her senses blurred, begging for rest. She slouched on the mare's neck, hoping the change of position would relieve some of the exhaustion. She imagined the air wrapping like a warm blanket around her...

Frost surged through her shoulder blades. She yelped, jerking upright. She whipped about to glare at Squirrel, then caught her breath.

"You told me dreams can come to life." His eyes levelled on hers. "I do not think you have peaceful dreams, Scion."

She blinked, disquieted. "No. I'll be more careful."

But even the writhing profusion of the scene became monotony, and she drifted despite her best efforts. After Squirrel nudged her from almost-sleep for a second time, she said, "Talk to me."
His eyes widened in exaggerated surprise. "Are you sure?"

She snorted; it came out something like laughter. "Need to stay awake."

"What about?"

Oddly, she found herself smiling. "Anything you think won't bore me."

He laughed and started in with descriptions of unusual injuries he had treated. It should have been stomach turning, but it suited her mood – and there was black humour in his words.

Alish swerved out of the shadow realm briefly so Thorn could check her bearings – usually second nature, but fuzzy now. Deep into the night, with the capital city a silhouette of fireflies on the horizon. They would arrive just after dawn... if they arrived at all.

Squirrel chattered on, as if the invitation had released inhibitions that hadn't been particularly strong in the first place. He talked about his posts, and she found herself wavering again. Bloodied ghosts reached out their hands to the mare's flanks; she flinched away, but felt the blasting chill of the grave.

"How did you get your name, anyhow?" she forced the question out.

"That story could put anyone to sleep." He chuckled. "I was – five, maybe? My front teeth had come in with a big gap on either side."

"So you looked like a squirrel." Thorn found this anticlimactic.

"And I used to go around with a rope tied about my middle. Said if I ever fell down a hole, someone could pull me up and save me."

She snorted. "When did you stop believing that?"

"Never, of course."

He seemed to be out of words, and she felt herself fall deeper into the embrace of the ride. Just a messenger, indeed – as if there was nothing else. As if the ride had no end.

"Where did you learn to fight?" Squirrel's voice swirled through the miasma.

It seemed like ancient history. "Border patrol," she said shortly. "Spent a few years with them. Good folks."

"Why leave?"

She counted Alish's hoof-beats. Only once she lost track did she speak. "There was this brigand hiding out in the forests. He had a sweetheart in the nearest village. She died in a fire – an accident. He got crazy. Convinced his followers she had been murdered.

"There were six of us. The brigands came for our heads. We were outnumbered, cornered and green." She sighed. "We survived – brought the leader back for trial. But it was an ugly fight. We all did things we weren't proud of."

"And that is why you left the guard?" he inquired.

She could have left it at that. She didn't owe him the truth, but the interminable ride seemed to have its own rules. "No," she said. "When the dust settled, our captain said I was my father's daughter. He meant as a compliment, but... that's why I left."

"Of course, you would have to be your father's daughter." The humour in his voice probed, gently.

Thorn stared at the approaching city, banishing the cluster of jackals whose illusory forms crowded the path. "My father," she said finally, "had one virtue: his skill with a sword. Other than that, he was a tightly wound bundle of vices and apathy. He was a mercenary. Still is, far as I know." Her hands twitched on the reins. "Could be working for Nightshade, even. If the money was good enough."

"That's surely not you," Squirrel said.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence - " she even meant it " - but it could be. I relax too much, and that's where I end up."

"Relax not at all, and there's not much point in doing anything. Certainly not if you intend to reach my advanced years."

She chuckled. "Most Scions don't," she pointed out.

Then there was silence... but with it came the flaring of dawn. Even in the shadow realm, things changed; shapes rounded and blossomed, distant voices keened like mourning doves, and blood undertones glowed under everything.

Thorn patted Alish's neck, too numb to feel relieved. They emerged on the main road towards the city and thundered past startled guards at the gate.

"Good morning!" Squirrel called over his shoulder.

The streets of the capital were almost deserted. A few industrious servants or merchants put up displays for the festival, but nothing else moved, not even dogs. Accustomed to the dawn bustle of border territory, Thorn squinted, bemused.

She reined Alish in as they crested the rise towards the castle. The towering walls reminded her it had been a border fortress once, centuries ago. Now it was an ungainly mass in the centre of civilization.

Royal guards watched their approach. The man on the left studied her and, without a word, gestured to the gatekeep to raise the portcullis.

"Scion," he said as Alish trotted past, "I'll summon servants to see to your comfort -"

She shook her head. "Message for the king. Now."

She remained mounted in the courtyard as the guard disappeared in search of authority. She leaned forward on Alish's neck, blinking with effort.

"If I were king," Squirrel commented, cutting into her mental fog, "I would never be up before noon."

"Good thing you're not king, then."

A steward loped out to meet them. "His Highness is occupied with ceremonial duties for Linnian's Day," he said. "You may wait for him - "

Thorn shook her head and dismounted. "Take me there."

She took one step, and the world lurched. Squirrel dropped down after. "You, support her," he addressed the guard in a tone of command she had never heard before. "The Scion has come a long way – it would not do to have her collapse."

Too tired to protest, Thorn leaned into the guard. The steward led the way down into the cellar. Squirrel accompanied them; possibly the queen wouldn't have been able to stop him. The cellar sprawled out before them, filled with the bounty of the royal wine stores.

The king of Coerth – a gangly redhead, not much older than she – conversed with a priest of Linnian. The priest leaned against a cart of casks.

"Some of my best," he said. A servant scampered around with a glass for each man. "You won't be disappointed."

The message exploded in Thorn's mind before she could speak, before she could clearly grasp it as words. Her body was spent, but necessity charged her. She lunged forward, pushed past the servant, and knocked the glass from the king's hand.

"Nightshade's agents poisoned the Linnian's Day wine," she gasped, the words slamming out of her with a terrible red flash of pain. "Hoping to keep Coerth out of the fight..."

The priest, though he hadn't taken a sip, spat hastily and rubbed his mouth.

"The fight?" the king asked, his face pale.

Thorn told him the rest, border raids and forces massing on Highfall.

"We'll ride to Highfall as soon as men can be mustered," the king said. "Riders to the other kingdoms to summon them, and we'll need someone to assure Highfall help is on the way. Scion, can you -"

"I do not think she can go anywhere without rest."

Even her desire to argue with Squirrel didn't keep Thorn upright. She slumped into darkness.

She awakened in the castle infirmary with the sound of drums and flute chasing around her head. She followed the melody without pain or aching.

Squirrel's face hovered into view. "How are you feeling?"

"Better before you popped up," she said before she could stop herself.

But he laughed, and she found herself smiling. A little banter never hurt anyone, she decided – and how else would she put up with a man like this?

If Nightshade hadn't tried to stop me," she said, "I would have made it in time to save the city – but not the king. A subtle poison, and they never would have tracked it to the wine."

"Sometimes, your enemy helps you." Squirrel flashed a smile. "Do you know why the knowledge of the poison was kept from you?"

"To drive me crazy," she said.

He chuckled. "No, that is my job. According to the king's agents, if you were intercepted – if they interrogated you – Nightshade's people would figure out who betrayed them."

She shrugged. "Fair enough."

"There is more, and a further reason they did not want you distracted," he said. "Their source was a brave spy on the inside, serving as a mercenary. I think you know him."

Thorn swallowed, realization prickling in. "Are you talking about my father?"

"One and the same, it would seem."

She had spent most of her life defined by him: any direction, as long as it was away from her sire. Now things might be different than she had imagined. Or it might be just for the money... but it was a start.

She levered herself out of bed. "I should see the king, then replace my cookware," she said. "No sense in leaving before dawn, so I've got time."

"During a festival? No one works on Linnian's day." He fluttered a hand at her. "Why don't you dance?"

"Dance?" She quirked a brow, incredulous.

"As you say, you have time." Though his face never changed, she felt sure he smirked.

"Maybe one dance," she said. "But you have to come with me."

"It would be my honour." He extended a hand. "Milady?"

She started to take it, then paused as a guard pushed his way into the infirmary. "You're needed, Scion," he said. "The king has a message to send to the Vayr Islanders."

Thorn stared. "That's hundreds of miles deep into Nightshade's territory."

The guard looked briefly apologetic, but pushed on, "That's why we need one of the best. And there's rumours of plague in the islands, so - "

"You need me," Squirrel concluded.

Stuck with him again? Thorn studied her companion... and found she didn't mind. "Lead me," she said to the guard. "Daylight's wasting."

Ghost Ship

By

James Van Pelt

USA

Arima prowled the deck in the dark, straightening a messy rope, carefully placing loop on loop until the coil was perfect. Fog covered the moon, but the mist glowed in its thinness, casting an imperfect light. She stacked scattered buckets next to the mops, replaced a belaying pin to its hole in the gunwale, put an awl and hammer she found under a bench into the tool cupboard, and straightened the restraining net over the hatches. When she finished, she went below deck to tidy the sailors' sleeping area. Arima didn't care that they'd raise a superstitious babble about lined up shoes and neatly folded shirts. She had to do something with her time. When she finished, she retreated to her hiding place in the hold to sleep.

The Wild Swan's sailors didn't look after Arima—she stayed out of their way and took care of herself. She had no memory before the ship when she woke up shivering under a wet blanket in the Swan's hold, rocking with the storm, listening to timbers creak and canvas snap. Beneath the flooring slats, bilge gurgled about drowning; and a rat perched on a burlap bag, its eyes black, shiny and dead. Her hands smelled like wet wood and sea weed. She knew her name and that she was ten, but she didn't know how she knew.

Soon, Arima discovered that everything on the ship besides her was dead. The dead sailors couldn't see her, but she was sure that the dead cat could. It hissed, sometimes when she passed, or it would stare.

She listened to ship sounds. The Wild Swan sailed in perpetual heavy seas or fog. That was a part of its curse. Within days, she accustomed herself to pitching decks, and salt spray that soaked her when she went topside, but she never got used to the wind's piercing cold, no matter how she bundled up.

Arima awoke hungry. She crawled from the nest she made for herself deep in the hold, behind the heaviest storage, where the sailors never went, and moved by feel until she came to the dim square of wavy light at a ladder's top.

"We'll play cards," said a voice above.

"We always play the damned cards," said another.

She crept up the ladder. Two sailors sat on stools under a swaying lamp, casting wild shadows around the room. Behind her, in the yellow light, full hammocks cradled other sailors, their arms or legs hanging out. Some snored louder than the ship's sounds. The stairs to the galley rose beyond the two card players, though. She'd have to go around them. Pressing her back to the hull, she sidled behind the bigger man who smelled of rum, nutmeg and sweat.

The small one looked over his cards at his partner as if trying to read his hand. Arima froze. It was if he was looking at her.

The big man shivered. "There's a cold spot, and I'm sitting in it."

"The ship is always cold."

"We're haunted, I tell you. A spirit's walking."

The small man scowled. "Shut up and play. We're the ghosts, mate. If there was another spirit, I'd ask him to sit down and bet. Better company than you. Put gold on the table."

Arima waited until the large man dug into his purse to continue to the stairs.

No one slept on the gun deck. A sailor carrying a rag and lamp wiped a cannon. Even with the gun ports closed, wave-driven water sprayed through. He tightened an oilcloth over the cannon balls stacked behind the gun. The hatches were battened against the sea, so it was impossible to tell if it was day or night outside, not that it mattered much on the Wild Swan. The sun never shined on her.

In the galley she opened the cheese bin. When she'd first appeared on the Swan, the bin had been full, but now a fraction of the last wheel remained. She cut a small slice. The other bins were equally low or empty. Over time she'd eaten the stores that would have fed thirty men for weeks. None of them ate, and the food never turned bad. No weevils in the bread. No maggots in the meat. The drinking water remained fresh. Fruit never spoiled. She wondered how ghost food sustained her, but it tasted fine and was filling. She decided a strange magic must be at work on board, maybe the same magic that brought her here.

On deck, she discovered low-hanging clouds almost brushed the crow's-nest and huge rolling waves like great green walls advanced on the ship, but no rain and little wind. Barefoot, she grabbed a taut shroud coming off the main mast, then swarmed up the ratlines, the ropes between the shrouds like ladder steps, until she was high in the rigging. Resting a hand on the mast, standing on the topgallant, Arima surveyed the ship that seemed miles below. From here, she could touch the clouds. Moisture coated canvas, rigging and hardware, but she had been in the sails so often that the footing didn't make her nervous. Of all the places, Arima loved the rigging most. Being alone high above the deck seemed right, not sad. The sea and wind vibrated the lines.

Her second favourite spot where sailors were unlikely to stumble over her was the bow. She clamoured over piled rope and folded canvas to the front of the ship as waves lifted the Swan skyward. Poised for a moment at the top, Arima saw waves behind waves that vanished into the corduroy sea before the Swan slid down the long, glassy slope. She looked back on the ship, where the first mate manned the wheel. Seamen clung to the rigging, adjusting sails.

Over time, Arima learned some of their names. Ship Surgeon Miller joked with the men and led them in song. Quartermaster Schmidt rolled dice by himself on the quarterdeck when he was awake. The boatswain, a dark-skinned, surly sailor who mumbled constantly, never came on deck. He wandered among the stores in the dark, taking inventory by candlelight. She wondered what he thought of the diminishing food supplies. And then there was the captain.

Even though the ship never berthed, it never made port, Captain Sheridan kept his crew busy making repairs and scrubbing the deck. He stood tall and broad with black hair and full eyebrows. He wore a dark-blue coat that he never buttoned regardless of the weather. Other than issuing orders and ship's business, Arima had never seen him talking to his men, and they didn't talk to him. He existed friendless on the ship. He often took the wheel or used his telescope; he strolled the deck with hands behind his back. The wind when it blew, ruffled his hair.

Captain Sheridan emerged from his cabin, looked to the sails, then walked toward her. She stayed still as he approached.

Arima's first day on board, she'd tried talking to the men. "Hello," she said to a sailor, "I'm lost. Can you help me?" But he continued carving a piece of bone he held on his lap. He didn't look up. He didn't seem to feel her when she tapped his shoulder to get attention. The second sailor was the same. The third, though, sat on the deck, sewing a patch into a sail. That day, fog draped the Swan in dark, damp sheets. The sails dripped, and when a breeze stirred them, water shook loose like rain. "Hello," she had said. The sailor paused in his work and tilted his head, looking puzzled. Arima nearly jumped in excitement. "Can you help me?"

The man cast his gaze left and right as if he'd been struck blind, and for a moment Arima wondered if he was sightless since he looked past her and around her, but not at her. Suddenly, though, he stopped searching, his eyes locked on her. "Mother of God," he exclaimed as he dropped his tools. He ran below deck, leaving Arima confused.

Later, long after she'd given up trying to get help from the sailors, she heard them talking about a ghost. The sailor who had run away wasn't the only one who glimpsed her. She heard tales about the spirit of a child who walked the ship. They argued about her. "How can there be a haunting here? We are the cursed ones. We are the dead," said the Master Gunner. "We pay for the Captain's sin."

The ship's carpenter said, "Plenty of guilt for all. No one shouted, 'Give that ship aid, Captain.' We wanted bonuses and the honour too. The curse is ours."

The Master Gunner snarled. "Only the Captain could have ordered us about. It didn't matter what anyone else wanted, but we are sailing forever in purgatory, never to set foot on land, never to be released. More than two hundred years at sea."

The Surgeon said, "We may be ghosts on a ghost ship, but that little girl, that apparition, is a demon. If she touches you, you will burn in Hell forever."

"Do you think Hell is dry?" asked the carpenter. "I might take dry over this water-logged tub."

The captain stepped over the same ropes and canvas that Arima had traversed to reach the bow. She pressed her back to the hull to stay out of his way. He gripped a rigging line, put his foot on the gunwale and looked to the sea. Above him, the fore stay sail bulged in a breeze that didn't reach the deck.

"I want to go home, Captain," she said. He put out a steadying hand to compensate for the ship's pitching. She touched his leg. The pants were cold and wet with spray, but he didn't react. "I want to go home!" Arima pounded his leg with her fist. He didn't move. Finally, exhausted, she lay still and looked up at him. Absently, as if he had an itch, he slid his hand down his shin and rubbed it.

He said to no one, to the wind perhaps, talking to himself. "We're never going home."

Captain Sheridan turned back toward his cabin, walking as if he carried the crew's lives on his head. In the first weeks she'd been aboard, she tried communicating with the sailors. She wrote messages in the daybook. She spelled out her name in dried beans on the main galley table. She yelled in their ears when they lay down, but the things she left scared them, and when they did see her, they ran. Arima terrorized the ghosts. She was their bad dream. When she could get through, they became miserable and fearful. They talked in their hammocks about families they'd left behind who were long dead now. About girl friends who must have met others, fell in love, married, raised children, and forgot them. They were not cruel men. After she'd listened for many nights, Arima grew sad. They suffered for their wickedness they'd committed so long ago. She pitied them, so she straightened their belongings and found their lost tools.

The Wild Swan rode the waves like a carriage on a hilly road. Sails creaked. Tackle rattled. Ropes thumped against the masts. And behind the noisy ship, an even noisier ocean hissed against the hull, slapped at it angrily. Sucked and sloshed, splashed and sizzled, smelling of salt and clouds. Arima propped herself up, watching the sea. It would be easy to take the extra step, climb over the rail and drop into the immensity. She imagined the ship sailing from her until it became a speck atop a wave.

She shook her head, suddenly afraid of her own thoughts, then returned to the galley. In a fruit bin, she found the last orange, which finished the fresh produce. The biscuits would be gone in a couple days. She could stretch the cheese and salted meat for a month. Why was she on board? Who was she? Did she have parents who missed her? Was she cursed too?

The cook, a grizzled man who wore a dirty scarf over white hair, walked with a limp and whistled tunelessly, came into the galley after her. He opened an empty bin, looked sadly where food used to be, then said, "Most useless man on the ship." He slammed it shut before climbing down the ladder to the card game and hammocks.

"Ship ahoy!" called the lookout. Arima rushed up the stairs ahead of a handful of seamen. They seldom saw other ships. The first one she'd seen was a tanker that never came within hailing distance. This one, though, grew closer and larger every minute. A huge white ship, multiple decks that towered above the top of the Wild Swan's main mast. The waves that carried the wooden vessel so easily, passed under the great boat without rocking it. Orange-covered lifeboats hung from the ship's sides. People walked along the railings, too far for Arima to see their faces. A sign painted near the stern read "Royal Caribbean" and the one at the bow said, "Independence of the Seas."

"We could give her a broadside," said the Gunner's Mate. He leaned on the railing next to Arima.

"They'd never even hear it," said a seaman. "What kind of ship is that? It's big as a city."

The Gunner's mate scratched his chin. "The world's moved on."

"That's your world, isn't it?" said the Captain behind her.

Arima leaned over the gunwale, straining to see. The huge vessel was only five-hundred yards away. "I'm here!" she yelled, waving her hand, but the ship powered on, leaving the Wild Swan in its wake. She wondered if she jumped overboard if someone would spot her in the water; or if a passenger, looking out on the ocean, a preoccupied passenger whose mind cut loose a little from the day-to-day reality on board, glimpsed the mythical ghost ship beside them, a tall-masted brigantine, sails full of wind, doomed sailors manning her deck, and one little girl trapped with them.

A voice in her ear whispered, "They're from your world, aren't they?" She turned. The Captain's face was only inches from her own. He rose, yelled up to the wheelsman. "Take her straight south. We'll follow that ship."

"We can't catch her, sir, even with the wind," said the Sailing Master, a large map rolled under his arm. "And what would be the use?"

"Do you have a better place to go?" said the Captain. He looked down directly at Arima, who was stunned. He was seeing her, speaking to her. "I'll be in my cabin," he said. "Visit me."

When she closed his cabin door behind her, he sat in his large chair by the stern cabin windows. "You're here, aren't you," he said, squinting at the door. "Sometimes I think I see you, and other times I know you are there but invisible to the senses."

"Can you hear me?" Arima said. Goosebumps jumped onto her arms and legs.

He turned his head. Maybe he did hear a bit of her, like a mosquito buzz just at the edge of perception.

"Or I am going crazy? Not that I think the gods would give me such a release. Insanity, I mean." He studied his hands on his knees. When he walked the deck, Arima thought he was too young to captain a ship, but in his cabin, the responsibility aged him. Suddenly he looked like a man who had been at sea for more than two hundred years. "We took on a challenge. Deliver letters in three days. No one made that trip in three days before, but the Wild Swan runs before a favourable wind better than any ship I've sailed. We could have stopped to save the foundering sloop; it would have delayed us just an hour to aid her, but they were close to shore. I was sure others would help. They could even have swum, I thought. We didn't stop. After we delivered our mail, while we celebrated and took on fresh stores, I heard that all on the sloop drowned. At the next port, in terrible weather, we anchored, took the dinghy to the dock, but we could not touch the ladder as if all we saw was smoke. We do not eat. We do not die, although God forgive us we have tried."

"I don't know why I'm on board," said Arima. She moved a map from the other chair in the room and sat. Captain Sheridan flinched when the parchment settled to the floor.

"You are adrift," he said, "but not like us. I think you must be a living person. Your curse must be terrible. What happens when you starve to death on a ghost ship?"

The Captain rose to study a map on a table in the room's centre. He switched from map to map, including the one at Arima's feet. "I don't know where we are. We seldom see the coast and never stars for navigation, but the ship we chase calls itself the Royal Caribbean. There may be cause for hope." He used a magnifying glass to read the map's markings, and he didn't speak again. Arima grew tired and wandered in and out of sleep. When she opened her eyes, the Captain was gone.

She looked at his map of the Caribbean Sea that he'd left on the table, a vast stretch of water with islands to the east and north, and continents to the south and west, all with exotic names: Hispaniola, Barbados, Tobago, marked with the countries who ruled them, the Dutch, French and English. Someone else might be willing to starve to death, but she decided that it would not be her.

On deck the wind blew from almost directly astern, pushing the Wild Swan south at the best speed Arima had seen. Night had fallen. Spray flew from the bow as the ship plunged forward. Under the watch lamp, Captain Sheridan stood at the wheel, one hand holding a compass, the other keeping the ship on course. The best way to leave would be on a lifeboat, but she could see no way to lower one without help. She doubted she could row it even if she did manage to launch it. She could make a raft, figure out how to get it into the water, and then paddle or sail until she hit land. The ghosts might not be able to touch the shore. She wasn't dead, though, at least she didn't think she was. If she could make landfall, she bet that she could touch the sand. She would be able to walk until she found people. She could save herself, but she'd have to work fast. Her craft would have to be built and launched before the sailors awoke.

An hour later, she'd winched enough lumber from the hold to construct a raft. Difficult work to do in the dark. The cargo boom solved her problem of getting the raft into the water, though. It rotated so that when the raft was finished, she could raise it whole, move the structure over the rail, and then lower it. When the raft was in the water, she could climb down a rope, board her craft and cut it loose.

She laid out the boards and began to lash them together.

The Captain's voice startled her. "You are a brave one, I'll give you that." He sat on a barrel, a dark shape in the night, overlooking her effort. "Where will you row, child? What will you do when the ocean raises itself and dashes your hopes to splinters? I doubt that Vice Admiral Lord Nelson himself could navigate your raft across a country pond in a spring breeze."

He hopped off the barrel, pulled on the first board she had tied to another, which unravelled easily. "Wait until morning. Every day you are alive is a reason to hope for the next one. This . . ." he dropped the rope onto her raft, ". . . would be suicide."

Arima couldn't tell if the Captain could see her or not. In the moonless, starless night, anyone could be a ghost.

By morning, the wind had settled to a gentle push, slowing the Wild Swan, and a thick fog hovered over the sea, swallowing the top of the main mast. Arima saw hundreds of yards horizontally as if the fog and sea sandwiched the clear air between. The waves calmed. Sailors clung to the rigging, repositioning the sails. Captain Sheridan still steered. She wondered if he had stayed there since he spoke to her.

"We are too close to shore, Captain," called the Sailing Master who stood at the rail, a marked lead line in hand.

"Apprise me of the soundings as necessary."

Arima looked to the port side. For the first time since she had been on the ship, she saw land, a white beach with palm trees beyond, only a few hundred yards away. The air smelled jungle green. She ran the length of the deck and up the stairs onto the quarterdeck.

"You could jump," Captain Sheridan said, "if you can swim." He watched the shore closely, moving the wheel to adjust course. Did he know that she was standing beside him? "I think the ship we followed, the Royal Caribbean must be here, but I have to be sure. Leaving you on a desert island would only be another kind of death."

"Do you recognize it, Captain?" said a sailor in the rigging.

"Cozumel, I believe. We resupplied here long ago."

Arima stared into the trees. All she needed was a sign of human habitation. She didn't even have to be able to swim. If she took a board with her, she could cling to it and kick her way to land.

The Royal Caribbean came into view first, anchored in front of them, a great white mountain of a ship, but now hotels replaced the forest. On the beach, cabanas and furled umbrellas emerged from the fog.

"Drop anchor!" shouted the Captain. "Take in the sails."

Arima would not have to swim to shore. Captain Sheridan directed the men to lower a boat and drop a rope ladder to it. He clambered down. When he took his place at the oars, he looked up. "Are you coming?"

She sat in the bow of the boat as the Captain rowed. A stingray swam under them; a gliding grey shape longer than she was tall.

"I have learned that if I look to the side, away from you, I can see you most often," said the Captain as he rowed easily. He was a powerful man. The boat, as heavy as it was, jumped forward when he pulled on the oars.

"Thank you for doing this," Arima said. The Captain didn't answer, and soon she saw beach sand under the boat and Captain Sheridan rested on his oars.

"This is as far as I can go. You can walk from here."

Arima jumped out. The warm sea came to her waist.

The Captain reached toward her. "Take this, would you, to remember us? And if you ever dare to tell the living about your adventure, say that the Captain of the Wild Swan is eternally sorry to all whom I have hurt, both to the drowned and to my crew. I should have been punished alone."

He dropped a coin into her hand, a worn doubloon, a bit of tarnished gold.

Arima nodded, then waded ashore. When she reached the beach, she sat, exhausted, and watched as the Captain rowed away. She'd never seen the Wild Swan from outside the ship. The wood was dark and beaten. The sails looked more ragged than she thought they were when she climbed among them.

The Captain reached the Swan, climbed aboard. His men helped him over the rail. It was the only time she'd seen them aid him in any way. The Sailing Master clapped him on his back. Did the crew understand what the Captain had been doing? Did they know that he'd taken them into a port that none of them could ever enjoy, that he dangled in front of them the very thing they could not have to save their "ghost"?

She was dumbfounded.

The fog parted. Sun poured down on the brigantine for the first time in two centuries. The Wild Swan glowed as if on fire. Men looked up. Some raised their hands, palms out.

And then gradually, beautifully, the ship faded and swirled. A flock of seagulls flew through the old ship, beating their way toward shore. Their wings whispered as they cut through the air as they pivoted and flew along the water line. When she looked back, the Wild Swan had vanished as if it never had been.

Arima pushed herself off the sand and walked toward the nearest hotel. She fingered the doubloon in her pocket. She wondered if a restaurant would accept it for breakfast.

An Author's Lot

by

Andrew M. Seddon

USA

The door chimed. Ramsey tucked his pistol into his waistband and padded over. The door slid aside, framing a tall brunette. She blinked at the sudden intrusion of light into the dim hallway.

"Who are you?" Ramsey demanded.

"Claire." Her voice was husky. "May I come in?" She sidled past him into the middle of the room. Her nose wrinkled. "Do you really live in this dump?"

Ramsey left the door open. "I don't like brunettes."

"Got it? I've never liked brunettes."

"I forgot, OK? Don't get bent out of shape. Time was, you never cared about hair colour."

"And it's MY apartment. Don't mess with it."

The door chimed. Ramsey checked his pistol, tucked it into his waistband, and padded across. The door whispered aside, framing a tall red-head who blinked at the sudden intrusion of light into the dim hall.

"That's better," Ramsey nodded. "Who are you?"

"I'm Claire. May I come in?" She ducked her head and eased past him into the room. "Hey, nice place."

"The last one was named Claire," Ramsey complained. "You don't look like a Claire."

"I TOLD you Claire wasn't a good name. Don't you listen?"

"You like her though."

"I DON'T like the name."

"Who cares what you like or don't like?"

"I don't want someone who doesn't look like a Claire. And you'd BETTER care what I like."

"Quit being so picky, would you?"

The door chimed. Ramsey went to open it...

How long had he been feeling unwell? Garrett Hastings wasn't sure, the time lost somewhere in the greying depths of his unreliable memory. Like the stealthy approach of age, which creeps and overwhelms unsuspecting youth, the symptoms crept up on him, until one day he realized that something was badly wrong.

Even so, he tried to persuade himself that it was all his imagination.

But when he arose each morning in his cramped apartment, he dressed in the dark so as not to see his grey, pallid skin and swollen feet. He combed his thinning hair by touch, so he wouldn't have to look in the mirror and see the puffy face, baggy eyelids, and dull eyes that stared back at him.

And as for his tiredness? - overwork, surely, he thought, trying to deny the overwhelming fatigue that made even the simplest task require an almost unobtainable effort of will.

He cowered behind his closed door, afraid to venture outside.

A wife would have compelled him to go to the doctor. But somehow he'd never found the time for love, and there was no woman in his life. So he procrastinated, putting off the inevitable, hoping each morning would be better than the last.

One day he could barely crawl out of bed. Never mind his shoes, he couldn't even put on his socks. That decided him.

"A man can't live with cold feet," he grumbled.

He dressed slowly and pulled on a pair of old, floppy slippers. Cracking open the door, he peered down the hall and listened before venturing out. At street level he boarded the slidewalk.

A hurrying student stepped on his left foot. Garrett bit back an exclamation so as not to draw attention to himself.

The slidewalk seemed unbearably slow. But he couldn't walk that far, and wasn't about to waste money on a taxi.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the medical centre, pausing before entering in order for his heart to stop racing. Inside, he ignored the several people in the waiting room, telling himself there was no reason to feel ashamed. Everyone was there for some kind of problem.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist was a plain girl with a bored tone.

"I need to see the doctor." Garrett kept his voice low.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. I just decided to come in."

The girl gave him an annoyed look. "You'll have to wait."

"That's OK."

"Name?"

"Hastings. Garrett Hastings. Two r's, two t's."

The receptionist searched his features, all trace of irritation gone. "The Garrett Hastings? The author?"

"The same."

"I've read all your books."

A sudden warmth filled him. "I'm glad you like them."

"Especially Unblooming Rose. I just love Ramsey - he gives me the shivers. Are you writing another?"

Garrett struggled to keep a smile on his face. Why did everyone have to like Ramsey?

"Slowly. I haven't been well lately."

She was all concern. "I'm so sorry. Can I have your ID and Healthcard? We'll get you in as soon as we can."

Garrett supplied them.

"Thank you, Mr. Hastings," she said. "Just have a seat. Um... would it be possible... I mean could I..." she blushed.

"An autograph?" He couldn't recall the last time he'd been asked. "Gladly."

She beamed as he wrote for her. Settling himself in a chair he watched the news on the wall screen, conscious of her continued scrutiny.

A shapely technician with "Martinez" blazoned on her green jumpsuit called him back.

Garrett followed her down the hall. "What do I need to do?"

"First time?" Martinez looked back over her shoulder.

Garrett nodded. "Yes."

"Nothing to it," Martinez reassured. "Just sit on the seat, place the helmet on your head, and insert your hands. The doc will withdraw some blood. The scans are painless. You need to take off your clothes first," she added.

Garrett hesitated.

Martinez smiled. "Seen one, seen them all."

He dropped his clothes and settled into the booth. He pulled down the helmet and inserted his hands. Martinez closed the door.

Ramsey finally pronounced himself satisfied.

"You'll do," he said to the auburn-haired girl seated opposite him, her long legs demurely crossed. "Monica. I like that."

Monica made no answer. Her cool gaze unsettled him. She's beautiful, Ramsey thought.

"Can you shoot?" he asked.

"Sure. But I can't hit anything."

Ramsey punched a fist into the couch. "What is going on here?" he shouted. "Why can't I get what I want?"

"You've done it again!"

"Me? Why should I pander to you all the time? You always get your way. Besides, Monica's wanted to play the helpless female routine!"

"I won't put up with this!"

"Shut up! It makes for a good story."

"Who cares about the stupid story. Do what I say!"

Ramsey pulled himself together, told himself to quit mooning like a lovesick teenager.

"Can you shoot?" he asked.

"Sure." Monica exuded confidence. "Crack shot."

He handed her a laser pistol. "Prove it."

Without seeming to aim, Monica snapped a shot across the room. The bolt burned a hole through the centre of a holo-portrait of a young woman. Monica flicked the safety on and handed the pistol stock first to Ramsey. The barest hint of amusement glimmered in the violet depths of her eyes.

"I don't like rivals," she said.

Ramsey nodded. "OK. You'll do."

The scan was amazingly brief and, as Martinez had said, painless. A green light illuminated, and. Martinez' voice issued from a speaker.

"All done, Mr. Hastings. You can come out and go to the room across the hall."

He climbed out of the doc, dressed, and sat down in the room directly opposite. He heard Martinez put another patient in the doc, and she entered a few minutes later.

"This is your medical record." She handed him an I-chip. "Please bring it with you each time you come for an appointment. Everything you need to know about your condition is explained in laymen's' terms."

She hesitated.

"What is it?" Garrett asked.

"You do realize that at your age, with this kind of condition..."

"I don't qualify for state subsidized care?" he guessed.

She nodded. "Basic level only. Otherwise it's self-pay."

"Thank you." Garrett pocketed the I-chip, and followed Martinez to the exit.

The receptionist gave him a big smile. "Don't wait too long for the next book."

"I'll try not to," Garrett promised. If he could. What if the words wouldn't come?

"But try not to make Ramsey too mean?"

As if he had a choice!

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Kelly Hopkins."

"I'll see you get a copy."

Back at home, he slipped the I-chip into his monitor and learned about chronic kidney failure. His liver was in a sad state as well. The autodoc had prescribed medication to remove excess fluid and improve kidney function, but deterioration was inevitable. He was instructed in modifications to his diet and life-style.

Age, he thought. The body wearing out.

The next day, the swelling had diminished. He no-longer ached all over. He felt so good that he took his first walk in a month. His thought processes seemed clearer.

The compulsion to write returned and he yielded to its urging. Once he began, he wrote rapidly. His publisher accepted the new novel grudgingly, with a much lower advance than he used to command.

Reviewers yawned. "Paean of Prose, the new work by Garrett Hastings, follows closely the steps of the author's previous work - darker and more hard edged than previous novels, the hero is now more of an anti-hero. The author appears to be digging deeply into the underside of his nature and uses the novels as a release...."

On it went. Analysis, but no real praise. Sales were disappointing. Perhaps it was time to end the series, search for a denouement. Since Garrett couldn't recapture the success of his early years, why bother continuing? Surely he could devise a fitting conclusion...

"I like it," Kelly told him when he brought her a copy. "How do you come up with your characters, anyway?"

"Well," Garrett said, "once I have a plot, I think of a name for a character, and then they sort of create themselves. I don't always know how they're going to turn out. They can be quite a strange collection..."

"Kind of like a zoo? A character zoo?"

That made him laugh. "I guess you could say that."

He returned to the med-centre for his regular exams and medications. On occasion, he missed months, sometimes because he felt well and fell prey to a false sense of security, other times because he didn't feel like it, and more often because he couldn't afford them.

In his younger days, when his books sold well, Garrett had indulged in lavish parties, fine wines, obliging women, and expensive vacations. The publication of each new volume engendered another round of riotous living. But now the books sold slowly, his celebrity had faded, and his income declined drastically. He'd never been a saver.

Sometimes Garrett had sufficient on his Healthcard to cover his visits, sometimes not. If there wasn't, he waited until the following month.

As time passed, the swelling and fatigue returned. Garrett made more frequent trips to the doc. The medications didn't help as well.

One day the doc didn't give him any at all.

Monica leaned back like a cat, sensuous, cognizant of the effect she created. A dangerous cat - a panther coiled, prepared to spring. Her eyes gave nothing away, transfixing the swarthy man seated opposite her.

"Did you bring it?" she purred.

"I did. What about the payment?"

"Let me see it first." Monica held out her hand.

The man reached into his pocket. His hand emerged; his laser pistol pointed at Monica.

She tensed.

His hand was not quite steady. A sheen of sweat beaded his brow. An amateur? Or a poor professional?

"First the payment," the man growled. A trace of an accent?

Monica shrugged, a faint smile on her lips. "Suit yourself," she said sweetly.

Her left hand moved slightly in her lap. Her shot caught the swarthy man in the chest. He gasped and slumped sideways, his pistol falling from nerveless hands to clatter on the floor.

Monica pocketed her palm-sized pistol. "Payment as desired," she murmured.

Ramsey stepped from the bedroom. "What'd you go and waste him for?"

Monica shrugged. "He pulled a gun on me."

"Couldn't you have winged him?"

"And risked him shooting me? Get off it."

Ramsey scowled. He stooped over the swarthy man and frisked him. Finding nothing in the side pockets, he patted the charred area around the breast. He extracted a half-molten chip.

"Look what you did! It's ruined!"

"Give me a break!" Monica flared. "How was I to know it would be in that pocket? Am I psychic or something?"

"Do you realize how much this was worth? I won't have it! Hear me?"

"You have a real knack for annoying me!"

"I can't help it if you don't like the way I do things. You're always looking for the easy way out."

"I'm doing it differently. Like it or not."

"Stuff it."

"Stuff it yourself."

Ramsey scowled. He stooped over the swarthy man and frisked expertly through his pockets. From the side he pulled out a computer chip. His eyes glittered.

"At last! Do you know how much this is worth in the right hands?"

Monica watched him curiously. "Don't forget my share," she said.

Ramsey returned her gaze. "Don't worry. I won't."

Garrett lay in a hospital bed, connected to complex machines whose function he didn't comprehend. Looking at his feet, he was relieved to see them almost their normal size.

A young doctor - human! - with regular features and straight black hair entered and perched on a bedside chair.

"I'm Dr Jaarven. How are you feeling today?"

White coat, professional manner. Some things never changed.

"Better, thanks. What happened?"

"The autodoc couldn't care for you anymore. You passed out during the exam and were transferred here. We performed emergency dialysis. We wanted to get you feeling better so that we could have this chat."

"Chat about what?" Garrett asked.

"Your life. Or what we do with it."

Garrett took a deep breath. "Tell me."

"Dialysis is only a temporary solution - a holding procedure that has to be repeated at regular intervals. Your kidneys are totally shot." Jaarven scrutinized his fingernails. "The problem is that -"

"I don't qualify. I know."

"The funds on your Healthcard will only cover a few treatments."

Garrett sighed. "I know that, too. But without it -"

"You'll die."

"What about a transplant?"

Jaarven shook his head. "Same thing. You don't qualify, and you can't pay for it."

"So it's die now, or die slightly later."

"I can call a thanatology team -"

"No - that won't be necessary," Garrett said quickly. If he could finish one more book... make it a good one... bring in enough money to pay for a private transplant... surely such could be had... "I'm not ready to go just yet. I have a few things to do."

"Of course," Jaarven said. "You've got enough funds for a few treatments. Call us when you're ready."

"I'll do that," Garrett said.

"OK, Monica, here's what we're going to do," Ramsey said. "You'll handle the transaction again, same as last time, and I'll be providing cover. Don't be trigger happy," he warned. "We don't want these people getting mad at us."

"Don't worry about me," Monica snorted. "I can handle myself. Don't you fall asleep in there."

"What are you up to? That's not the way it's supposed to go!"

"I'm writing my own script."

"You can't do that!"

"It's MY game now. I'll do as I please."

"We'll see about that. I've let you have your way for too long."

"Try it and see what happens."

The book was eating him alive.

He tried desperately to get the words down, knowing his time was limited. But he'd never worked well under deadline, and now that he was facing the ultimate deadline of all...

He pressured himself to work, though there weren't enough hours in the day.

Yet he dared not relax, dared not give up.

He had to try, for it was his only chance.

Ramsey crouched over Monica's body, eyes blazing hatred at the dapper man with prematurely grey hair. The laser pistol trained on Ramsey's heart wavered not so much as a millimetre.

"And now it's your turn, Ramsey," said the man grimly. "Good-bye."

Ramsey closed his eyes.

"That'll do him. I'll be glad to be rid of him. Getting too big for his britches."

"I thought he was cute."

"Suave, yes. Cute, no."

"I'm a woman, remember."

Monica rolled behind the couch, clutching her wounded shoulder. A split second later and the beam would have pierced her heart. She fought to retain consciousness against the haze of searing pain and nausea that threatened to engulf her. Gasping for breath, she looked to see where her pistol had landed.

Ramsey stood stock still, glaring at the dapper man with prematurely grey hair. The pistol trained on his chest was rock steady.

"And now it's your turn, Ramsey," said the man suavely. "Good-bye." His finger tightened on the trigger. The tip of the pistol glowed briefly, then faded and died. The man threw it down with a curse.

Ramsey smiled, a slow, wolfish smile, baring his uneven teeth.

"It's strange," Jaarven remarked to the young resident accompanying him on morning rounds. "On one hand we know so much about the mind, and on the other, so little. If you're a materialist, you can convince yourself that the mind is simply an emergent phenomenon of the brain, and yet we still don't know what the connection is. On the other hand, plenty of people believe that the mind is something immaterial, using the brain as a substrate."

"Like a soul?"

Jaarven nodded. "Yes." He stopped, and looked through a window into a room, where an elderly man sat slumped on the edge of his bed. His lips appeared to be moving, as were his fingers, as if typing on an invisible keyboard. "And although we perceive our minds to be a single entity, it's also possible to view the mind as composed of several subroutines or junior 'minds' fused into a single dominant 'I'."

The resident was also looking into the room. "He's fragmented, hasn't he?"

"Totally and irreversibly, especially given his comorbid conditions."

Ramsey helped Monica to her feet. "Let's get you patched up," he said. "We can dispose of the remains later."

"I'm OK." Monica didn't look towards the crumpled form lying in the corner. With his bare hands...! "I don't think it's too deep."

"It looks nasty," contradicted Ramsey. "Come along."

"Would you leave me alone? You're ruining everything! Tell him to leave me alone."

"You've had your chances. It's my show now."

"What are you talking about?" Garrett was nervous.

"I told you. I'm fed up with your interference, fed up with you trying to get rid of me. Do you think I don't know what you're up to?"

"You're MY creation."

"WAS your creation."

"I used to read his books when I was a teenager," the resident said.

"It's a shame, really," Jaarven replied. "He was trying to write one more bestseller so he could continue with treatments. If only his mind hadn't gone..."

The resident held up a sheet of printouts. "Did you read these? They make no sense... it's as if he couldn't make up his mind where the book was going... it's like he was lost in a zoo, with all these characters turning on him, trying to write their own scripts, devouring him, really..."

"Lost in the zoo of his own mind," Jaarven mused, casting a glance at the printouts. "I've never seen anything quite like it before. What a way for an author to go."

The men turned away from the window.

"It won't be long now," Jaarven said.

"Shall we end it for him?" the resident asked.

DIED: Hastings, Garrett. 85. Author of Unblooming Rose, Pageant of Grief, and others. Natural causes. March 11, 2083.

"It didn't work for Conan Doyle, either," Ramsey snickered.

"You fool!" said Garrett, just before everything went black. "You utter idiot! You'll die too!"

"I'm immortal," Ramsey said smoothly. "Are you?"

An Incident at Prnjavor

by

Gerry Huntman

Australia

Sergeant Draghitch Pavlovitch felt intense pain in his legs as he knelt on the village square's cobblestones, shivering in the cold of the late November afternoon. He and his four men had remained still, like medieval ascetics, for over an hour. They couldn't move, as there were Magyar Királyi Hussars aiming Karabiner 98 rifles at their backs.

He cursed the Hungarian cavalrymen, as their horses had penetrated the retreating Serb lines so easily that morning, so easily, and caught their depleted company with vicious force. He cursed the weather with greater vehemence, as the late autumn weather had so far lacked snow—and failed to slow the Hussars.

As the sun slipped behind the mountains, there were few clouds in the sky.

"Oh Jesus," Philip hissed through narrow lips.

Draghitch shifted focus to what his private was observing: a dozen women, children and old men were being led into the square by Hussars. Some of the cavalrymen were dressed in grubby, tattered, light or dark blue uniforms—with bright red trousers and plumed helmets that matched their jackets, while others had grey linen tunics covering their conspicuous garb, and had painted their helmets the same colour. Even their sabre scabbards were over-painted. While the war was only several months old, it taught harsh lessons to the traditional regiments who were so conspicuous in the battlefield.

The sergeant finally comprehended why his youngest soldier drew his breath so suddenly. The civilians were lined in a single row at the far end of the town square, facing the sprawl of the Hussar brigade, who were resting, drinking, tending their mounts, and the half dozen who were guarding the luckless Serbian prisoners.

Each of the civilians acquired a Hussar companion, who positioned himself directly behind his charge. A few were smirking—it didn't represent mirth; they were sadistic visages, much like what transformed the faces of some soldiers in the heat of battle. Expressions one never forgets.

The light was fading for the day and a Hussar officer strutted out of a building, buttoning up his trousers. An Őrnagy, Draghitch surmised by the insignia, which equated to the rank of Major.

The long moustached cavalry officer inspected the civilians with distaste. "Do you want to live?" he shouted at them, ensuring the whole square could hear him clearly. His mastery of Serbian was poor, but his message was clear enough.

Ivan, kneeling two places to Draghitch's right, started mumbling a prayer for the dead. Philip began to sob.

The officer tapped his hand against his sheathed sabre. "If you want to live I want every one of you to cry out to all in Prnjavor, 'Long live Francis Joseph!' Do it now!"

The twelve Hussars shadowing the civilians drew long, sharp bayonets, which were conveniently fixed to their belts.

The majority of the civilians repeated the blessing to the Emperor. A few old men held their tongues defiantly.

The officer shook his head in mock disappointment. He mumbled something in Hungarian as he faced away from the civilians, and gazed intensely at the Serbian infantrymen, still kneeling before him.

Each Hussar expertly grasped their civilian prisoner and sliced deeply into their necks. Screams were cut short, blood flowed everywhere, and bodies flopped to the cobblestones like heavy sacks. The three young children died quickly. Draghitch turned his eyes away from the massacre, as he knew the Hussars with the mad eyes were not going to stop with just bloodletting.

The cavalrymen in the square were strangely quiet.

He heard his men cry.

He discovered he had joined them.

"Don't do anything stupid," Draghitch whispered, loud enough for all who were kneeling to hear. "Just don't."

The Őrnagy stepped closer to the Serb prisoners. Again, the distasteful inspection. "We have more interesting plans for you," he said, sneering, but oddly with the faintest trace of fear running underneath. He blinked, perhaps attempting to erase a disturbing thought. He shouted to his right, "Corporal, how goes it with the civilians in the house?"

A Hussar stepped forward. "The women and children are still there, sir! Over a hundred; most alive. We await your orders."

"Burn them."

"Yes, sir!" The corporal saluted quickly and efficiently, and ran out of the village square.

The Őrnagy returned his attention to the prisoners, ignoring the wet dragging sounds of his men moving the bodies of the executed civilians out of sight, presumably to be dumped in side streets or the nearby agricultural fields. He turned his attention to Draghitch. "Are you the senior infantryman here?"

"I am. Sergeant Draghitch Pavlovitch, of the—"

"Never mind. I can see by your uniforms and ages that you are from the First Ban. You fought well but you lost. I can't count how many bodies of your compatriots I passed on the way to this village. Or what was left of them. Even as we speak our army is entering Belgrade. You have lost, all of you."

Philip cast his eyes to Draghitch, silently asking if all that was said was true.

Draghitch faintly nodded. At least on the matter of Belgrade. Just before the morning skirmishes he was informed by dispatch that the Serbian Army had retreated from the capital.

Screams echoed into the square, from the east. A smoke trail rose wispily over the buildings.

"Ah," the Hussar officer said drolly, "it appears a hundred less Serbs will be walking God's earth in a few minutes."

Draghitch fought the instinct to leap forward and tear the bastard into pieces, knowing too well he would be dead as fast as his guard could pull his Mauser's trigger.

The screaming abated, replaced by an unholy groan—deep, penetrating, punctuated by the sounds of splintering and crackling wood. Dark, billowing smoke now covered much of the eastern sky.

A number of the Hussar in the square shifted uncomfortably, eyeing each other like frightened puppies, but they quickly hid their emotions when the Őrnagy challenged them with his malignant glare.

"What are you going to do with us?" Draghitch said, believing now was the time to ask, or he would never know until it was too late.

The officer nervously sniggered. "Colonel Sárkány-Szív von Miskolci requires five prisoners...for matters that only concern him and his personal guards."

Draghitch heard a sharp intake of breath from Dmitri when the Hungarian brigade commander's name was mentioned. The name meant nothing to him.

"Őrnagy!" called a Hussar near the entrance to the house where the officer had exited only minutes before.

A young girl, with bedraggled hair and red welts on her face and exposed upper arms, slowly passed through the doorway into the square, wearing a thick blanket wrapped around her body.

The officer laughed. "What? Do you want more swordplay?" He feigned adjusting his crotch.

A few snickers echoed around the village square.

The girl's face was totally devoid of emotion; it was as if she were dead. She slightly altered her path and slowly stepped toward the Hussar major.

A cavalryman intervened, blocking her way, holding his carbine up.

"Don't," the Őrnagy ordered. "Let the bitch through. We might get some entertainment."

The girl continued her slow-paced walk, almost floating like a ghost.

The officer rested his hands on his hips, enjoying every moment, brandishing an erection.

She stopped five yards before him. A great number of Hussars closed in, waiting to see the show.

"Are you still naked under that blanket?" the Őrnagy asked.

Like an automaton, the girl unwrapped one of her hands from under the folds, causing the blanket to slide gently to the ground. She was naked, covered in bruises from head to toe, and resting in her previously hidden hand was an improvised explosive device.

"No!" the officer cried.

The girl flicked a switch that shattered a small vial of nitro-glycerine located at the top of the metal canister.

Draghitch's body had a mind of its own, practiced in battle, causing him to dive sideways to the ground, but not before, in the briefest of moments, he witnessed the girl transform into a red mist, and the disintegration of many of the men who were closest to her.

The explosion was profound, as loud as the largest shells that exploded in the battlefields, and the smell of smoke, blood, shit and piss was overwhelming. With a dull, muted bass thrumming in his ears, Draghitch picked himself up and witnessed carnage in the village square. Smoke and body parts everywhere. Men writhing, covered in blood, miming cries and groans because of his deafness. Other Hussars, especially those who were not caught in the ferocity of the explosion, were coughing and crawling into the side streets.

He checked his men. Three were stirring, getting up, presumably unhurt. Philip, Dmitri and Ivan. All their faces and clothing were speckled with fine dots of blood. Private Yekitch, a good man and a plumber by trade, was lying still on the cobblestones, with a ragged piece of bone imbedded in his skull.

Draghitch shouted to his men to get up and run...now was the one and only opportunity.

He realized they couldn't hear him.

He hurriedly lifted his men, and pointed to a few Mausers lying on the ground, and a loose bayonet. He picked up one of the carbines and found an ammunition belt on one of the men who was guarding him, who was now unconscious and dying from a gut wound.

While only a few minutes had passed since the explosion, the smoke was clearing quickly.

He manhandled his three remaining men together, and pointed emphatically to an alleyway leading east with no traffic, only twenty yards away.

They ran for their lives.

The narrow alley soon intersected one of the two major streets of the village. Draghitch forced his men to halt at the corner. Hussars were running everywhere, and some were riding. In the distance, near a clearing leading to farmland, was a large house engulfed in flame, already reduced to a blackened ruin.

The dull hum in Draghitch's ears was starting to abate.

"...one hundred women and children," Philip said, tears rolling down his cheeks. The boy was only eighteen years old, of a large farming family not far from this locale. Draghitch never thought Philip would survive the war, whether it would be by bullet or explosion, or by his young soul getting crushed by nightmares such as what was happening this day.

"We'll weep for them later," Draghitch said. He forced open a slim door to a house, and urged the men in.

The sounds of dozens of boots clomping the alleyway vindicated his decision to enter.

"What are we going to do?" Dmitri said. "They're everywhere and they will be searching all the homes.

"Possibly," Draghitch replied, "but they've been hit hard by that girl. I need to know who she was—she should be a national heroine. It'll be totally dark soon, and then we head east. There's farmland beyond the house, but only half a mile on there's an old forest over some rough terrain. From there we can make it back to our defence lines."

Dmitri placed his hand on Draghitch's shoulder. "A good plan, Sergeant, but make sure we don't stop anywhere, for any reason."

"What are you saying?" Draghitch respected the private. Dmitri was a schoolteacher prior to being drafted for the war, but thankfully his upbringing didn't stop him from turning into an excellent soldier.

"When that officer mentioned his commander—Sárkány-Szív von Miskolci—I felt a shiver down my back that makes these accursed winds feel like a scorching desert. This man commands the 2nd Miskolci Honved Hussars, and their homeland is in the Bükk Mountains, which is at the tip of the Carpathians. These soldiers, and especially the aristocratic Miskolci family who hold most of the major commissions, are animals. Vicious. Steeped in old lore predating Christianity. It is said the family drinks blood to sustain their immense strength in combat, and, believe it or not, long lives."

"Shit, do you hear what you're saying?" Private Ivan Maletitch said, fighting to keep his voice at the level of the hoarse whisperings of the conversation. "You're a teacher. Don't you work with facts?"

Dmitri shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't say I believed in all the stories, but they are vicious; this is true. We just witnessed two score men die, including a few officers. Maybe some family members of the Colonel. They'll track us down at all costs because there's no one else to blame."

"Fuck." Ivan slumped back until he was resting against a sink. "We're done for."

"Enough," Draghitch said. "We're alive, and we can be grateful to a beautiful peasant girl for saving our lives; one that thankfully had connections with the local militia. If you believe in God, you couldn't possibly believe He would have us captured after such a gift; and if you don't believe in the Almighty, then you at least know these Hungarian dogs can be killed. Even their officers. God knows we picked a few off in the last week or two." He held back a wave of tears, but his voice was shaky with emotion. "We need to survive and report to the world what happened in Prnjavor. We owe it to them, and especially that poor girl."

Philip climbed carefully to his feet and peered through narrow shutters in a small window near the door. "It's gettin' pretty dark out there. I don't see or hear any Hussars."

Draghitch stood upright, inspecting his rifle in the dim light that seeped through the shutters. "Then let's not waste any time. Check what weapons you have, and count your ammunition. Check this house quickly for any food and weapons—even carving knives. Don't light any lamps. We leave in five minutes."

The four Serbian infantrymen reached the forest with surprising ease, thanks to an eerie signal by mountain horn to rally the Hussars to a designated point—by all indications the village square.

After checking inventory, the small group fared better than expected. Due to a well-provisioned, elite Hussar brigade, they had 3 Mauser 98 carbines, barrels shortened for the cavalry, and each box magazine fully loaded with 5 spitzer rounds. Draghitch kept one, and handed the other two to Dmitri and Philip. He distributed six additional rounds to each of his men, and kept eight for himself. All knew he was the best shot in the team.

Ivan had an injured hand and reluctantly accepted a bayonet in case of trouble.

Three large salamis and a slab of cured pork belly had been gratefully nabbed from the house, and secured in Ivan's shoulder bag, along with a corked bottle of water. He also carried two unlit kerosene lamps and three safety matchbooks.

Ivan pointed to the north of the forest, relying on the illumination of starlight and the partially cloud-covered moon. "If I remember correctly, we were transported in from the west along a road that goes through the village, and then continues east on the northern edge of this forest. In other words, if the scum are after us, they will have Hussars ride that road to get ahead of us. I know they lost a fair number of men in the battle, but I'd say there's a good four hundred of them around these parts."

Draghitch patted him on the back. "Good to know. So we have to be fast, and make good use of the forest. I don't want to veer too far south; otherwise we have a much longer—and more difficult—journey to our lines, but maybe we can veer a bit. That'll put more miles between us."

All the men saluted in acknowledgement, and the four silently slipped into the woods.

The battle horn of the 2nd Miskolci Royal Honved Hussars sounded, resembling more the baying of a wolf than a military call. Again, it sent chills through the escapees.

"They're closer," Draghitch said. "And the sound is coming from the west."

Ivan groaned. "Then at least some of them are on the chase."

"And they will have our scent," Dmitri added. "The Miskolci family are skilled hunters; it would not surprise me if they have hunting dogs with them. I recall reading somewhere they have grey wolves."

With rising panic in his voice, Ivan said, "So, what next? We continue through the forest, or...?"

"We make a stand," Draghitch said, finishing the sentence. "I prefer the second option, but only if we have a fighting chance. Any idea how many might be on our trail?"

"Based on what Dmitri said," Philip stated, "most of the soldiers sent out to get us are on the road, not in the forest. So I'm guessing a small group."

"Yes," Dmitri replied, "but I'm worried about who are on the chase."

"The Colonel?" Draghitch said.

Silence meant affirmation.

Draghitch scratched his head, immediately self-conscious that he wasn't wearing his cap. "I can't make this decision alone. This is risky...dangerous. I want to stay. If we can't wipe out the group, let's hurt them enough so they will crawl the fuck away. What say you?" He looked around, although he could only make out faint outlines of his comrades in the darkness.

Not a single shadowy figure moved an inch.

"You have your answer, sir," Philip said.

"I'll help, but I don't have a rifle, and I couldn't use one if I had one," Ivan said forlornly. "If only we had our machine gun unit."

Draghitch smiled, something he didn't think he could have managed after the events of the day. "Three or four units would even be better. Listen, private, you just hang back. It's not your fault. But if you have a chance, try to steal some more weapons and ammunition."

Ivan saluted.

Draghitch was glad it was dark, because he didn't want his men to see the moisture in his eyes. I'm proud of these men.

"Right!" he said with renewed vigour. "Let's find a good spot for an ambush!"

The forest was situated on uneven ground, crisscrossed with many shallow gullies. Parts of the vegetation were thick, but Draghitch chose a relatively clear area for the ambush, for fear of wasting bullets. Dmitri and Philip had eleven rounds each; he had thirteen.

The clearing had an added advantage: dense forest skirted a narrow, funnel-shaped clearway for those who were going to be ensnared. It made the killing easier.

Draghitch's last orders were simple and straightforward. "We don't know how many men will be coming up that gully, men, but I don't want you to shoot just anyone. If there's a clear leader, leave him to me. Philip, you're at the left, so shoot for the officers at the left of the commander. Dmitri, you're in charge of the right. Don't waste your ammunition—let them get close, especially with these cut-back carbines—the aim isn't as good as our rifles, and it isn't easy firing on men when you've got their lights shining in your direction. The moment you fire your last shot, get out fast! But don't let any remaining Hussars see you leave!"

Notwithstanding a convincing win in the engagement, they agreed that there was no point in finding each other after they retreated. They'd regroup at the Serbian defence lines.

They wished each other luck, and God's grace.

The riflemen settled in three fanned out positions from the kill zone. They made themselves as comfortable as possible, as the wait could be long. Draghitch found a spot where he could lay with ease, with his weapon resting comfortably in his hands, on a downed tree trunk. He was pleased with the cover.

The howling sound of the horn blasted ahead. The Hussars were only a few hundred yards away.

The bastards don't care that we know they're coming. This realization more than any other made him sick in the stomach.

He lowered his eye to his sights. He opened and closed his hand several times around the Mauser's stock, making sure it was sitting well, letting the ritual calm his heart rate, focus his attention on the kill zone. He was comforted by the smoothness of the trigger's metal on his finger.

A distant light flickered from the west. It quickly grew into several sources, and became constant.

Come on, fuckers. Oh, Jesus, let it be the Colonel.

The Hussars' footsteps were heard clearly; they were trampling their way through the forest.

A horse snorted.

Six men entered the clearing, one on horseback. Three had storm lanterns.

Draghitch lay transfixed in shock at what he saw, made starkly clear by the bright radiance of the lanterns. There were two burly, thuggish Hussars carrying carbines, but that was where normalcy stopped. Astride one of the highest horses he had even seen, sat a middle-aged Hussar officer—presumably the infamous brigade commander—in all his finery, and despite the ride through dense forest, appeared immaculate in dress. His face was very pale, and his lips were a light shade of blue, but his eyes were hard to see, although they seemed very dark, almost black. His cheeks were drawn in as if he was emaciated, and yet he held himself on his saddle as if he was brimming with energy. He had no weapon in his hands; just expertly holding his reins.

The three remaining men were horrifying to view. They wore the Hussars' guard uniform but they didn't appear human. They, too, had pale faces, but their skin was unwholesome, as if the men had been dead several days, and their faces were so stretched back, their teeth and gums could not be hidden behind their paper-thin lips, and which made their bushy black moustaches appear surreal. Again, their eyes were black, like coal pits. They held sabres in their hands.

Draghitch held back. He had to make his shots count, and needed to be within thirty yards or so before giving himself a chance at kill shots.

Colonel Miskolci adjusted his gaze, fixing it directly at Draghitch. While still walking his black, giant of a horse, he smiled at his would-be assassin—another smirk that was entirely venomous. Predatory.

No choice. Draghitch smoothly pulled his trigger, firing a shot that instantly echoed through the forest, with less than expected recoil.

Bull's-eye! The shot entered the Colonel's chest as close to his heart that it made no difference, given the bore of the weapon.

The Colonel's body jerked back a few feet with the impact of the bullet, but he returned to his comfortable riding position almost as quickly, drawing a pistol. There were too many shadows to see the blood on his chest, but there was a glistening reflection of lantern light on his tunic that indicated he was a man who could bleed.

And yet, he smiled again. Miskolci barked orders in a tongue that touched on Hungarian, but was also something else. Foul.

Philip and Dmitri each fired a shot, aimed at the Colonel's horrifying companions. One shot missed its mark, while the other smashed into the side of the face of a Hussar guard. Dark, viscous blood oozed out of the tear that exposed his jaw and maxilla. The soldier didn't flinch.

Draghitch heard one of his men take flight. Can't blame him; I'm probably not far behind.

He fired at Miskolci a second time.

His shot hit the mark again, almost exactly where Miskolci's heart should have been. Again, with no damaging effect.

Miskolci whipped his firing hand in Draghitch's direction and fired two shots in quick succession—both shots hit the Serbian's cover, each only half an inch from finding its mark.

This can't be right. I'm in cover; I'm in the darkness of the forest!

He decided to run.

Those Hussars who were carrying lanterns, placed them on the forest floor.

Draghitch rapidly crawled backwards out of his firing niche, and, crouching, moved as quickly as he could to the east.

A blood-curdling scream echoed through the undergrowth, cut short by a distinct whistling sound of a blade expertly wielded, followed by an instant of moist butchery.

He was sure it was Ivan who had screamed.

It was that moment, more than the sight of the monstrosities in Hussar uniforms that convinced him of the supernatural, and more importantly, the inevitability of his own death if he didn't flee immediately.

Draghitch forgot his own advice and stood upright, fleeing in as straight a line as possible. He still held onto his Mauser, but all other thinking processes had dropped to the wayside, replaced by panicked fear. Every step in his run added momentum to his heart rate, multiplied the size of the ball of fear wedged in his guts.

He bounced off a tree he couldn't see in the darkness. He picked himself up.

"Draghitch!" came a soft call.

For a split second he wanted to face the voice and fire several shots; to obliterate what was causing so much fear within him, much like squishing a spider.

"Draghitch!" came the call again, resolving to Dmitri's voice.

He shook his head, trying to rattle the panic out of it. He ran over to a large set of bushes where Dmitri and Philip were crouching behind.

"We're together, I see," he muttered, trying to keep his voice stable, desperate to maintain composure.

Dmitri said, "You must have seen what we saw. You must have."

"Yes."

"That damned family. Miskolci is in league with the Devil, or some other old demonic force. We haven't got a chance."

"Yes," Draghitch repeated.

"Sir," Philip whined. "Please, sir, speak to us. Give us an order. Say something."

Draghitch crouched down to his men, resting on his haunches. "I...I'm sorry. This took the wind out of me. They can't die."

"They have to be able to die," Dmitri said. "But I don't know exactly how. I went for a head shot, hoping that they need their brains to function, to operate, but I missed."

"It was close, but I think you have the right idea. The problem is that if you don't get it right the first time, there might not be—"

They heard twigs snapping.

"Run!" Draghitch cried, almost screaming.

In a flash he was sprinting deeper into the forest, hearing his men following close behind.

He dodged a tree that loomed ahead, and nearly tripped over a root jutting from the ground.

A crashing, snapping sound came from behind, with Dmitri crying out a muffled, "Fuck!"

He fell. Shit, shit, shit.

"Keep running!" Draghitch shouted to Philip, wherever he may have been, and stopped, swinging around, and held his carbine up to eye level.

In the distance, with the waxing gibbous moon and stars dimly lighting the path he had just taken, he saw Dmitri on his knees, lifting his rifle.

The shadow of one of Miskolci's personal guards loomed before the soldier—even when barely visible he appeared menacing.

A shot fired, with the tell-tale flash of light spewing from Dmitri's carbine.

The dark figure flung its arms backwards and collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Draghitch was transfixed thirty yards away.

Dmitri crawled quickly to the body. "God, he stinks! But he's dead, Sergeant! Head shots work!"

"Run, you fool!" Draghitch responded. "You were lucky! Run!"

As if as a consequence of his prophecy, another figure dashed into view and headed straight for Dmitri.

"Run!" Draghitch screamed, aiming for the figure.

"I'll get him!" Dmitri cried back at him.

The man running was another of the personal guard, and was holding his sabre high as if he was in attack position on his horse. He was careering toward Dmitri with supernatural speed, and didn't utter a sound.

Draghitch had to wait for Dmitri's shot, in order to give the man with the closest range the best chance of success.

Dmitri fired: it missed the creature.

Almost immediately after, Draghitch fired, hitting the Hussar in the left shoulder, causing him to adjust his run, but effectively doing nothing to the creature.

In the little time following his failed shot, Dmitri furiously tried to chamber his next round, but before he was able to lift his carbine—just a second after Draghitch had fired his shot—the Hussar guard was already above Dmitri and swung his blade.

As if in slow motion, Draghitch saw the sabre pass through Dmitri's neck at an angle, removing his head and left shoulder and arm from his body. It was swift and powerful, and the sound of it cutting through Dmitri's body was horrifying.

He wanted to avenge, but couldn't trust his marksmanship in such poor conditions. He fled eastwards through the forest.

This time it was different. He fought his panic and won.

As he sped at a medium running pace, in part to conserve his energy, and also to avoid obstacles in the darkness, he periodically stopped to hear if he was being followed.

It was hard to discern, as there were sounds in the forest that could have been the Miskolci Hussars wandering nearby, even chasing him, but he couldn't be sure. He was, however, certain the Hussars were not close by—particularly the man (the thing) that killed Dmitri. Why? The monster could have caught up to him in no time. Or is he doing something to Dmitri's body? Dmitri had mentioned blood drinking.

And Philip. He was scared for the youngster.

Still with the ball of fear growing in his stomach, Draghitch decided to find Philip and keep him safe, whatever the cost. He continued his easterly heading, but modified it to what he thought was northeast, based on pure guesswork.

A shot rang out, not too distant.

Shit.

Draghitch ran at full speed.

He stumbled over rough ground, badly bruising his knee, but he felt almost nothing. He picked up his carbine and continued his sprint.

He rounded a small hillock and stopped dead. In a small clearing he saw Philip held by the two 'normal' looking Hussars, one on each side, with his head slumped, as if he was in a swoon. Facing him was one of Miskolci's personal guards.

The guard lifted Philip's head with his left hand, while holding his sabre with the other.

This was enough for Draghitch. He raised his rifle, aimed with clinical precision, and fired, knowing that the distance and lack of light made the odds long.

Even in the poor light he saw the top of the guard's head and helmet explode, causing the Hussar to collapse to the ground, lifeless before hitting the pine needles and dirt.

He had to act quickly before the two Hussars who held Philip hurt him. Draghitch lowered his weapon and stepped back, to give him room to move closer to the group.

A hand with astonishing strength grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him about face.

The face of Colonel Miskolci was only inches away from his, with the breath of carrion. The pale face was matted in dried blood.

"Nice effort, Sergeant, but your flight was doomed to fail."

The Colonel slammed the pommel of his sabre into Draghitch's face.

Draghitch woke with a splitting headache and searing pain in his shoulders, arms and lower back. Confusion. Disorientation. The moon was directly above him, moving erratically in his vision. A large rock bumped into his lower back causing him to scream in agonizing pain.

The sense of movement ceased. He tried to move and found he was immobilized. He swung his head from left to right, and right to left and finally worked out what was happening. He had his arms strapped around a tree branch, which in turn was lashed to Miskolci's horse. He had been dragged for God knows how long, although he was still in the forest. There was so much pain, so much numbness, he had no idea if his arms were broken or not, or whether they were dislocated. His lower back and buttocks felt raw and wet with blood.

"So we are awake," came Miskolci's voice from outside his area of vision. "Enjoy the fresh air while you can, for your time is near at hand." He laughed sardonically.

"Where are you taking us?"

"Why, Prnjavor's communal square, of course. We have to punish the criminals before our men."

"We didn't do it. It was a patriotic girl."

"I know; we all know. The trouble is, we need to make an example, and Serbia's finest will suit us well. Besides, you killed two of my pets, which is no mean feat. No-one kills my pets and gets away with it."

Draghitch's sense of outrage was so strong it overshadowed the feeling that his arms were being torn from their sockets. "You mother-fucker! Why are you doing this? What benefit is there in killing innocents?"

Miskolci laughed again. "You Serbs, like the other peasant populations of Europe, have always been ignorant of the way of nature. There are the predators, and there is the prey. Following your torture and execution, the predators will feed."

The blood on his face—it's Ivan's for sure. Oh God, save me!

And Philip, the poor boy...Philip!

"The boy who was captured by your men. Where is he?"

"Strapped on my horse's hindquarters, almost directly above you," the Colonel replied. "He is unconscious and probably useless for the demonstration to my troops. Nevertheless, he will join us in the feast."

The horse began moving again, slowly, incessantly, where each bump tore muscles, stretched sockets, scraped skin and flesh.

So we failed. Draghitch wished his heart would give out, stop beating, and relieve him of the pain that wracked him to the core.

Inexplicably, the horse stopped walking again.

Despite his pain, a peculiar feeling overcame him, a combination of freezing cold, and yet, a degree of comfort.

"Who are you?" Miskolci warily asked another person out of Draghitch's line of vision.

A faint, hollow, feminine voice responded, "No matter. Let these men go or you will perish."

"What?" Miskolci asked, his voice growing in confidence and conceit. "Are you a phantom? A ghost?"

"I am. It was I who exploded the bomb and killed your men."

Miskolci broke into raucous laughter. "A ghost? Ha! My estate is over a thousand years old and rife with the spirits of the deceased. I witnessed the restless dead while swaddled. Why should I fear you? Off with you, bitch. You had your revenge; pass on or not—I do not care." Draghitch heard Miskolci's spurs jingle when he kicked his horse, and they moved on.

"Colonel Sárkány-Szív von Miskolci!" the female voice cried, "I cannot pass while the deaths of a hundred and thirty-three innocents are left unavenged. I see you will not alter your path, so now fate will have its way!"

"Bah!" the Colonel scoffed, and picked up the horse's pace.

As Draghitch cried out in agony while he was dragged behind the horse, he saw through blurry eyes the remaining men of Miskolci's escort nervously avoid the faint green mist that formed the shape of the naked girl who detonated the bomb in Prnjavor. She still had the emotionless expression, the look of a person whose soul was utterly outraged. And yet he also saw the faintest of turns in the corners of her mouth, just when a slight breeze dispersed the mist, and nothing remained.

Only minutes following the encounter with the phantom girl, Draghitch smelled the powerful odour of the burned-out house and scorched human flesh. The final indignity, to have failed to bear witness of this atrocity.

He wept.

Miskolci laughed. "You weak, useless—"

The country road they were traveling burst into orange, flickering light. Where Draghitch was positioned, he saw lines of women, children and old men—on both sides of the road, each and every one ablaze. They were standing still, observing the small group, but their faces were peeling off, their limbs charring to charcoal twigs. Not a sound came from their lips.

"So," Miskolci announced, "is that all you can do? The spectres of the recent dead, trying to scare a Miskolci with pathetic party tricks?" This time his voice was not so convincing.

This was something he hadn't encountered before.

The two Hussar thugs were in Draghitch's view, and they were muttering to each other.

"Shut up, fools!" the Colonel shouted. "They are ghosts. Harmless shadows of their pathetic lives. Snivelling, whiny creatures. Come on, ignore them and let's get back to our men!"

The burning innocents took a few steps onto the dirt road.

"I said ignore them," Miskolci ordered.

The innocents took three steps in, positioned only a yard from the Hussars, horse and Draghitch.

He felt heat from the ghosts. Intense heat.

"Move, scum!"

The horse reared, causing the colonel to shout obscenities to his animal.

One of the thugs ran, heading back toward the forest. A dozen ghosts grabbed for him, their spectral bodies passing through his body— the Hussar's clothing ignited instantly, and he was engulfed in seconds. Screaming, he continued to run, but after a dozen steps he collapsed to the road, still, continuing to burn.

The horse reared again, causing Draghitch to bounce and groan in further agony. This time Miskolci lost his balance and fell—onto his feet. The horse panicked and charged forward, allowing Draghitch to see the colonel standing, sabre brandished, facing a dozen silent spectres, converging on him.

Draghitch knew he was going to die now. The horse was already picking up speed and it would be only a matter of time when there would be a large obstacle hitting him, or his body getting caught on an immovable object. But with pleasure he saw his captors, including the supernatural commander of the Hussar brigade, burst into flames.

The horse inexplicably stopped running, allowing Draghitch to witness the final seconds of Miskolci's life. He, and his last pale guard, burst into bright orange flames, causing them to howl in agony, a sound that could only originate from hell. As they started to char, and their faces and hands melted, their bodies swelled and burst, spraying more blood than their bodies could possibly contain.

They continued to burn, and shrivel; blacken into a miasmal mass.

"You poor man!" Draghitch was startled by an old farmer who appeared next to him.

"Do you see what's happening?" he asked, interspersed with painful gasps.

The old man drew a sharp knife from his belt and started cutting the bindings from Draghitch's arms. "I saw the enemy burst into flames and thank the Lord for the miracle."

"My man; he's tied to the horse. Can you check him?"

"He's alive, Sergeant. He's lying on the side of the road and breathin'. He'll survive."

Draghitch was freed and gently dragged to Philip's side. While still in pain, he was washed with relief when his arms were freed from their strained state. Both arms were dislocated.

The old man sat beside Draghitch. "You're lucky, Sergeant. Very lucky I was so near so I could catch this motherfucker of a horse before it hit full speed. Unholy beast, if you ask me. Like the Colonel."

"What are you doing here in Prnjavor? It isn't safe with the Hungarians here."

The old man grimaced. "I wasn't here when...it happened. But I had to check if my granddaughter Tomania was safe. She wasn't. I heard she was raped and in an act of desperate revenge, got one of the homemade bombs that I made for the Prnjavor Militia, and blew herself apart, taking many of the Hussars with her. There is nothing left of her. Not a thing." The old man began to cry.

Draghitch wept with him. "If it's the last thing I do, good sir, I will make sure the world will know of Tomania's heroism."

He was in agony but trusted the old farmer. He knew he would come good with his promise.

Cove's End

by

M.B.Vujačić

Republic of Serbia

My name is Henry Knowles, and I won't tell you why they put me in the Cove.

It's not that I don't remember the reason, for I remember it all too well, or that I'm ashamed, which God-willing I always will be, but rather that the man I'd been back then had already perished by the time the events I'm about to describe took place. Suffice to say, on the day I turned twenty-one I committed a terrible crime, and just weeks before I would turn twenty-two, the Judge brought down her gavel and said: "Life imprisonment without the possibility of parole." That had been sixty years ago.

Yesterday, for the first time since my sentencing, they took me to the warden's office. They sat me in a chair so soft it made my bed seem like a stone bench, and spoke at length of the new governor and how he intended to grant amnesty to three hundred elderly prisoners. As a low-risk inmate and the longest-standing member of the prison's church group, I was their first choice. It's strange, when you think about it, how this politician whose name I can't remember and this young warden whom I've never met before have the power to decide my fate. Anyway, that's not what matters now. What does is that this morning I received a package.

It's a thin cardboard box, about the size of a paperback novel, with no special markings and no return address. The postal stickers on it indicate that it came from Serbia. I have no relatives there, or anywhere else, who'd care enough to send me so much as a Christmas card, let alone the items I found inside that box. Still, I'm pretty sure I know who sent it. God help me, I wish I didn't.

If you've ever heard of Crim's Cove Maximum-Security State Correctional Facility, then you probably know what happened there during the summer of eighty-five. My story begins two years earlier, when a man named Lazar Drashkovich came to the Cove.

Right away, Lazar drew everyone's eye, for he was withered enough to be someone's great grandfather. "Christ almighty, they're turning this place into a goddamn retirement home," was how one of my neighbours put it. Though such japes were common, most of us were wary of old Lazar. There was something in the way he held himself, with his shoulders thrown back and his hands hanging like claws at his sides, that turned speech into whisper whenever he walked by. He had a long, stringy beard and longer, stringier hair that threw shadows over his face and made it difficult to see his eyes.

He never told me what he'd been sentenced for, and to the best of my knowledge, he never told anyone else, either. What little I gathered about his past came from hearsay and old newspapers. Apparently, Lazar had never personally committed a crime. He'd been something of a Charles Manson type, a cult leader who'd incited a group of men to murder a bunch of other men. The reporters branded him a cult leader, a Devil-worshiper, and although I know it wasn't Satan that Lazar prayed to, I can't help but think the Devil was somehow involved.

I didn't pay much attention to him at first. Pride and fury, the two sins that had governed my life throughout my youth, had been growing weaker until they finally left me altogether sometime during my early fifties. What remained was a lost little Knowles, haunted by doubts and regrets and thoughts of death. I had discovered the word of God less than a month before Lazar came to the Cove and, until today, I believed that was the reason my soul had been spared when so many others were damned.

My interest in the Good Book was also what first drew Lazar's attention. One afternoon, while I lay on my bunk with the Bible in my hands, he stopped before my cell and said: "It is indeed never too late to see the truth, isn't it, Henry?"

I asked him what he wanted, but he ignored the question, inquiring about my interest in Christ. We started talking and, before I knew it, he'd entered my cell and sat on my bunk, his gaze so intense I couldn't help but stare at his knees, his hands, his shoulders, anywhere except at his eyes. I knew almost nothing about faith at the time, but he listened to my childish thoughts as if they were worthy of greatest theologians.

"I don't like this whole turn the other cheek thing," I told him. "It's so... So stupid. If a man doesn't fight back, how can he protect himself? Or his family?"

"Ah, but that is not what it means," Lazar said, his voice thick with an eastern European accent. "The Jews were slaves. You do not strike a slave with your fist, for that may damage a valuable property, nor do you slap him with your palm, for a slave's skin is grimy and soap costs." He raised an open hand, tapping his knuckles. "No, you backhand him. Across his right cheek. But if he turns the other cheek, his left one, then you have no choice but to use your palm. You must treat him, in punishment at least, as you would a free man. So you see, turning the other cheek does not mean being a coward. It means demanding respect."

That little explanation made me see Jesus in a whole new light, and it was only the first of many such snippets of wisdom he'd share with me over the course of our association. Every now and then, he'd sit down with me and we'd talk about God and faith and man's place in the world, and though I never grew comfortable around him and never would've dared seek him out on my own, I treasured the insights he provided. And so, when Lazar asked if I'd smuggle something into the Cove for him, I nodded and asked what he needed.

"Flowers," he said. "Flax, lime, and St. John's wort, the fresher the better. Chalk, like they use in schools to write on blackboards. Also, bones. Dog, cow, chicken, swine, doesn't matter which." Before I could inquire further, he raised a finger over his mouth. "Rein in your curiosity, Henry. Your interest in a young god's teachings have placed you on the right path, but the great truth of Mokosh is still beyond your ken."

I didn't know what to make of his words and, by then, I was too deeply under his influence to question his motives. So I got him the things he wanted, telling myself they were harmless and that if I didn't do it someone else would. Lazar soon became a regular customer. He usually asked for refills on the flowers and the bones, but I procured many other items for him, ranging from candles and chunks of coal, to raven feathers and rose thorns, to things that made me lie awake at night \- things such as a rock hammer and earth from a grave.

I became truly afraid of him about three months after he came to the Cove. By then we already had our talks and our business arrangement, and while I wouldn't have stood up for him, I considered him something of an ally. And so, when a Nazi brute named Mortimer Tucker grabbed Lazar in the cafeteria and drove his face into a plateful of meat, I was angry. But my anger paled next to the ire I saw in Lazar's eyes as he got up, his beard dripping gravy, and turned his gaze on Tucker.

"Shut up with the goddamn singing," Tucker shouted, "or you'll be eating shit next time!"

Lazar just stood there, staring at him, his eyes huge and bloodshot. He didn't speak. Not even after a guard got between them and told Tucker to back off. Lazar waited until Tucker had walked away, then stormed back to his cell, his face crinkled in fury. For the rest of the evening, nobody saw him.

The next day, during the morning line-up, guards found Tucker lying on the floor of his cell, covered in sweat and shivering all over as if with a fever. He died less than a week later - screaming with his last breath if the inmates who worked in the infirmary are to be believed - his guts devoured by a cancer so voracious the doctors said he should've succumbed long before it reached that stage.

A friend of Mortimer Tucker, Bill Hanson, told everyone how Tucker had complained about hearing someone sing at night. At first, Tucker couldn't tell where the singing came from, as there seemed to be many voices raised in chant or prayer, but after a while he realized they came from the cell next to his. Lazar's cell. Tucker confronted him about it, telling him to shut up because people were trying to sleep. Lazar ignored him. So Tucker did that little face-meets-food thing in the cafeteria and the rest, as they say, is witchcraft.

Others came forward with their own stories. Prisoners whose cells were close to Lazar's claimed they saw green luminescence shining under his door at night. Others swore they caught the scents of wet grass and frankincense while passing by his cell. Those who'd managed to steal a peek inside said they saw writing on the floor and something that looked like a face carved into the wall above his bunk. The rumours of Lazar's nocturnal activities soon reached Clark and Heckley, the two guards who often worked the night shift in our cell block. One evening, they took a break from playing cards and went to investigate.

Like most of the Cove's denizens, that night I woke up to Clark's screaming. And laughter. And screaming. And laughter and screaming at the same time. I remember clamping my hands to my ears, thinking a sound so shrill couldn't possibly come from a man's throat. They found him lying on the floor, his pants soaked with faeces and urine, his vocal cords so frayed he spat blood. As for Heckley, those who saw him said he ran out of the cell block as if the Devil himself chased him. Neither of them ever returned to the Cove. Clark ended up at an insane asylum, where he remains to this day, while Heckley's fate stayed unknown until I accidentally found his obituary, half a year later. I don't know how he died, but I'm willing to bet a fast-acting illness of some kind was involved.

That threw the rumours into high gear. Many prisoners demanded to be transferred to another cell block or even to a different prison, and when that failed, some of them called their lawyers and tried to raise a fuss. Others plotted Lazar's death. Three guys approached me to ask if I'd do the deed, offering me more money than an old man was worth. At the time, I believed I said no because I'd found God and because Lazar was a source of income, but now I know I was just as afraid of him as they were.

Lazar snorted when I warned him about the danger. "Black, brown, yellow, white," he said, grinding his teeth, "they've all devised their own reasons to justify the taking of life, yet in one way they're like brothers. Faced with a truth they can't comprehend; they all strive to snuff it out."

I wanted to leave before someone saw me with him, so I didn't linger long enough to ask what he meant by that. Instead, I told him to be careful.

"Oh I will, Henry, I will," he said. "The Ears of Mokosh are as that of a cat. They always listen."

A couple days later, Bill Hanson became Lazar's bodyguard. Nobody knew how that happened. He just stopped hanging out with his skinhead buddies and started following Lazar around, his apelike body making the old man seem like a boy in comparison. He no longer looked around as if itching for a fight, no longer walked with his shoulders thrown back and his chin thrust aggressively forward. His eyes were vacant, his back slumped, his voice only heard when he spoke on Lazar's behalf. He'd grown paler than usual, and those who sat next to him at the cafeteria said his skin was cold as rime.

In spite of Hanson's involvement, or perhaps because of it, the blacks made their move not long after. Lazar and Hanson were in the library when they struck. Result: one black guy dead from a broken neck, another eviscerated with his own shank and a third alive only because he fled before Hanson could get his hands on him. Lazar and Hanson spent four days in the solitary before the powers-that-be decided they had been acting in self-defence. By then, the surviving attacker had been charged with attempted murder and transferred to another cell block to await trial. He succumbed to a brain tumour less than a week after Lazar got out of the hole.

The inmates who'd been at the library when the attack occurred told everyone how the blacks had stabbed Hanson enough times to paint the front of his overalls red, yet he'd never so much as winced. Even I found that too hard to believe. Still, one morning in the showers, I glanced at Hanson's naked body and saw wrinkled scars on his belly. They looked old and pale, yet I couldn't for the life of me remember seeing them there before.

Everyone steered clear of Lazar after that. They didn't talk to him, didn't sit close to him during meals, and didn't tarry near his cell. Even those who laughed at the rumours avoided doing so in his presence. I too would've shunned him, but his interest in me, as well as my own cowardice, made that impossible.

Lazar and Hanson were soon joined by Madaki, a Jamaican so muscular many of us believed he smuggled steroids into the Cove. He simply walked up to Lazar's table and sat next to Hanson. Chewing stopped and conversations petered out, and everybody just stared at the two men - one dark as cocoa, the other sporting a swastika tattoo on the back of his head \- who sat side by side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lazar's next recruit was one Miguel Ramirez, a cartel enforcer sentenced to three consecutive life sentences. I knew for a fact Ramirez led the Cove's Latinos and acted as the drug kingpin of our cell block, yet there he sat, a trained dog at Lazar's side, brushing shoulders with a pimp and a Nazi. I couldn't help noticing how all three men were tall and burly and at home in a fight and how they all seemed to share the same empty stare and slouched posture.

Every other week, a new guy joined Lazar's crew, if you could call it that. By the end of his first year at the Cove, he shared his table with a dozen quiet, glassy-eyed men who obeyed his every command. Some inmates tried to make light of it by speculating or betting on who'd join him next, but there was always an undercurrent of fear. Lazar's men had abandoned their old affiliations and cut ties with their previous friends, yet nobody knew what he'd offered them. They didn't involve themselves in drug trade, didn't smuggle things into the Cove, didn't even smoke or do drugs. One afternoon while delivering his flowers and chalk, my curiosity got the better of me and I inquired about it.

Lazar didn't give me an answer, of course. Instead, he said: "Henry, Henry, Henry... You're a wise man. A promising man. Much too good for this pit. Why do you linger?"

I forced a snort, and asked: "What about you?"

"Oh, I could leave tomorrow, if I wished," he said, fixing me with one of those gazes that I couldn't return for more than a few seconds. "But what legacy would that produce? Me, Lazar Drashkovich, fleeing under the cover of night like a common thief? It wouldn't do, Henry, it just wouldn't do."

"What are you going to do?"

"Avenge myself, what else? They locked me in a cage, treated me like an unruly mutt, and I'm sick of it. I entered Crim's Cove as a slave, but rest assured, I will leave it as a conqueror." He spat in his sink. "Ask me no more, Henry. In time, you'll understand."

I didn't understand. Not then, not now. I didn't have to, because everyone could see Lazar's power growing. During the first half of eighty-four, he added at least another thirty men to his ranks. It made even the guards uneasy. They couldn't nail him for anything, since he was a model prisoner and his men never instigated violence, so they resorted to transferring some of them to other cell blocks. It made no difference.

As months dragged on, more and more men adopted that same vacant gaze. You could see them standing alone in their cells, sitting in little groups in the cafeteria, lifting weights in the gym without even panting, their unblinking eyes staring at nothing. Their presence sucked the life out of the air, leaving behind a lingering cold that sank into the bricks and the linoleum, making the Cove feel dank and decrepit, like a cave. Or a tomb.

Fights became a rare occurrence, limited to newcomers and those too disturbed to know better. The drug trade – most trade, really – slowed to a trickle, then stopped completely. By April of eighty-five, I was the last man still bringing stuff in, and then only because of Lazar. I wonder what the management thought of this change of heart among the Cove's populace. I bet they counted themselves lucky, the fools.

I first glimpsed Drashko's truth during one of those warm months. I was working at the laundry, feeding sheets into a wrangler, when my nicotine craving began wearing down on me and I asked a friend to take over while I treated myself to a quick one. As I walked toward the storeroom I passed a group of Lazar's men. They worked the washing machines - proper model prisoners, just doing the job the guards gave them - but their eyes were on me. My insides froze over and I became intensely aware of my own walk as I hurried past them.

I reached the storeroom door and turned the knob, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. Then I saw the scene before me. Three inmates lay face-down on the floor, their throats slashed, the top half of their overalls pulled down to reveal their naked backs. One of them, a rapist called Lucky Barry, had worked in the laundry with me. Lazar leaned over the bodies, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carving what appeared to be letters into the flesh between Lucky Barry's shoulder blades. Hanson, Ramirez, and Madaki stood around the bodies, their faces turned toward me.

Lazar reached into his breast pocket and took out a plastic bag filled with grey powder. "Get out of here, Henry," he said without looking at me. "You're not ready yet."

I didn't move. I stood in the doorway, petrified, watching as he sprinkled the powder over Lucky Barry's back and rubbed it in, sticking his fingers into the open cuts.

Lazar looked up at me, his eyes lost in the shadow of his brows, and snarled: "Out!"

Fingers dug into my shoulders, as cold as iron bars in winter. I spun around, shouted incoherently, and found myself surrounded by four of Lazar's men. Their hands shot out, grabbed my arms and collar, yanking me out of the doorway. I twisted and punched and kicked as they dragged me away, but their grip was steel. One of them pressed his palm over my mouth to stifle my screams. His skin smelled like roadkill.

In retrospect, I suppose it's obvious they didn't intend to harm me, else they would've done so in the storeroom. But at the time, I actually tried to plead for mercy and even came close to soiling myself before they dumped me on the floor at the other end of the room. I spent the rest of that day in a haze, simultaneously lost in thought and reluctant to turn around for fear that one of them might be standing behind me. My state of mind didn't improve even after the guards locked me in my cell for the night. For hours I lay awake on my bed, listening for strange sounds in the hallway.

The following morning, while waiting in line for my breakfast, I saw Lucky Barry sitting side by side with three of Lazar's men. He sat slumped over the table, his hand going up and down between his tray and his face, stuffing food in his mouth, the ragged gash gone from his throat. His skin looked pallid and his eyes stared straight ahead. There was nothing behind them.

Christ knows how long I would've stood there, aghast, if the prisoners behind me didn't start yelling at me to move it. I left the line and shuffled to my table, clutching my tray with both hands even though there was no food on it. I could hear people chewing and talking, but the sounds were muffled, distant, as if my ears were full of cotton. It wasn't until I sat down and put my hands on the table that I saw how much they shook. A hand fell on my shoulder.

"Henry? May I join you?"

I didn't look up, didn't reply. Lazar waited another moment, then sat next to me. I could feel dead eyes boring into me from all sides. The longer the silence dragged on, the louder my heartbeat became, until I couldn't take it anymore and started talking. "You... You murdered those men," I muttered, my voice trembling, "you turned them into, into..." I swallowed, groping for the right word. He was turning to look at me when I found it - a term straight out of the Bible, as appropriate as any. "Golems. They're your golems. You're a... A witch."

Lazar snorted, then reached into the collar of my overalls and drew out the thin chain I wore. A small silver crucifix dangled from it. My sister sent it to me the previous year, after I told her I'd found God. He fingered the tiny Jesus on it, and said: "And him? Was he a witch too?"

Before I could think of an answer, he slapped the crucifix away and went on: "These young gods, they're all afraid to be alone. They invite everybody to join their flocks, like stupid women who let anyone have their way with them in exchange for a little affection." He indicated a group of blacks, then the Sicilians, then the Latinos. "All of them, cooking in the same pot? Pah. Who'd want that? Better raise one son you can be proud of, than a dozen leeches sucking the blood from your veins."

He stood up and looked me in the eye, and this time, I couldn't avert my gaze. "I worship an old goddess, Henry," he said, barely above a whisper, yet I could hear him as clearly as if he shouted. "One that's not troubled by the silence of lonely eons. I've been in her service for, oh, a very, very long time, Henry. She had shown me things you cannot fathom, and soon I will share some of those sights with you."

That was the last time we had what could be described as a civil conversation. Lazar stopped buying his chalk and flowers from me, and the occasional knowing look he gave me in passing became the only indication that he still noticed me. The next time I heard his voice would be amid blood and screams. It echoes in my mind to this day, haunting me during those black hours of the night when I can't sleep.

The morning of thirteenth July nineteen-eighty-five began like any other. I wish I could say I'd felt something odd, such as a bad vibe in the air or a rotten sparkle in people's eyes, but I didn't. I'd just finished eating and was on my way back to my cell, when I heard a commotion. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Lazar's golems, a hundred of them at least, get up from their tables and charge. Then all was chaos.

The golems didn't have shanks or garrottes or any weapons I could see. Not that they needed them. I watched one grab a guard twice his size, and bash his head against the wall over and over again until the guard went slack and an oozing red mess glistened on the plaster. Another wrapped his fingers around a female guard's throat and squeezed until her face turned purple and her nose and ears wept scarlet. Yet another wrestled a guard to the floor and began taking huge bites out of the man's neck.

Prisoners were shouting. Some joined the golems' rampage; others hid under the tables or tried to flee the cafeteria. I had been near the door when it began, so I was able to run out before the riot squad arrived. I even thought myself lucky. Then I reached my cell block and found myself in the midst of a battlefield. The guards there were already wiped out or nearly so, the floor littered with their bodies. The golems, armed with the guards' batons and broken-off chair legs, had turned on the prisoners. Wherever I looked, I saw men being dragged down or pinned against the wall, to be choked, beaten, and bitten until they were lying still on the cold linoleum.

Whimpering, deafened by my own heartbeat, I stumbled to my cell and crawled under my bunk. I shook all over as I hugged my knees to my chest and fought the near-overpowering urge to shut my eyes, cursing myself for not closing the door. The fighting was still going strong when they entered my room. I couldn't see their faces, but I could tell they were prisoners by their overalls. Before I could do or say anything, they lifted the bed and flung it aside without so much as a grunt.

I screamed and pushed myself into a corner, but of course I had nowhere to run. Hanson, Madaki, and Ramirez surrounded me. Their clothes were torn, their hands black with gore, their bodies bleeding from half a dozen gashes each. The side of Hanson's head had caved-in the way a car door will if you bang it with a hammer. One of his eyes had turned a shiny red.

Lazar stood in the doorway, his hands and overalls spattered with blood. "Come with me, Henry," he said, his voice sounding like it came from a pit. "It's never too late to see the truth."

I didn't give him a straight answer. Instead, I babbled and whimpered and pressed my face against the cold wall, begging him to spare me. I couldn't see past Hanson's red gaze, terrified that Lazar would sic him on me.

Lazar's mouth twisted. "Still undecided, eh? A shame... But no matter." His eyes swept over the ceiling, the overturned bed, the faded green floor, before returning to me. "Who knows, perhaps there really is wisdom to be found within these walls. I guess we'll have to wait and see. Take care, Henry." With that, he walked out of my cell and my life. The golems followed.

As soon as they left, I shut the door and pushed my bunk over the entrance, barricading it. Such was my state of mind that it didn't occur to me until much later that the cell doors opened on the outside and that piling things against them from the inside wouldn't keep anyone out. I spent the next two hours or so cowering in my cell, listening to the shouts and screams and gunshots echoing in the distance. I didn't come out even after the clamour had stopped and a quiet had descended on the Cove. Eventually, the silence became more oppressive than the racket, and I emerged into the hallway.

I tried not to stare at all the bodies, but every now and then, I'd step on an arm or trip on a head, and then I'd find myself looking down at a smashed skull or a slit throat. One hallway was choked with the ruins of the riot squad, their helmets broken, their see-through shields snapped in two like plastic toys. The farther I went, the closer I came to the exit, the more everything reeked of rot and dust. Stepping out into the sun's glare, I saw why.

The Cove's yard was littered with corpses. Hundreds of them. Most wore orange prisoner overalls, but at least a few dozen sported blue guard uniforms. What truly disturbed me, however, was the state of the prisoner's bodies. Most looked weeks or even months dead. Everywhere I turned I saw parched lips stretched back in rictus grins, complexions grown sallow and papery, eyeballs rolled up to reveal drying whites. Despite the decomposition, I recognized many of Lazar's golems.

Other survivors emerged, inmates who'd evaded the golems' wrath by hiding in lockers or under piles of dirty laundry or inside the kitchen freezer. One man had smeared a dead guard's blood over his face and overalls, then lay down on the floor and didn't move for an hour, holding his breath every time someone passed nearby. We gathered in the centre of the yard, staring at the carnage on display.

The front gate stood wide open, the desert beyond it warm and endless and full of possibilities, like the plains Clint Eastwood always traversed in those old westerns. We could've simply strolled out, and I doubt any of the remaining guards would've tried to stop us... But no one did. It wasn't just that most of us didn't have anywhere to go. I think that, once you know for a fact there are more insidious crimes on God's Earth than those acknowledged by man's laws, the prospect of leaving a place where things make sense - even a place such as the Cove - becomes the fuel of nightmares.

Yet leave it we did. The surviving guards piled us into a prison bus and cuffed us to the seats, keeping an uneasy watch until the cops arrived in force. The people in charge decided to relocate us to a police station for questioning, and that was it, I never saw the Cove again. I looked back as we drove out through its gates, though. I suppose that, like Lot's wife, I couldn't resist taking one last look at the heart of depravity. Unlike her, however, God didn't see fit to grant me release.

The Jailhouse Massacre, as newspapers dubbed it, became one of the most shocking events in incarceration history. Survivors spoke of stone-faced rioters who broke down doors with their bare hands and shrugged off gunshot wounds. Of twelve hundred men serving sentences there at the time, only sixty-four made it out. The personnel were more fortunate, with forty-two guards out of about two hundred getting out alive. The number of rioters who'd broken out into the yard and overpowered the guards manning the gates was estimated at over three hundred men. Yes, you could say my initial assessment of the golems' numbers was somewhat naive.

It was the end of Crim's Cove. Its gates stayed open for another six months while investigators justified their pay checks, before closing for good sometime around the dawn of eighty-six. To this day, it remains a font of inspiration for conspiracy theorists, as well as a so-called dark tourism destination. Some even claim it's haunted. I saw some newer photographs of its walls and towers, all dark and decaying and soaked in bad memories, and it really does look damned... Or maybe it always looked that way and I just never had the chance to see it from the outside.

As for myself, they relocated me to Pembleton Close-Security Penitentiary, where I've stayed ever since. And although the inmates here call me 'the Bishop' because I always carry a Bible and because I founded the local Church group, in my heart I'll never be a true Christian. Lazar had seen to that. It's not that I don't believe in God, it's just that I know He is not the only such being out there. To me, that changes everything.

I sit in my cell as I write this. My wrists ache, my pen is faltering, and my eyeballs feel too large for their sockets after staring at this notebook all day. The package I received is in front of me. It contains a map, a letter, and a one-way plane ticket to Belgrade.

The map is an old one of Tito's Yugoslavia. Someone has circled an area called Homolje, marking a spot there and writing Tevlia underneath it. When I unfolded it, I found money tucked inside. The bills are old and crumpled. I've never seen their like before, but there are words Serbia and Dinar on them, so that's not much of a mystery. The ticket is economy class, reserved for a flight two months from now. The letter is handwritten. It's a door to Hell, and it reads:

Henry,

I hope you found the truth.

If not, join me at the Bavan, and I'll gladly light the way.

Godspeed.

L.

I never asked Lazar about his age. Like everyone else at the Cove, I took one look at his thin limbs and liver-spotted skin, and assumed he had to be at least ninety. Maybe, if you really pushed it, he could've passed as an unusually withered septuagenarian. That had been more than thirty years ago. So how old is he now?

I keep trying to convince myself that this package is a cruel prank, that someone sent it to me to mess with my head... But who could possibly find such a thing funny, let alone worth procuring a plane ticket for? And how would they even know of my association with him, when I haven't talked about it in decades and none who'd known about it lived past the Cove's final day?

I did a lot of thinking these past ten hours or so. About asking the warden to take me off the amnesty list. About tearing the plane ticket apart and flushing it down the toilet. About the colossal mistake my life had been. About Lazar.

The more I think, the more I feel I have nothing left to lose. In fact, the only thing I still possess - aside from my fear - is my curiosity. I want to know how old Lazar really is, to ask him why he did the things he did, and more than anything, I want to know how. And so, to whoever finds this notebook and perhaps pities me after reading it, I say: do not feel sorry for me. Do not worry now that I am gone.

I've gone beyond to see the truth.

Coxley's Black Divine

by

Sarah Totton

Canada

Breeding. The art of selecting mates to produce offspring of a desired conformation. A certain depth of chest, brightness of eye, aesthetic curve of hock or graceful step. To dictate how muscle will lie over bone, how hairs will be ticked and coloured, the set of the ears and topline. Nature does it by default. I do it by design. Because unlike Nature, I have an endpoint in mind. An atavistic ideal. And I refuse to patiently wait for time to deal me its changes.

-From the journal of Josephine Coxley

When Jason pulled up to his sister's house after winding half an hour along gravel roads, it was with more than a touch of apprehension. He took the printout of the directions to the kennel from his lap, and moved it to the passenger seat beside him. Josie would decide to live in the middle of nowhere.

Josie's white van was parked by the front porch. The Coxley's Kennels logo was stencilled on the side, a sharp black-and-white picture of a stylized dog's head, prick-eared with white spaces for eyes.

The boards of the steps leading up to the screened-in porch were split, and one of them gave under Jason's foot, causing him to stumble. He fell against the screen door, noisily. He straightened, dusted himself off and wondered whether she was watching him from inside. But then again, if she were here, why hadn't she returned the messages he'd been leaving on her phone for the past two weeks?

"Josie?" he called.

No answer.

He twisted the knob, and the door drifted open. Through the dimness he saw a sturdier door in solid wood. Locked. Beside it was a white button and a sign, "Please press the buzzer ONCE, then wait two minutes before ringing again."

He buzzed, timed two minutes by his watch, buzzed again, waited again. Still, she didn't come.

He tried to circle the house, only to be stopped by a solid board fence, two meters high, cutting him off from the back of the property. Shouting over the fence produced no answer. That was odd too; he couldn't hear any barking. He stood still and listened. Over the wind in the trees, he thought he heard something, low, distant, and resonant. Something that triggered an instinctive uneasiness.

She wasn't here. Or if she was, she couldn't answer him. Or wouldn't. No, he thought. If she'd wanted to cut him out of her life, she would have told him directly. There was something not right about all of this.

He could drive to the nearest city, stay at a hotel, and wait until she came back. If she came back. But he didn't think he could sit patiently not knowing. Besides, he was here now. And as she wasn't, she could hardly object to what he did next.

He found an unlocked window in the side of the house. He slid it open, pulling himself through into a kitchen, sending a stack of aluminium dog bowls clattering across the linoleum. He kicked them out of the way. Their echoes disturbed the silence.

"Josie?" he called.

A fly buzzed against the kitchen window. He looked into each room, standing in the doorways. Just to make sure she wasn't there.

Out behind the house he found twelve kennels, all abandoned. Could she have taken the dogs to a show? All of them? And left the van behind? He opened the gate to one of the kennels, went inside, shoes crunching over stray bits of gravel. He put his head into the doghouse at the back, smelled a whiff of dog. He pulled back. Some things never went away, long after their physical presence had gone.

Past the kennels was a gate in the board fence. He opened it and looked through. Behind the fence, her property stretched for half a kilometre over an open field with a barn in the back corner. Spring was beginning to colour the brown of the field. The wind in the distance hooted eerily like the sound of a breath blown over a deep bottle. He went back inside the house.

Methodically, and with a great deal of care, he investigated the kitchen, opening the pantry door as though expecting to find her inside. Two bins filled the space. Peeling the lids up, he found dry dog kibble. The shelves to either side were stacked with canned dog food. The fridge sported two opened cans of the same food, one dried out on the top, the other webbed with blue fungus. A plastic pitcher of filtered water and a block of waxy-looking butter were the only other things in the fridge.

The phone rang, like a pistol detonating point-blank in his chest. By the second ring, he'd collected himself enough to look for the source. He found the phone on her bedside table. It was shaped like a German shepherd with eyes glimmering red in sync with the ringing. As he reached it, the eyes went dark. The tail was the handset. The dial tone of the telephone beeped double-time to indicate that at least one message \- and possibly all of the messages he had left her over the past two weeks - had not been heard. And he didn't have the access code. He replaced the handset.

He sat on the unmade bed, gazing at the ribbons and show photos tacked to the corkboard on the wall: dogs posing, leashes running out of the shot, handler unseen. It was all about the dogs.

He'd been staring at one of the photos, unaware of time passing, when the phone rang again. This time he picked it up right away.

"Hello?" said Jason.

"About time," said a male voice. There was something oddly familiar about it. "Where's Josie?"

"She's not here." Jason fumbled for a pen. "Can I take a message?"

"Yeah, tell her she can start returning my calls. Tell her it's Adrian, and we've got another one for her."

"Another what?"

"She'll know. Tell her she's running out of time. She's got two days to get up here and make up her mind."

"Adrian who?"

There was a brief, impatient-sounding huff. "Adrian Coxley." The line went dead.

Jason dropped the pen. Adrian. He picked up the pen, dialled *69, the dog's plastic tail pressed to his cheek. He wrote down the number and dialled.

"City pound. Hello?" said a woman's voice.

"Is Adrian Coxley there, please?"

"He's not available right now. Can I help you?"

"You can tell me where you are."

The receptionist gave him an address, which Jason scribbled on the back of his hand. It was 3PM. He could wait here, hoping Josie would return, or he could go and see Adrian and find out what was going on.

The pound was an hour-and-a-half away, on the outskirts of the city. Jason parked in the nearly empty lot. Steeling himself, he got out of the car and went to the entrance. He met a woman on his way in. "We're closing in five minutes," she told him.

"I'm here to see Adrian."

"Oh." She looked disapproving. She led him around the back of the building where an unmarked white van was parked. A tall man was leaning on the van pulling on a pair of coveralls. "Someone's here to see you, Adrian," said the woman.

"Oh yeah?" said Adrian. Then he turned and saw Jason. Time had been unkind to Adrian, but not unkind enough that Jason didn't recognize him, hollowed eyes and dead expression notwithstanding.

"Hello, Adrian."

"Cousin Jason," said Adrian, tugging the zipper of his coveralls up to his throat. "What do you want?"

Adrian was older than Jason by three years. They had grown up together, and when you're a child three years feels like a generation. Now, old memories sustained that distance between them. That, and the bitter shrewdness in Adrian's manner, as though he had lived ten years longer than Jason. Josie and Adrian had been one year apart. Much closer in age and in nature.

"You called Josie's place a couple of hours ago. You want to tell me what that was about?"

A hint of...concern? touched Adrian's features. "Ask her." He walked around Jason and made for the steel door at the back of the building.

"I would if I knew where she was," said Jason. "I think something's happened to her."

"She can look after herself," said Adrian. He pulled the door open.

"If you know something, tell me," he said. He caught the door as it opened, held onto it.

"I'm going to start euthanizing animals in here," said Adrian. "I don't have time for this." He went inside.

He followed Adrian down a narrow hallway. The roar of aimless barking and yelping assailed him. Adrian stopped to unlock a door, popped inside and emerged bearing a clipboard and pen. He noticed Jason then. "Get lost."

"I'll get lost when you tell me why you called Josie."

Adrian turned away from him and walked down the hall to a locked door. He spoke without looking at Jason. "She asked me to keep an eye out for her, anything that came in that I thought she might want. Last time before this one was..." He rummaged in his pocket, produced a key. "...four years ago." He stuffed a pair of earplugs into his ears. Before he opened the door he added, "Don't get friendly. These ones bite."

Adrian opened the door. It was like a clamour of madmen. The smell of hopelessness, the frantic flurry of movement was all through the room. He followed Adrian past rows of wired-in runs. The eyes of the condemned followed him. A gaunt pit bull wagged its tail as they passed. Adrian stopped at each run and made notes on his clipboard.

The last enclosure at the end was the largest. The animal inside wasn't barking. It lay, large enough to cover the brown, folded blanket beneath it, forelegs stretched in front ending in enormous paws, the size of Jason's hands. It watched them with an appraising gaze. Its coat was slate blue along the back, silver and creamy white along the legs. Jason knew immediately that this was no domesticated animal. He felt a primitive recognition, and he backed away.

He felt Adrian prod him with his pen, motion to the exit.

As soon as they were outside with the din of the dogs' voices sealed behind the door, Jason blurted out "Was that a...?"

"Wolf-dog cross," said Adrian.

He could hardly hear Adrian's voice; his ears were still ringing from the barking.

Adrian led him to a sterile-smelling room and began setting up glass bottles full of blue liquid on the counter. "She asked me to call her if one came in."

"Why?"

"City by-law. Wolf-dog hybrids get destroyed, not re-homed. About four years ago, one came in. Owner said it was a malamute, but I've seen enough dogs to know what it really was. Would have been a waste to destroy him."

"So you gave it to Josie?"

"She knows what she's doing. I wouldn't give a hybrid to anyone who didn't. Had to give him a whack of sedatives first, and he still wouldn't go down. Took two catchpoles and both of us to get him into her van. And after all that, she was complaining. She said she wanted one that was pure black. I told her she didn't get to choose. This is a city pound, not Fabricland. You get what comes in."

"What did she want with it?"

"I never asked."

"You're saying you don't know."

"She made sure he was intact. My guess is, she wanted to breed him."

"She sells purebred dogs. So that doesn't make any sense."

Adrian shrugged. "She's your sister." He donned a pair of goggles and began loading syringes from the glass bottles on the counter.

"Yeah, but you always understood her little ways."

Adrian did not react to the bitterness in Jason's voice.

"Do you know where she is now?" said Jason.

"No," said Adrian. "If you're really worried, talk to the police." He looked up at last, set the syringe on the counter. "I suggest you get out of here now, unless you like watching things die."

Jason got out of the building as quickly as he could and drove away, clutching the steering wheel tightly. He could still smell the place on his clothes. He drove into the city, found the police station, and reported what he knew. They had him fill out an extensive set of forms and told him they'd send someone out to canvass Josie's neighbours. The officer he talked to seemed disinclined to share Jason's concern. "Sometimes, people go away for a few days," he said. "Canvas the people she knows. Odds are, someone will know where she is."

Afterwards, Jason pulled over at the nearest gas station and washed his hands, soaking his cuffs under the tap and wringing them out. He sat in the diner across the road, drinking coffee.

He felt like a kid again in all the worst ways: helpless, powerless, paranoid that everyone but him understood what was going on. He'd never really understood Josie.

Unable to bear the thought of pulling into her driveway again, not knowing if she was there, he found a payphone outside and called her house. He pictured the dog phone ringing by her bed, eyes flickering red. No one answered.

Driving back to Josie's house over the gravel road, Jason became acutely conscious of the darkness of the trees looming to either side. Her house had not lost its feeling of abandonment.

The first thing he did when he got inside was to take a shower to wash off the last traces of the city pound. The house was terribly silent, so silent that he could hear the wind blowing outside. That peculiar bottle-blowing sound.

There was no spare bed, and the only couch smelled strongly of dog. Her bed was less offensively doggy so he decided to sleep there. He realized as soon as the light was off that he felt wide awake. It was probably the coffee. He switched the light back on and sat up. He needed something to distract himself from his anxieties.

Her bedroom bookcase was packed tight with dog books and magazines. He pulled out one thick hardcover. The Wolf by L. David Mech. He flipped it open, saw black-and-white photos of wolves staring out at him and snapped it shut. Then he saw the thin, black spine of a book that looked oddly familiar, the title, True Stories, in liquefying red font. The binding was shot, and a couple of loose pages slipped out when he opened it. As soon as he saw one of those pages, he remembered where he'd seen this book before: the family cottage up north. This book used to be on the shelf in the spare bedroom. One night, when he had shared that bedroom with Josie, she had read it aloud to him. It had frightened the daylights out of him. Josie had seemed more thrilled than frightened, excited that the stories were supposedly true.

As he flipped the pages now, the stories with their crude ink illustrations all came back to him. The lion statue that guarded the library in the daytime and came alive at night, the zombie monkey that hid inside walls and spied on people. He turned to the last story about a dog that appeared to people who were about to die. A dog with eyes of fire. The name came to him before he reached the page with the horrible picture of it straddling a country lane.

"Black Shuck," he murmured.

That dog had given him nightmares for a whole summer. He slid the book back. He was in no state of mind to sleep now, and he certainly didn't want to just sit here, reading what was on her shelves.

His gaze lit on her desk. The drawers, when pulled, proved to be bursting with papers. There seemed to be no order to them. He took them out one at a time, piling them on the floorboards beside him. In the top drawer he found a stack of ledgers. Inside were diagrams - squares and circles connected by lines - like trees lying on their sides. Inside the squares and circles were tiny printed words. He made out the word 'Coxley' in each one. A family tree? Since when had Josie been interested in genealogy? Or in people at all for that matter? But when he looked more closely he made out the other words: 'Coxley's Jack of Spades', 'Coxley's Silver Grail', 'Coxley's Pitch Pretender.' At the bottom of the page was a big square and inside it, words in bold type: 'Coxley's Black Divine.' They were names - but not human names. He was looking at a pedigree. He flipped through the ledger. There were pages of them, all slightly different. He flipped the last page, and when he did, a folded sheet of paper slid out. It was a letter.

Dear Josie,

I don't like saying things in letters that are best said in person, but I want to avoid the inevitable debate. What we've been doing has been weighing on my conscience for some time. I can't do this for you anymore. It's simply wrong. I think (hope) that you'll come to see it this way too and stop before you go any further. I'd like to believe that you have that much of a conscience at least.

Ray

No last name. Jason put the letter aside and began sifting through the loose papers on the top of her desk. They were bills, mostly, stacks of them. Lots of vet bills. After piling these beside him for a while, he noticed the letterhead: Pendelbrook Veterinary Clinic. Two veterinarians were listed; one of them was named Ray. Below their names was the clinic's phone number.

When Jason picked up Josie's phone; he noticed the speed-dial listings for the first time. Pendelbrook Veterinary Clinic had been written there and then scratched out. But it was still legible.

He had already pressed the speed-dial when he realized that it was now 5AM. He got a recorded message giving him the clinic's regular hours and a number to use for out-of-hours emergencies. Hastily, Jason scribbled it down, hung up and dialled.

"Pendelbrook Clinic. Hello."

"Um...look, I'm sorry to bother you... I need to talk to Ray."

"Speaking. Is this an emergency?"

Jason considered for a moment. "Yes, it is. It's my dog. Could you give me directions to where you are?"

By the time Jason pulled into the clinic's parking lot, it was nearly dawn. Ray met him at the clinic door, still buttoning his consultation coat.

Ray opened the door and looked outside towards Jason's car. "Where's your dog?"

"There's no dog. I'm here about Josie Coxley."

Ray stopped buttoning his coat. "Are you a cop? Because I never - "

"I'm her brother."

"Then you can get lost," said Ray, shutting the door between them. He turned the key in the lock.

"Open the door," Jason shouted. He banged his fist against the glass.

"I can't help you," said Ray. "Leave the property."

"I'll call the police," said Jason.

"Do it," said Ray. "I'll have you charged with trespassing."

Jason rifled his pockets, found the letter Ray had written to Josie. He unfolded it and slammed it flat against the glass with the writing facing Ray. He could see Ray reading it and Ray's hand on the door, shaking, as he unlocked it, barely stepping aside enough to let Jason past.

"What's she done?" said Ray.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Can I have that back?" said Ray, looking at the letter.

"If you tell me where she is."

"I doubt I can help you," said Ray. "I haven't had anything to do with her in over a year."

"Then tell me what was going on," said Jason.

"If you give me that letter. And don't tell anyone we ever had this conversation."

"I just want to find her."

"Come upstairs," said Ray.

Ray lived in the apartment directly above the clinic. The apartment was furnished in the manner of places that are never properly lived in. Mismatched couch and chair, an old red milk crate as a TV stand. On the top of the TV was a photograph of a smiling child in a cheap plastic frame.

Ray went into the kitchen and burned the letter in the sink. When it was nothing but a pile of ash, he doused it with water. "Have a seat," he said.

A grey tabby jumped into Jason's lap as soon as he sat on the couch.

Ray pulled up a chair. "She never mentioned a brother."

"We weren't in contact much," said Jason. "She didn't get along with my wife."

"And then your wife took off," said Ray. Before Jason could properly react, Ray said, "No offense, but it's pretty obvious. Join the club."

"Josie's the closest family I've got left," said Jason. "I wanted to mend fences, but she never returned my calls and when I went out to her place, she was gone."

"Did you call the police?"

"I filled out some forms. They didn't seem too concerned, said she could have left on her own. But she didn't take her van. And nothing's walking distance from her place. Except forest."

"Did you tell the police about me - about that letter?"
"No," said Jason. "What was it about?"

"About ten years ago, she came to my clinic for the first time. She'd just left her last vet, and she had four or five dogs. She'd been into breeding seriously for a while before that. She had one bitch she'd invested a lot of time and money in, the product of an unorthodox cross. The mother was a show circuit prize-winner, great conformation – pretty - but a little spun, if you know what I mean. The father was the product of generations of working lines. You know the difference between working lines and show lines?"

Jason shook his head.

"Most breeds have two physical types. The show dogs are bred for conformation - looks. The working lines are bred for performance. They're usually bigger, a whole lot tougher, and if you don't know what you're doing, they can be dangerous. In general, it's not a good idea to cross show lines with working lines. You could wind up with something with an unpredictable temperament in a body that could really do you some damage. Anyway, Coxley's Jack of Spades was a deliberate working/show line cross. Josie took Jack of Spades to a show and got disqualified."

"Why? What did she do wrong?"

"It wasn't Josie. It was Jack of Spades. Josie's ideal and the breeders' association standards were different. Totally different. But it wasn't just that. A show judge might overlook a dog that's bigger than breed standard, but not a dog that tries to bite a chunk out of him in the show ring. After that, she quit showing Jack of Spades."

"Josie doesn't quit," said Jason. "Not ever. When we were kids, we had a swing set in the backyard. We were testing each other, doing chin-ups. She said, let's see how long we can hang here. She didn't want to let go before I did. She hung on until she passed out. So don't tell me she quit and expect me to believe you."

"She quit showing dogs," said Ray. "But she didn't quit breeding them. She had two sets of dogs on her premises; the public dogs--the ones that she took to shows. And the other ones--the private ones. She shut down the public kennel a while ago. I helped her farm out those dogs to good homes. The other dogs, she kept breeding."

"Did you know she was breeding them with wolf hybrids?"

Ray hesitated. "How much about this do you know?"

"Obviously less than you. What happened?"

"She had an animal she wanted to breed to Coxley's Jack of Spades. He was a wolf with maybe a touch of dog in him. He was big--he barely fit in the consulting room. This thing would have torn Jack of Spades to pieces. Completely unsocialized screwed-up animal. She wanted to do an A.I., and she wanted me to do the collection for her."

"What? A what?"

"Artificial insemination," said Ray. "Normally, a breeder wouldn't need help collecting semen from a stud. But with this stud, she needed help to restrain him. He wasn't safe for one person to handle. I wanted nothing to do with it."

"But you did it anyway."

"You know what she's like," said Ray. "She doesn't take 'no' for an answer. Yeah, I did the collection."

"And what happened?"

"Well, it worked. Jack of Spades got pregnant. She got puppies. Josie was happy. Until the puppies grew up. They were huge, almost the same size as the sire. But not big enough. And none of them was dark enough. She wanted a black sire, a wolf."

"So? Why come to you?"

"She knew the clinic does work at the wildlife sanctuary; I had access to the wolves there. She had her eye on one in particular; she wanted me to collect from him. A Mackenzie Valley timber wolf. I told her no."

"But you did it anyway."

"Look, if I didn't do it for her, she'd have tried to get a sample herself. So, yeah, I did the collection. She was happy for a while. Then she ran into more problems."

"What problems?"

"You can only do so much with natural breeding. After a point, you hit the physiological limits of the species. A dog can only get so big and still be viable."

"How do you mean?"

"You run into heart problems for a start. The dog's heart has had hundreds of thousands of years to evolve to service a dog-sized body. Then we come along and use selective breeding to change the outside of the dog in just a few decades. Well, the internal organs can't evolve fast enough to compensate. There's a reason no one's produced a dog the size of an elephant. Josie's animals were dying young. And she kept pushing the envelope. She started doing things that were totally unethical. The last time she came to me was about a year ago. The latest bitch had dropped a litter. They were..." Ray got up. "I'll show you." He disappeared through a door.

Jason heard a cabinet door open then click shut, and Ray came back bearing a clear plastic jar with a white lid. Something dark floated inside. Ray put the jar on the coffee table and switched on the table lamp.

Jason stared at the thing inside. It was dark brown, prune-like, and curled in on itself like a withered tulip. He looked at it for several moments before realizing what it was. The puppy had no head. The ears, folded over at the tips, bracketed deep folds of flesh where the forehead and muzzle would have been. The fur was a deep chocolate brown.

"They were all like this," said Ray. "She was inbreeding - breeding the male offspring back to the bitch. I told her to use another stud. She started arguing with me. After that, I just shut her out. I kept this." He tapped the jar. "To remind myself why I want nothing to do with her, in case I got tempted to relent."

"Her kennels are empty now."

"Are they?" said Ray. "Maybe she got what she was after."

"So, what do you think she did after you stopped helping her?"

"She let drop that she had other plans. She'd gotten involved with some guy who was into transgenics."

"What's that?"

"It's taking DNA from one species and combining it with DNA from another species."

"What other species?" said Jason.

"I don't know."

"Do you think she's in any danger?" said Jason.

"Physically, no. She can take care of herself. But...morally? Yes. Absolutely. She was selecting for some very specific characteristics - ones we see in wild dogs: Upright ears, head with a well-defined stop, a pointed muzzle. But she also wanted characteristics that you'd never see in a wild dog; she was trying to breed an animal around two hundred pounds, all black, a shaggy coat. I think what she was aiming for was a super-stimulus."

"A what?"

"Basically, there are certain things which we, as humans, are predisposed to react to, even if we've never seen them before. For example, you're far more likely to develop a fear of dogs than you are to, say, flowers. Things in our evolutionary past that were dangerous are more likely to engender fear. The ability to recognize primitive dog characteristics has evolved in us, and it's still there. The thing is, if certain elements of primitive dog characteristics are exaggerated in some way (let's say bigger size), there's the potential to elicit an even stronger response than you could possibly get if you were exposed to the original, natural stimulus."

"I'm not with you," said Jason.

"She was trying to create a superstimulus. A living superstimulus."

Jason looked at the little brown puppy floating in the jar. "She used to love dogs. Why would she do that?"

"She loved the archetype more," said Ray.

Jason sat on Josie's bed again. The house felt stale, abandoned. Though late-morning sunlight shone through her window, he could barely keep awake. He pulled the wolf textbook off the shelf, opened it, and flipped through the pages nervously. He read a passage on wolf vocalizations. And dropped the book. Went out the back door to the empty kennels. The public kennels. He remembered something Ray had said. The public dogs and the private dogs. That the wolf-hybrid Josie had taken from the pound had been too big for a regular dog run. And it was too wild to live in her house. So where had she kept it?

He walked past the kennels to the gate in the fence. He saw, because now he was looking for it, a dirt footpath crossing the field, heading up towards the old barn in the back corner of the field. He could hear no barking, but the wind-blowing-over-a-bottle sound was back. Only there was no wind.

We live in a nice little urban Eden. All the dangerous animals have been safely killed off or caged up. What's wildlife to us? Squirrels. Animals in zoos.

The long-dead grass was crisp under Jason's feet. Up the rise, he could just see buds tipping the grey trees. They weren't leafed out enough to conceal much, and he saw the barn well before he reached it. An open padlock hung beside the barn door.

"Josie?" he called.

But we're like dogs. The part of us that hasn't been totally urbanized is still with us, in some of us more than others. That part of us that recognizes a wolf or a primitive dog, without being told what it is.

The rustling stilled. He pushed open the door. The smell of the place hit him. Not like the city pound. This was stronger, like skunk, and it clogged the back of his throat - the smell of life stewing amid decay. The barn floor was dirt and his soft, city shoes made no sound as he entered. Muted daylight shone between the boards and around the edges of a door at the other end of the barn. When his eyes adjusted, he realized it was - or used to be - a horse barn. The stalls were empty.

And when we live in a world without wolves, that part of us lives in expectation of wolves. And when the wolves never come, we create our own creatures from those distant, primitive memories before wolves. In our unconscious live creatures larger, stronger, infinitely wilder, and more dangerous than the ones that roamed the forests.

I will know him when I see him.

Jason's shoe struck something hard and gritty on the ground, something that rolled in the darkness. He bent down to look, picked it up. It was slick, dirty and jagged. As he moved closer to the light, he realized what it was, dropped it before he could look closer. He had seen enough to recognize it as a bone. He wiped his hand squeamishly on his coat.

At the end of the row where he now stood, the glimmer of daylight fell on the last stall, on a brass plaque fixed to the door of the stall. Squinting at it, he made out the words: Coxley's Black Divine and underneath, Black Shuck. This stall, too, was empty.

The door on the far side of the barn drifted open at his touch. Behind the barn, a field stretched off to a ridge where a line of trees stood like sentinels. His footsteps crunched on the dead grass. Somewhere in that line of trees, he heard crows. They were farther away than they looked, at least, the treed ridge seemed to recede with each step. He looked over his shoulder at the barn, now three hundred metres behind him, at Josie's house beyond it, and at the forest beyond that, hiding the road back to civilization. He had nothing to return to.

When he turned back to the line of trees, it seemed closer - within striking distance. And maybe it was that he could feel spring in the air, but suddenly, he felt too warm. He took off his coat, folded it neatly, and left it on the ground in the middle of the field. The air felt cool and refreshing on his skin. The trees, now looming above him, were black with crows. They stirred, shook the branches and filled the air with their calls. It felt like a greeting.

From the top of the ridge he could see that what he had thought was just a line of trees was actually the edge of a forest that stretched as far as he could see, bare branches arching overhead like the ceiling of a cathedral with the dead leaves of last year's autumn as a floor. He took off his shoes and socks and walked on. The ground was soft and yielding. It seemed that somewhere between here and Josie's house he had cast off his fear.

The crows had gone silent, and in the stillness he saw a flicker of shadows, weaving among the trunks. Two shadows, a smaller and a larger. The smaller led the way across his field of vision. As he watched, he felt recognition grip him. It was Josie - what used to be Josie.

Her hair, dark and tangled, hung down past her waist. There was a freedom in the way she moved, arms swinging, in a graceful lope across the forest floor. The sharpness was gone from her manner. She was as she had been as a young child, walking barefoot in the woods.

Behind her was a larger shadow, black, so black he couldn't see its features. At first, he thought it must be a pony, but no pony moved like that with its head so low to the ground. It was a predator's gait and it moved alongside what used to be Josie - Josie with all the trappings of civilization gone.

It may have been the sudden silence of the crows that made her look toward the ridge, but she did look, and she saw him. And Coxley's Black Divine, or whatever name he went by here, turned his diamond-shaped face to Jason too. All black, except for the fur around his eyes, which glowed red like hot coals.

I will know him when I see him.

And Coxley's Black Divine opened his jaws, threw back his head and howled. And that sound, that bottle-like sound filled the woods and his head and his thoughts. And it seemed to Jason that there was an invitation in both of their gazes. And he took it up and came down the ridge to join them.

Pale as the Noonday Sun

by

Jonathan Shipley

USA

The plaza opened before him, a chaotic meld of the city's range of smells. Vergesh strode heavily upon the central walkway, hogging more space then was strictly courteous, but meters of muscle, sharp claws, and powerful tail always gave one an advantage. The lesser lizards, amphibs, and what-nots who shared the walkway with him seemed only too happy to cede him extra space. And no other raptor in sight. Ah, it was good to be the biggest.

He caught sight of his reflection in the undulating surface of the entrance archway and gloried in the brown-green iridescence of his scales in the early morning sun. He was truly prime, an impressive specimen of lizardhood. But those glorious scales could use a good scratch. He hadn't had the pleasure since arriving on this backwater world. Suddenly he caught a familiar scent. One of his informants, a lesser species of course.

"Vergesssh." The sibilant whisper came from a wispy, mud-brown saurian just inside the archway. "Newsss. A Skal slithersss these streetsss. Passed through port lassst night." And the little lizard darted away.

A Skal. Vergesh showed his teeth as he kept walking. The stink of Skal was never pleasant. But this was nowhere near snake territory. Why would any Skal come here? He had no inkling and neither did his informant or she would have said. The lizardling was paid to know things. But with luck, the Skal would soon be gone without crossing paths. It was not today's business.

Striding across the plaza, Vergesh looked first at the domed conversarium ahead, his destination, then checked the ragtag line of simians hugging the east wall of the plaza, traditional pickup point for dayworkers and temporary menials. Some came dressed for manual labour; others wore randomly coloured items. A few had on remnants of Terrano uniforms from the wars - those were better avoided altogether. Ex-soldiers, ex-slaves, the flotsam of the sector. Hundreds gathered here because daylabour was all their kind was permitted.

Most of the simians were familiar - Vergesh smelled here frequently - but a few were new, and new meant potentially interesting scents. He was tempted to stop and check, despite a busy schedule, but what was the point? As often as he had smelled here in the plaza, he had yet to employ the services of any of the local menials. In his two weeks' planet side, he had ascertained that the simians here smelled too earthy for his taste and he was drawn to none of them. If that made him an overly particular patron, blame it on a privileged upbringing. His clan was used to having things its way. Perhaps that could be said of all raptors, but he was thinking of more than brute strength. His clan had standing among the Noble Races.

With a sigh of discontent, Vergesh abandoned the attempt, but as he turned away from the line of menials, his gaze fell on the end of the line where a pale young simi leaned against the wall. Pale as the noonday sun. The line from the old poem popped into his head because this new arrival was very different in look from the darker local stock. Perhaps different in scent as well. He stepped closer. "A quick sampling," he commanded.

The pale looked up through a mop of straw-coloured head hair. "Yeah, sure - whatever you want." And shrugged off its jacket and held out its arms to be sniffed.

Yes, quite different, Vergesh thought as he took in the scent of sweat and body. Less earthy, more musky . . . and what is that amazing underscent? He didn't recognize it, but it was very appealing in a smoky, spicy way. And this was seemingly a he-simi, though again with a slight undersmell of something other as well. He couldn't always tell mammalian he-things from she-things by sight, but the scent usually told all. It was commonly held that all simians stank, but that wasn't exactly true. Those that came directly from Terrano space did stink of plastics and chemicals, but those in saurian space tended to be more natural with a range of interesting odours. Yes, always that certain mammalian tang which some found objectionable, but combined with other scents, wasn't so overpowering. This he-simi smelled of faraway places above all. He wasn't of this world, hadn't been here long enough to acquire its odour.

"Possible," Vergesh decided with a final sniff. "Digits?" He watched the menial wiggle clever little fingers that looked very functional. "If you are still here when I finish my business, you many tender service for the evening."

"Yeah, sure," the pale nodded without much enthusiasm as he shrugged his jacket back on. "If I'm still here." Obviously hoping for better and sooner.

It wasn't a very solid offer, Vergesh acknowledged as he strode on his way across the plaza, but he could do no better until his affairs of the day were settled. In all probability, this menial would be picked up by another in the intervening hours, and there would be no one of interest left for evening service. That was usually the way of things.

He could remember when society was different, when every lizard of standing had a simian slave or two - the very powerful kept a full stable of simis, a sinjerie in high society parlance - for menial tasks that today one had to pay for. His father had been such a lizard, and Vergesh remembered that the household slaves had always smelled like home growing up. Mammalian, yes, but also properly like the household. Not like today, where hired menials smelled of other households and uncomfortable strangeness. The best one could do was to find an interesting scent for a day or a night, then move on to another when the scent grew stale and boring. The fact that he hadn't had a proper scratching in weeks now would have shocked his venerable father. Of course, Vergesh being a negotiator on distant worlds for the Consortium would have been a shock in itself. It wasn't a very raptor-like thing to do in any age.

But now he was distracted, thinking of a good scratching and a mud bath and all the luxuries he hadn't had time for lately. He really hoped the pale menial was still available later. His was an interesting, exotic scent that lingered in the olfactors like the taste of fine cuisine. But later. . . work first. He entered the conversarium and headed for the designated conference chamber.

Negotiations dragged. Vergesh was hard put not to show his teeth as incredibly petty points kept stalling the agreement between the Consortium and the local amphibian clans. It should all been about profit and advantage, not personal standing between clan chiefs. Very annoying, and the heavy, earthy smell of the room only made it worse. Of course, raptors were not generally credited with much patience. As a species, they were known for brute strength and vicious in-fighting more than anything else. Certainly not for their brains. It was completely against stereotype for the Consortium to pick a raptor as a negotiator instead of one of the smaller species of the Noble Races. But a smart raptor was potentially the perfect combination of strength and cleverness . . . as long as the raptor actually was smart. Vergesh was keenly aware of needing to live up to higher expectations for both his species and himself. Raptorkind could well use an upgrade in image.

Finally. Release from the heavy room. The walk back through the city took Vergesh across the central plaza once again at sunset. With fewer sentients, the olfactory chaos was less. He found himself scanning the much diminished line on the east wall as he approached, his thoughts already drifting towards mud and scratching. The gruelling meeting was over; negotiations were finally moving forward. He had cause to treat himself.

His glance came to rest at the end of the line. Same pale menial sitting on his haunches. His olfactors flared at the memory of the scent. He strode over and flicked a claw at the he-simi sitting against the wall.

The pale looked up and scrambled to his feet. "Oh, hey. Glad you came back. I'm still here, obviously. Kinda slow day."

For such an appealing scent? "Why is that?" Vergesh rumbled, curious.

The pale shrugged. "No idea - guess if I knew the answer, it wouldn't be so slow." He turned hesitant. "Uh, because it's late and all, any chance you'd extend my service for the night? Strictly work-for-stay," he added quickly. "Nothing recreational."

Vergesh started to show teeth at the very suggestion that he was interested in physical intimacy with a lesser species, but then thought better of it. There were plenty of worlds where such recreations were popular, where the simis proffering in plazas were more likely whores than menials. A newcomer here might well feel a need to specify. But it was a brazen remark regardless, one that implied a certain desperation. Vergesh could surmise why. New in town, slow day - the pale had no place to stay for the night when all menials had to clear the plaza. By law, they could only proffer in public spaces by daylight. Odd. Vergesh had never before wondered where they all went at night.

"I'll give you half-rate," the pale added while Vergesh pondered.

Yes, desperation, but now the matter was decided. Half-rate for a night of service was too good to pass up.

"Cool." The menial stared around Vergesh's accommodations with wide eyes. "So much space."

Vergesh gave a snort. It was only a sterile-smelling temporary lodging. "Not all that much space, actually. If it were much smaller, a large-bodied, long-tailed raptor wouldn't be able to turn around comfortably."

"Oh, right. Still, after being stuffed in closets and cargo crates for most of my life, this feels huge." He turned completely around, still staring, then back to his patron. "So to business?"

Vergesh paused on the verge of asking why stuffed in closets and crates, then decided other pleasures took priority. "To business," he rumbled back and led the way to the mud pool in the next room. It was always warm, but he adjusted the temperature upward to ensure a hot, bubbly goo for ultimate pleasurability. "You have scratched before, menial?"

The pale nodded. "Up and down the back, pushing the hot mud between the scales and under the scales. I've done a lot of this."

"Excellent," Vergesh murmured, sinking down into the shallow pool and turning to offer his back to the simi's clever little monkey fingers. No other species could scratch quite as well.

Moments of mindless pleasure, the stress and frustrations of the day melting away. It was very good. Then an inkling of recognition - the soft cooing of some sort of monkey-song. It seemed to speak to him on an instinctual level. "Is that you, menial?" Vergesh rumbled, turning his long neck to look back at his scratcher.

The pale looked up, embarrassed, and clapped a muddy hand over his mouth. "Sorry," he muttered. "I make sounds when I work. Don't know why - it just comes out of my mouth and I don't even notice. I can put on a silencer if it bothers you - I carry one in my jacket pocket, just in case."

"No, it is fine. Relaxing even. What sort of monkey-song is that?"

The pale shook his head. "It's not a song, just random sounds I make."

But it wasn't random, Vergesh wanted to argue. It was something he almost recognized but just couldn't put a claw on. But perhaps not that important. He rolled his head back around and let the mud take him again.

Much, much later, he drifted back to consciousness. He still felt fingers on his back, but the touch was now slow and sluggish. "It is enough," he rumbled without opening his eyes. "Turn up the heat and go sleep."

The touch stopped, replaced by the sound of shuffling around the room. Then a soft snoring from the corner. Vergesh listened to the rhythmic sound until it soothed him back into muddy sleep.

It was odd the next morning to find mammalian scent in his lodging and a half-dressed menial sleeping on his foyer floor. Vergesh remembered the night before, of course, but the sensory impact was still odd. The pale was even paler without his shirt, which seemed to have disappeared in the heat of the night. Simians preferred cooler temperatures, he reminded himself. "Awake, menial." he ordered, toeing the limp figure.

"Unh. . . " The pale form rolled over and opened its eyes. "Morning. Any chance of breakfast?"

Vergesh showed the hint of teeth.

"Oh, right. I'm just the hired help." The menial gathered his legs under him and staggered upright. "But I'm really hungry after someone made me work like a shetyu all night."

"Cheeky menial, aren't you?" Vergesh snorted. "I'm surprised you survive being so familiar with your betters."

"I'm not usually." The pale dipped down for a moment and pulled his shirt back on. "But hour for hour, we've just had a lot of physical contact. I might be imprinting on you a little."

Imprinting? Vergesh was in equal parts flattered and insulted. Also puzzled. Imprinting was fresh-out-of-the-egg behaviour, not at all normal simian behaviour at any age. And the only known planet with indigenous shetyu was the royal preserve on Sipsar half a sector away. Several anomalies here. "There's a nutrient tap near the wall," he said with the flick of is tail. "Serve yourself."

But a moment later a bowl of goop was pushed into his claws, and the heady aroma was nothing from a tap. "What is this?"

"Nutrient soup with a little extra flavouring." The pale held up a slashed palm still dripping a little blood. "Just right for a hungry raptor." Then he showed teeth. Vergesh felt a primal surge, then reminded himself the expression meant something different among simis. Not a challenge as with raptors.

For a few minutes, both silently sipped nutrient goop from shallow bowls, Vergesh standing in the middle of the room comfortably supported by his tail, the pale forced to squat near a wall so he could lean back for support. Poor tailless species.

Vergesh finished and set the bowl aside with a satisfied grunt. Anything laced with fresh blood was a treat, but such sharing, like imprinting, as not normal simian behaviour. "Now, menial, there are questions - "

"I hope the first is 'what's your name'. I kinda hate being called 'menial' like that's all I am." He waited expectantly.

Very strange behaviour, but no status was lost in asking a name. "What is your name, then?"

"Basti - short for Sebastian, I think, but I don't really know. But it's what my mom called me. . . before she died. She taught me how to run and hide. I figured out on my own that the best place to hide is usually out in the open. You lizards don't see menials as anything but menials."

"There is rarely any need to see otherwise. So you are a fugitive. From wh ..."

"Don't know the who's and why's and how's," Basti shrugged. "I just know to get small and scarce around snakes and big lizards."

"I'm a big lizard," Vergesh rumbled.

"I know - weird, huh? I'm usually careful to avoid raptors and never done a full scratch on one, so you're my first, and it makes me feel all relaxed and chatty with you. I'm never like this-- truth. I really do think I'm imprinting."

"Why?"

Basti shrugged again. "No idea. I don't even know how imprinting works, just vague warnings about it from my mom." Suddenly his face lit up. "Maybe I'm not a fugitive. Maybe it's just about avoiding raptors so I don't imprint." He gave a snort. "Too late now."

That made no sense at all. Vergesh knew of no cases where simis imprinted on raptors for any reason. And to be triggered by a simple night of scratching. . . Very strange. "You expressed yourself with a certain monkey-song last night," he commented, going to the next question.

"If that's what you want to call it." Basti gave a sigh. "Like I said before, I make sounds - always have. If it seems like a song to you, more power to you, but to me it's just embarrassing. If I'd remembered to wear my silencer like usual, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now. But hey, if you like random vocal sounds, I can sing to you all night long. Tonight maybe?"

Vergesh frowned. That sounded more familiar than the usual menial angling for credits. Could there actually be something like imprinting going on here? He shook his head. Very bizarre and potentially awkward. He took a good sniff. The scent was still appealing, even though it was no longer so exotic to him. The menial - Basti - was good for another night of service.

A slow smile spread across his face. Another mud bath such as last night and a shared offering of fresh blood in the morning - that was worth a little awkwardness.

Vergesh showed teeth as the carnivorium's ambient scent of raw shigga meat picked up a special stink. Not at all pleasant when he was eating.

"A moment of your time," a sibilant voice murmured.

Reluctantly, Vergesh turned to find the space beside him now occupied by a large, dark-scaled ophidian flashing him sharp teeth in greeting. Skal. Most races would have found its very presence threatening, but not a raptor. In fact, Vergesh had to squash the urge to slap the snake across the room for interrupting his dinner. Skal were always difficult. Lately, the problem was their illicit slave trade in violation of the explicit command of the Voice himself, but it was always something. The root problem was that Skal were not of the Noble Races and did not view the world through Noble oculars. In truth, they had a very ignoble view of the world.

"How may I assist?" Vergesh asked coolly.

"It concerns a monkey," the snake murmured, coiling closer.

Very Skal to use the word that implied non-sentient simians. So this had to do with slave trade after all. That was the one and only interaction between Skal and simis. "I'll have nothing to do with slave trade," Vergesh rumbled, adding a warning flick of his powerful tail for emphasis. "The Voice Almighty has spoken."

"No, not slave trade," the Skal chittered quickly. "Of course, not slave trade. I am a bounty hunter on a legal quest for a fugitive."

Fugitive. The word hung like a weight as Vergesh recalled Basti's talk of running and hiding. "You would do better talking to smugglers," he said. "I am here on Consortium business with no interest in fugitives, monkey or otherwise."

"A fugitive," the Skal corrected. "Just one. I am informed that you had a casual encounter with him in the plaza last week . . . newly arrived, pale." He flicked his tongue and added, "Pale as the noonday sun, in fact."

Odd to hear that particular phrase from a Skal. "Ah, the pale menial," Vergesh nodded as though this had just clicked for him. "I sniffed him in the plaza. Very fresh. What of him?"

"He is the fugitive I seek. He seems to have disappeared soon after your encounter and has not been seen in the plaza since."

"Then your fugitive has moved on, it appears. Have you checked the port for outbound passengers?"

The Skal gave a hiss. "Unlikely. He had only just arrived, and it would take him time to collect the credits to book outbound passage. Far more likely that he is still here in the city, gone to ground when he sensed me closing in. He has done this before - made a quick friend at just the right time to stay off the streets."

Vergesh froze. That sounded uncomfortably close to his own experience. Basti was still at the lodging, claiming imprinting as the reason to linger and keep giving service. So it was all an act. That rankled. If Skal had been less odious, he might have given Basti up then and there. But they were odious. "And what sort of fugitive is this simi?" he asked. "Surely not a criminal. Frankly, how can a menial be anything but a menial?" Playing into the blind spot Basti said lizards had for menials, and Basti did seem surprisingly expert on lizard blind spots.

"Not exactly a criminal," the Skal muttered. "More like a lost pet. . . and his owners want him back."

Slave trade under another name. "One world's lost pet is another world's escaped slave," Vergesh commented coldly. "This pale menial was fully sentient and a sentient cannot be categorized as a pet."

"Perhaps 'pet' was the wrong word," the Skal retracted quickly. "But what does one call monkeys born in servitude, who know no other life than saurian overlordship? This is quite different from war captives, you must admit, and the ban on slavery doesn't really take those cases into account. Those monkeys only know how to serve. If not in slavery" - he flicked his snout toward the plaza - "then by whoring in the streets."

"On some worlds perhaps--" Vergesh began.

"On all worldsss," the Skal hissed. "That work line you sniff -- what are those monkeys but whores, selling one service or another for a few credits. They are all pathetic - better off in a proper sinjerie where they can be cared for."

It was a common argument that Vergesh in certain moods bought into. But from a Skal, it smelled ludicrous. He knew the Skal clans only saw simis as walking profit in the slave trade . . . or as food. A dark fact that was never spoken in these post-slavery days, but monkey meat had once been a great delicacy among certain species, two of which were currently having this conversation. He himself had been too young to partake back then, but he recalled the occasional feast where his father served up a simi from the sinjerie to impress an important guest.

"None of this explains the hire of a Skal hunter," Vergesh pointed out. "Pet or slave or servitor, this particular pale is wanted very badly by someone with resources."

"Sso one may assume." The snake slithered a little closer, brought his narrow head close to Vergesh's. The stink intensified. "And where there are resources, there are resources to be shared. We are both hunters, both connoisseurs of fresh blood and the kill. It is, at core, what drives a raptor, eh?"

A dumb raptor perhaps, Vergesh thought with a flare of his nostrils. Anything he had in common with a Skal was nothing to be proud of.

"The point being," continued the hunter, "this is more tying up loose threads than a retrieval mission. A hunt and blood feast might tie things up as well as anything."

With the taste of Basti's blood already on his tongue from breakfast flavourings, Vergesh was momentarily swept into a blood feast fantasy of fresh, sweet monkey-meat. . . Then he regained thought and composure. This offer of a hunt was extraordinary and most illicit. Someone wanted this loose thread tied up very badly. "Ahh," he rumbled. "Perhaps I could be of service after all. We should continue this conversation in a more private venue."

The Skal openly smirked and nodded toward the door. "Lead on."

Vergesh strode into his lodging, tensing as he sniffed a certain stink mixed in with the exotic mammalian scent. Had the hunter? - no, there was Basti coming in from the mud room, broadly showing teeth in that disturbing way of his. "Good dinner?" the simi asked.

"A Skal bounty hunter is on-planet," Vergesh snapped and waited for a reaction.

"A Skal bounty hunter?" Basti's blue eyes grew enormous. "Here? For me?"

The protestation of surprise would have been more convincing if the stink of Skal weren't all over the accommodation. The hunter must have searched here before the carnivorium meeting, and apparently clever little Basti had managed to become invisible at that moment.

"Yes, yes, and yes," Vergesh snapped irritably. "And he lied to my snout just as you have been doing."

"Me? But I don't know why I'm hunted."

"So you said, but now that seems a lie. I daresay you know a great deal more than you have shared."

"But --" Basti looked stricken.

"The Skal believes you are still here in the city, gone to ground as you have in the past. Apparently you have a knack for making a quick friend and disappearing off the streets for a while. Or to use your phraseology, 'imprinting' on someone."

Basti's eyes narrowed, making him look suddenly like the hunted animal he was. "I do what I have to do."

"And do it extremely well," Vergesh said. "Congratulations on that. The question is, why should I continue to hide you from a Skal bounty hunter?"

"Because Skal are cruel and evil."

"That they are. But for the fact that you are lying to me, I would never even consider helping an accursed snake."

Basti frowned. "So if I don't tell you all, I'm burned, and if I do, you may freak and I'll still be burned. Some choice."

"Why would I 'freak,' as you put it?"

Basti gave a shrug. "There are reasons. It's upsetting to remember all that, especially on top of a Skal being here." He looked up with wide, innocent eyes. "I need time to calm down before I can talk about it. It would help me to give you a good scratching."

Vergesh caught himself on the verge of agreeing. A good scratching was always welcome to a raptor, but that was the point. Basti was playing to raptor tendencies . . . dumb raptor tendencies. He seemed to know the species a little too well. Paired with the Skal's comment about a fugitive pet, that pointed very clearly to Basti being cage-born, yes, and most likely born into a sinjerie. Some very powerful raptors still kept singeries, gambling on the grey status of the cage-born to sidestep the slavery issue. Mostly it was argued that sinjerie-bred simis were not fully sentient. Basti, however, seemed not only sentient, but devious in an almost saurian way. There were anomalies here that bore deeper probing. Sending a Skal hunter bespoke both of resources and desperation on someone's part. There was, perhaps, advantage to be gained.

"Scratching?" Basti repeated, wiggling his fingers invitingly.

"No," Vergesh rumbled and twitched his tail to add a little threat to the word. "Instead, let us continue talking but with new assumptions. You will assume I am dangerously annoyed and will accordingly be more open with me."

Basti's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I have excellent reasons not to trust raptors."

"And I have excellent reasons not to trust street trash. But there is Skal. Unless we cooperate, there is every likelihood that the snake will run you down, probably causing great awkwardness for me in the process."

Basti mulled that. "The Skal was here right after you left for negotiations this morning," he finally said. "I barely had time to drip a little blood in your breakfast bowl and hide."

"And yet one of the wiliest species of hunters never smelled you?" Vergesh snorted skeptically.

Basti's expression turned smug. "Oh, he did. But he couldn't separate my general scent from the stronger scent of my fresh blood. It was clear I had been here, but less clear if I had bled and left, or if you had made a meal of me."

Which explained the Skal's strange offer of a hunt and blood feast. He was trying to tease out confirmation of blood feast already enacted. But using fresh blood to confuse the scent -- very, very clever. As was leading the Skal to believe the prey had been already eaten. "I am sensing that I did not choose you in the plaza," Vergesh said softly. "It seems that you chose me."

"Yeah, I needed a raptor," Basti shrugged. "One thing I can depend on is that any raptor will like my smell and take me home for menial service. It's my guaranteed way to disappear off the street. When you didn't pick me in the morning, I hid all day until I saw you coming back. And there I was, ready to be picked."

Any raptor will like the smell of me. Vergesh's eyes narrowed. That seemed significant, but what it meant remained just out of reach. Reactions to personal scents were always subjective, dependent on any number of variables. He inhaled deeply, taking in a deep whiff of Basti. Mammalian, simian, male, yes, and still with that undefinable underscent that was most appealing. And apparently appealing to all raptors. Yet a fugitive from powerful interests that didn't want him running free. Most curious, but there was a pattern to those pieces. "Sssoo. . . from whose sinjerie did you escape?"

Basti's eyes narrowed. "I never said anything about a sinjerie."

"You didn't have to. It's the only thing that makes sense. I ask again, from whose sinjerie did you escape?"

Basti grimaced. "Someone pretty powerful," he admitted. "That's why I have a bounty hunter on my tail. What's worked before is me squeezing into a luggage case and getting carried off world, but the Skal already suspects you and will be watching for something like that. And we have to act fast. If he's sure I'm here, he'll call in the rest of his hunting pack for the kill. And a pack of Skal can take down anything. . . even a raptor."

Vergesh gave a disapproving flick of his tail. It was true that Skal were deadly in packs. That was a danger best avoided. But carrying Basti off world as luggage \- had it come to cloak-and-claw machinations? What had he become embroiled in? Unclear, but embroiled he was. "My negotiations conclude tomorrow. I'll book passage on the next liner after that."

"But tomorrow may be too late," Basti protested. "You need to act now! But what to do?" He gave a long sigh and began to pace. Then he stopped. "Wait - a raptor is stronger than a Skal." He stepped closer and reached out a hand to massage Vergesh's back scales. He leaned very close. "Bigger. Stronger. Smarter."

Vergesh relaxed under the probing fingers and inhaled deeply. At close quarters, the smell of simi was strong and the smoky underscent was nearly overpowering. Very like bloodlust, but not quite.

"You could end the problem right now," Basti murmured, practically right in his ear. "I may be just a dumb monkey, but I know you could take out the Skal. He's probably lurking right outside, watching for you. But he'll never see a direct attack coming." Then he crooned a soft melody.

Vergesh inhaled again, letting the soothing sound wash over him. Sluggishly, the thought surfaced that he was being played. He focused on that and forced himself to think again. Really think. How was this happening? he asked himself. That he couldn't answer, but he did have the answer to a different question - how Basti survived his Skal hunters. When cornered, he simply found a raptor, got it scent-drunk, and sent it to hunt the hunter. But with so few species able to take down a Skal, the signs would be obvious. When the pack arrived in force, they smelled out the raptor that had killed their clan-brother and ripped him to shreds. And in all the blood and turmoil, Basti slipped away to another world. That was more than cleverness; that was predatory cunning. There was even a savage elegance in the progression of events. But this wasn't the natural order -- street trash didn't take out raptors and Skal. How was this happening?

He turned his head and studied the pale simi as he sang his monkey-song. Even with the game exposed, the smell and sound of him appealed on an instinctive level. In his gut, Vergesh wanted to protect him, which made no rational sense. But instincts could be most irrational. He had the feeling that the answer to all his questions was standing right before him, if only he had the wit to get a whiff of it. . . exotic scent. . . need to protect. . . sweet monkey-song. . . escapee from a sinjerie . . .

Vergesh's eyes widened. So it wasn't just a myth. Pale as the noonday sun / Sweetest of all scents and soothing crooning to the ear. It was all in the old poem. "Stop!" he growled. "I know what you are."

Basti's head jerked up. He backed quickly away and squatted in the far corner of the room. "Don't hurt me," he whimpered.

Vergesh rejected the smell of that response. "You're a Golden Crooner escaped from the Royal Sinjerie on Sipsar, genetically enhanced to be the perfect servitor to any raptor. You're also a devious, cunning survivor who has sent both Skal and raptors to their deaths." He paused dramatically. "I admire that."

Basti's face contorted through a range of expressions. "Really? Why?"

"Because I'm a predator who appreciates a clever kill." And appreciates political opportunity even more, he added silently.

"I won't go back!" Basti blurted out suddenly. "I'll kill myself before I live in a cage again."

"Don't be a dumb monkey," Vergesh snorted. "I have no intention of handing you over to the Royal Clan" - he grinned toothily - "not when you are living evidence of illicit slavery at the highest level. The royals on Sipsar hold power only with the support of the Great Clans. If it becomes undeniable that the royals have been using sentient simians as breed-stock in flagrant violation of anti-slavery decrees and employing Skal to cover it up, there would be regime change. That would create opportunity for certain other clans to advance in the hierarchy."

"Yours?"

"Most certainly."

Basti gave a nod. "Then maybe we have common cause . . . " A sly look surfaced ". . . if we can survive the Skal on our doorstep."

We? Suddenly they were a "we"? Very slippery, this new ally.

"Kill the Skal," Basti urged softly.

Vergesh allowed himself a smug chuckle. "Actually I already did. The Skal's stink was so offensive at dinner, I allowed myself to rip it apart as a special treat. But not to worry," he added with great satisfaction to wipe that sly look from Basti's face. "There wasn't much of a body left after running it through the meat grinder at the carnivorium, and after the supper crowd, there will be none at all. The pack will never catch my scent. Now about our common cause . . ."

So an interesting alliance ahead with a cunning and deadly simi - amazing that such a creature even existed - an alliance that offered opportunities neither of them alone could access. But Vergesh had the full smell of him now. And when it came to deadly, one should always remember who bore the claws.

She Comes Dressed in Flames of Indigo

by

Dale Carothers

USA

Indigo flames of death magic left a trail as Lunghia fell. Above her, the airship continued on, a vast shadow strewn with a multitude of rainbow lights, its massive propellers churning the night air. She hoped that Baldomero was dead, his beautiful face burned by her magic, in the remains of their stateroom. He'd never betray her again.

Her jealous anger overwhelmed her fear, gave her focus.

Lunghia turned. The wide valley of the Yuchelo River lay below her. Verdant trees, turned dark by the night, framed the curling ebony strip of water. Shadows of high mountains loomed in the distance to the west.

Wind whipped tears from Lunghia's eyes and tore at her clothes, but luckily she'd secured her fedora to her braided hair with a pair of sharpened silver hat pins. She reached up, pulled the blue cotinga feathers from her hatband, and used her magic to sharpen their quills. She shoved them through the white linen of her suit jacket on either side. Catching the flapping hem in both hands, Lunghia pulled, tearing her coat in twain. She completed the spell by whistling the cotinga's call.

Her white jacket grew blue feathers, and she spread her newly formed wings to slow her fall.

Lunghia glided downward in a ragged circle, looking for an open spot to land. Night made the search difficult, so she veered toward the river, hoping to land on the bank. Heavy moisture, tinged with the scent of rotting vegetation, mixed with her fear sweat, and slicked the skin of her face.

The indigo sheath of death magic fought for control of her spell. Necrosis crept blackly along her wings, and she faltered. Lunghia bit back a scream--it would sound too much like a bird of prey and confuse the cotinga magic. She crested the tops of the trees, her toes slapping the uppermost leaves. Monkeys screamed and birds spooked, taking flight. Lunghia banked out over the water and spread her wings wide to slow her descent.

Lunghia pulled up, just above the surface of the river, and the manoeuvre cost her half her wings in a black rain of dead feathers. She skimmed along, the metal tips of her boots kicking up a jewelled spray of water, wetting the legs of her pants, and slowing her down. She struggled to keep the straight-backed, arms-out bird form, but her raptor-like shriek of fear and frustration finally broke the spell and she skidded into the fetid mud of the bank.

Lunghia woke from her daze to see fish swimming above her head. One last moment, in the shallow sun-brightened water, was a good way to die, wasn't it?

She winced at a distant, burning pain and the edges of the world rushed in. Warm, slow darkness took hold of her...

Blazing pain woke Lunghia the second time. The haze was gone, and everything felt all too real. She screamed, and sat up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and when she saw the piranhas above her head, floating lazily against the backdrop of the corrugated metal ceiling, she screamed again.

She tore the sheet linen off and tried to get up. Burning, raw-nerved agony stopped her, and sudden tears streamed down her cheeks. She closed her eyes, breathing deep and slow until she'd calmed enough to examine herself. Her left leg was bundled, from her toes to just below her knee, with thick layers of bandages. Moving brought more pain, and she screamed yet again.

The hollow sound of footsteps approached and the door flew open. A stick thin girl in a dirty dress poked her head in.

"Are you awake now?" she asked.

"Of course I'm fucking awake," Lunghia screamed. "Where the hell am I? And what happened to my leg?"

The girl pointed at the fish above Lunghia's head and ran back down the hall.

Five piranhas waved their fins and floated back and forth above her. Lunghia lay back and thought. She'd crashed near the bank of the Yuchelo River, and if she'd landed just right, with only one leg left in the water, piranhas could've eaten part of her leg. But why were they still here? And why did they smell so awful? One of them dipped a little lower and the rest followed. Some of their scales had fallen away and their fins were discoloured with rot. One had only the bones left on its tail.

It made some sense. She'd been sheathed in death magic and the fading power of a flight spell when she crashed. That explained flying zombie piranhas, didn't it?

The door opened again and a short, wrinkled man came in followed by a balding brute.

"Hello, Maga," the short man said. "I am Estavan, and this is my son, Gaspar."

They both bowed. Lunghia was happy that they'd recognized her for what she was. She hoped that her station would afford her the proper respect.

"Do I have you to thank for bandaging my leg?" Lunghia asked.

They exchanged a worried glance, before Estavan said, "Yes?"

"Then, I thank you, most sincerely, Tio."

Estavan smiled. His face was wide and his long white hair fell to his shoulders. He reached into his multi-pocketed leather vest and produced a green glass vial. "You want some more opium?"

"Thank you, Tio, but no. I need to keep my wits about me."

"No disrespect, Maga, but the last dose must be fading by now, and even though you are obviously a woman of great strength, the pain has to be killing you."

"I can take care of it on my own, thank you."

Lunghia searched the thin sheet for a loose string and pulled it free. She folded it in half, and pinching each end in her fingers, made the string walk along her lap until she'd completed seven laps. She laid the string on her left knee and let it sit.

"Can you ask the girl who checked on me earlier to come back, please, Tio?"

"Yes, Maga. Right away."

Estavan and Gaspar turned to leave.

"Gaspar," Lunghia said.

Estavan and Gaspar had a brief but intense conversation of whispers near the door, before Gaspar came back to the foot of the bed. He smelled of hard work and fish.

"I need to see you tonight, after the sun goes down." Lunghia leered and tilted her head in the most fetching way she could achieve in her state.

Gaspar smiled. He was an ugly man, lumpy and ungainly, and likely unused to the attention of women. "I'll come at sunset."

"Yes, you will." Lunghia smiled again, but the irony was lost on Gaspar. He stood at the foot of the bed until Lunghia dismissed him.

While she waited, she took up the string that she'd lain on her leg, gently broke it and laid it back in place. The pain faded as the connection faded, but didn't disappear, and Lunghia was finally able to let her built-up tension go and sink into the mattress.

A few minutes later, the girl came back.

"Do you want to yell at me some more?"

"No," Lunghia said. "Come in, child. What is your name?"

"Josefina." She waited a moment, and then curtsied.

"I have a job for you."

Josefina narrowed her eyes. "You going to pay me?"

"Of course."

"How much."

"That depends on how good a job you do."

Josefina crossed her arms. Lunghia loved her fearless defiance. She might make for a good Maga, if she had the Gift.

"Find a sack and bring me as many centipedes and millipedes as you can find. I'll give you two reais."

"Five."

"Three."

"Four. If you want me to fill a whole sack, I'll have to search until dark."

"Four it is. But if you make it back before sunset I'll give you six." That much money meant little to Lunghia, but would mean everything to Josefina. She reached over to a bedside table, searched her clothes for her wallet, fished out two reais and tossed them to Josefina. "To get you started."

Josefina looked at the shiny coins in her palm. "Anything you need. I'll be here for you."

"I know, child. Now go."

Josefina raced out of the room, forgetting to shut the door. Lunghia didn't care. Anyplace where they'd feared to loot her wallet was safe enough to sleep with the door open. She needed that safety, so she could rest and figure out what to do next.

Someone burst into the room and Lunghia shot up in bed, ready to defend herself. She made fish of her hands and waggled them at the intruder. The zombie piranhas flicked their tails and shot across the room.

A girlish scream stopped her, and she formed her fingers into hooks to call the fish back.

"You knew I was coming back," Josefina said. She'd dropped her sack, crouched and covered her head with her hands. "You told me to come back."

Lunghia, still woozy from sleep, and the lingering effects of the opium, leaned back on the headboard. "To be safe, next time you come calling, announce yourself."

"Sorry...Maga."

"Did you bring what I asked for?"

"Yes, a whole sack full." Josefina crossed to the windows that overlooked the river, opened the window and pulled the bright red curtains back. The distant purr of an outboard motor churning the water, and the faint scent of frying peppers came into the room. "Look. The sun is still up. That's six then, right?"

The light outside was still a dark orange. "Six it is."

Lunghia gave Josefina the balance of her payment, and the girl gave her the sack. It crackled and writhed and stank.

"What are you going to do with all of them?" Josefina asked. Her eyes were wide with wonder.

"I'm going to sleep with them."

"Ewww."

"Pull the sheet down, and put the sack near my left leg, would you?"

"Why?"

"Do it!"

Josefina did as she was told, but Lunghia thought about taking one of the reais back as punishment.

"Now, if it's not too much trouble, your highness, could you possibly do me the favour of pulling the sheet back up?"

"You're worse than my mamãe."

"Your mouth just cost you a real."

Josefina took a step back. Anger twisted her little face. "No, please. I need it for-"

"Enough," Lunghia said, holding out her hand.

Josefina's glance flicked toward the door.

"Don't even think about it. My fish," Lunghia looked up, "would surely catch you and take the price from your flesh."

A single tear formed in Josefina's angry red eye. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a real and handed it to Lunghia.

"This will teach you respect," Lunghia said.

Josefina curtsied, never taking her eyes off Lunghia. "I thank you for the lesson, Maga." She turned on her heel and left the room, shutting the door as quietly as she could. Once she was in the hallway, the grief took over, and she sobbed so loudly that Lunghia could hear her until she'd gone down the stairs.

Lunghia nearly cried herself. She hated doing that to Josefina, but the girl needed to learn how cruel the world really was. Though, now that she thought about it, living rough in this riverside village had likely already taught her that lesson. Lunghia decided to call for her again, and to give her a simple job, so that she could apologize and overpay her.

It didn't matter for now. She needed to prepare for Gaspar.

She leaned down, found her black boots near the side of the bed and pulled the ivory-handled folding knife from the boot sheath. Then she folded the sheet over to the right side of the bed, revealing her bandaged left leg. She cut the bandages and then the herb-laden leaves of the poultice beneath them. The pungent herbs numbed her leg, but their smell couldn't compete with the coppery tang of her own blood. Lunghia laughed at the contradiction between the old and new medicines, but her laughter stopped when she pulled the leaves away. Most of the flesh had been eaten away, leaving some of the bone exposed. She was lucky that the locals had likely been too scared to cut her leg off. And they were lucky that they'd made that decision, she knew how to fix this.

Lunghia loosened the knot at the top of the sack, but not so much that any of the writhing crawlers within could escape. She brushed her hair as best she could without use of a mirror, and took off the gauzy nightshirt that she'd been left in.

By the time Gaspar came the room was dark. He knocked tentatively.

"Come in," Lunghia said.

The door creaked open and his huge shadow stepped in. "I wasn't sure if I should knock. There wasn't any light under the door."

"My leg prevents me from getting out of bed and lighting the lantern." Rooms like this weren't often wired for electricity. They saved that for their restaurants and bars.

"Allow me," Gaspar said. He struck a match and saw that Lunghia lay nude, other than the blankets covering her left leg.

He stared, gape-mouthed at her. Lunghia was aware of her own earthy beauty. She had caramel skin and ebony hair that lay in tresses about her shoulders, and in a sparse line trailing from her bellybutton to her pubis.

The match burned down and Gaspar hissed in pain. A moment later he struck another.

"I appreciate the compliment, but maybe you could light the lantern this time."

Gaspar did and soon the room was filled with orange light and shadows. He couldn't stop smiling, even as he shed his clothing. Her lack of embarrassment about exposing herself so openly gave him permission to do the same. He was big, and hairy, though his shoulders sloped downward, giving him an egg-like shape. His teeth were too small and his gums too big. His moustache was a wisp of black on his lip.

Lunghia liked her men ugly. Ugly men appreciated her with a desperate passion that faded too quickly with the pretty ones, who were more concerned with their own needs than hers. Pretty men cheated. Pretty men lied. Ugly men did everything they could to keep their women.

Lunghia reached out her hand and Gaspar took a few steps before stopping and staring at the space above her head.

"What about them?" Gaspar asked.

"They won't hurt you," Lunghia answered. "Not unless I tell them to."

Gaspar covered his mouth and giggled.

Lunghia waggled her fingers. "Come on. I need you."

Gaspar had the sense to remember his size and crawl carefully into bed. By the time he lay upon her he was turgid and ready. They shook the bed, knocking the headboard into the wall. Lunghia had difficulty breathing with his sweaty bulk upon her, but enjoyed herself anyway. His thrusting grew more urgent, and he began moaning. Lunghia used the rhythm to pull her leg from the bandages, but in doing so dislodged the pain-breaking string. She screamed in pain, and Gaspar smiled with mistaken pride.

Gaspar tensed and Lunghia yelled, "Wait. Sit up."

Gaspar pulled back, "I'm sorry, I-"

Lunghia wrested her ruined leg out from under him, grabbed his member and made him spend his seed on her leg. Confusion and passion made Gaspar a willing participant.

"Move," Lunghia barked.

Gaspar rolled onto the floor, tears already in his eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Lunghia reached under the sheet, took out the sack, untied it and thrust her leg in. "Tie the bag tight around me knee."

While Gaspar tied the bag, Lunghia lay back and endured the pain.

"Get out," Lunghia said. "I need to concentrate."

Gaspar gathered his clothes and walked naked into the hall, shutting the door.

Pain and disgust made it hard for Lunghia to focus. But to do the spell properly, she needed all of her power, and couldn't use the string again. She took her folding knife and shaved tiny slivers of her fingernails into a pile on her naked belly. She arranged them into little rows of legs. Using her saliva, and a blood from a little cut she made on her palm, she pasted the little fingernail clippings to her injured leg.

After three days of deep sleep, Lunghia got out of bed and dressed herself. Her white linen suit and shirt had been laundered and the torn seam of her jacket had been sewn back together, but the left leg of her pants was red instead of white. Someone had cut the fabric off under the knee and replaced it with red. The seam was fine, and perfect, and while Lunghia was momentarily irritated, she was sure whoever had repaired her pants had simply chosen the finest fabric in the town. The colour seemed like a joke, but a joke she found funny.

Lunghia pulled on her silver-tipped black boots, tied her hair back and set her white fedora on her head, securing it with her long hat pins. Lacking a mirror, she did a slow turn using the watery reflection in the window. She paced the room, testing her leg. The flesh had healed perfect and smooth, but it still felt weak. She could walk, but running would be difficult.

The writhing sack of centipedes and millipedes finally fell over, disgorging hundreds of legless bodies. They curled and wriggled uselessly on the floor. Someone would have to come in and clean that up.

Lunghia didn't care. It was time to figure out where she was and what to do next. And it was time to eat something other than the thin broth and fruit she'd been living on since she'd gotten here. Her fish followed her out of the room.

Oaca was laid out in terraces on the steep bank of the Yuchelo River: a major tributary to the mighty Teonun. A riverboat lay in midstream. Little boats took cacao beans out and brought back bags of rice, flour, beans, and alcohol. Wooden terraces and walkways led up from the water to where Lunghia sat at a table. Overhanging branches shaded her table, giving her relief from the hot sun, though not the humidity. She'd already sweated through her shirt, adding her own spicy tang to the air.

She spooned spicy chicken and papaya onto a tortilla, rolled it and took a bite. It was good, but too sweet. She added sliced peppers and a dash of bright green hot sauce, and took another bite. The sweet was now hidden under layers of heat, reminding Lunghia of the way Baldomero had often described her. Maybe the girl she'd caught him with had a more attractive ratio; more sweet than hot—but likely boring and stupid.

The sauce burned her tongue and she took a long drink of the thin watery liquid that passed for beer in Oaca.

A group of men came up the stairs from the level below and entered the restaurant. Gaspar towered above the rest. When he saw Lunghia, he froze. She tried to smile, but the mouthful of food made it difficult, and some of the juices dripped out between her lips.

Gaspar turned and descended the stairs, his friends calling after him. Lunghia almost chased him, but she was hungry and didn't feel like running on her new leg. She'd apologize later, and if she felt like it, let him come to her room again. He was a good enough lover, and was the closest thing she had to a friend in Oaca.

Lunghia finished her glass of beer in one gulp, and when she raised the glass to shake it at the proprietor it shattered. Glass shards scored her hand, and she rolled sideways onto the floor, and then under the table. The fish came with, but with no room to swim, kept bumping into her hat. Lunghia pressed a handkerchief to the bloody cut on her palm, hissing in pain and wiping the dregs of beer away.

The proprietor of the restaurant, a thin woman with huge ears, ran over and bent down. "Is there something wrong with the food, Maga?"

Lunghia squeezed blood from her hand and dribbled it into a circle on the terrace. "No, go back inside." The woman stayed, so Lunghia tossed a few reais onto the wooden terrace. "Go back inside!"

The woman scooped up the coins and retreated. Lunghia ran her injured hand around the orbit of the blood circle. She hoped to discern the direction of the one who summoned the blood. Droplets fell each time her hand rotated past the direction of the stairs. Lunghia crawled back a few steps, and upended the table. The remains of her lunch went crashing down. She peeked around the table and saw Seve coming up the stairs, just as the bottle of hot sauce rolled to a stop against a chunk of fallen chicken.

Seve worked for Baldomero, and was likely coming to avenge the death of his teacher. He wore thick spectacles that made his head look narrower through the lenses, and he'd shaved the sides of his head, leaving an oddly thick crest of curls atop his head.

When Seve saw her he puffed out his cheeks and spit a tooth at Lunghia. She ducked, but the tooth shot through the table and whizzed past her nose. She had no idea how many he had left, but if he ran out of the shark's tooth charm that he'd glued to the roof of his mouth would replenish them.

Lunghia waved her hands, sending her piranhas right into Seve's face. He spit teeth at them, and while he was distracted she crawled from table to table. She circled the restaurant until she came to a table with a cloth long enough to hide her. She chanced a quick peek over a tabletop.

Seve dug a glass ball out of his pocket and rolled it over to Lunghia's original table. It came to rest in the remains of her spiced chicken and papaya. He pulled out a match and struck it against a tooth. The ball burst, setting the table aflame.

Three uniformed men came up the stairs brandishing pistols and yelling. Seve spun, tossed a glass ball at their feet and struck another match on his tooth. The ball exploded, engulfing them, the surrounding terrace in flame.

Lunghia slipped the knife from her boot and flipped it open, while Seve watched the men burn. He laughed and clapped his hands. She gave her knife the taste for blood by scraping the blade across the cuts on her hand, and when Seve saw her crouched behind the new table she threw it.

Seve brought his arm up and the blade drove into the flesh of his forearm. He reached up to pull it out, but Lunghia stuck the heel of her palm in her mouth and sucked at it as though she were starving. No matter how hard Seve pulled, it wouldn't move, so long as Lunghia sucked at her cut, filling her mouth with a salty copper taste. The knife mimicked her hunger and drank deeply of Seve's blood. It sprayed out around the blade like wine from an axe-struck cask. Seve charged at her, but the blood loss had already addled his mind, and he blundered though the flames. His pants caught fire and the blood that flowed from his arm sizzled on the terrace.

Lunghia ran to the edge of the terrace and climbed out onto one of the huge tree branches that held it up. Below, Oaca was in chaos. People below had started a bucket line from the river's edge, and a harried man tried valiantly to start a gas-powered pump on the docks; while other men and women snaked the hose up the stairs.

Lunghia recognized one person in the chaos. Instead of helping, Josefina ran down one of the walkways that led into the jungle.

Lunghia lay beneath a tangled cluster of vines and leaves, she could see Josefina and Baldomero through a gap, and hear them once she was able to filter out the clicking drones of insects and the windblown susurrus of leaves. An emerald lizard crawled up onto Lunghia's chest and stood there, tilting its head to and fro.

"She killed your man, and burned my town," Josefina said. She stood several metres back from the Tuatl shrine.

Blackened tendrils of life-sucking magic snaked out from the shrine in all directions. Leaves, trees and flowers had turned black. The breeze carried the scent of cloying decay.

Framed by the carving of an eleven-headed snake god, Uman Che, sat Baldomero. His skin was ash white, and some of it flaked off when he spoke.

"How do you know he's dead?" Baldomero asked. "I can't pay you for information that isn't accurate."

Josefina's fists tightened. "She cut him and the wound sprayed blood like a fire hose, and then he stepped into the fire and fell."

Baldomero coughed and more of his skin fell away. He lay back against Uman Che, flicked his tongue and touched the ninth head, the head that had breathed life into the world. More of the jungle was consumed, and one of the tendrils neared Lunghia's hiding spot. The lizard tasted the newly fouled air with its little grey tongue and skittered away.

If Lunghia hid there much longer, the corruption would overtake her, stealing her life essence. She needed to act quickly, while Baldomero was still weak. Lunghia feared the power of the shrine. He'd used the ninth head to heal, but other heads had other powers in varied aspects. But, the shrine was worn and cracked, and some of the heads wouldn't work. She didn't know if she should chance an open confrontation, but she couldn't pass up the chance to kill him in his weakened state.

First, she needed to take care of Josefina.

Lunghia found a wide leaf, plucked it and rolled it into a tube. She then took one of the silver hat pins from her hat, slotted it into the tube and waited. When the breeze found its way into her hiding spot she took a deep breath, stopping when her ribs threatened to crack, took aim and shot the hat pin at Josefina.

Josefina slapped her hand to her neck and shrieked.

Lunghia shot the second pin at Baldomero, but without the wind to power it, it bounced off his jacket. She rolled out of her hiding place, charged in, and knocked Josefina to the ground. Lunghia kicked Josefina in the ribs. "You betrayed me!" She pulled her foot back to kick again.

"Lunghia, darling, it's so good to see you," Baldomero said. His arm was up and his fingers brushed against the eleventh head. "You are more beautiful than the day we met. My love, look at me."

Lunghia blinked, and set her foot down. It took her a moment to form a reply. "...yes?"

"Come to me. I want to hold you again."

Lunghia looked at Baldomero. He held one arm out to her, but the other still caressed the stone above his head. She blinked again, her eyes fluttering. Even though he was pale, and drawn, Baldomero was still handsome. "I've missed you," she said.

Baldomero smiled and beckoned to her with his outstretched hand. "Come over here, my love."

Her feet moved on their own, but Lunghia didn't mind. She loved Baldomero. She missed Baldomero. She missed the strength of his embrace, so warm and tight that she'd always felt safe. But why? Why did he only offer her one hand?

Lunghia's eyes flicked up, looking at Uman Che, creator of the world. She wished that Baldomero would caress her as he did Uman Che's eleventh head; the head that'd given humankind the power of speech. Its forked tongue had two aspects; truth and...lies.

Dropping back, Lunghia broke eye contact and knelt at Josefina's side. The girl coughed, one hand covering her ribs and one hand clutching at the hat pin in her bleeding throat.

"You shouldn't have betrayed me," Lunghia said, "for a single real." She shoved the hat pin in deep as it would go before pulling it out, and along with it the indigo power of a death spell. Josefina jerked and blood spurted from her neck. Lunghia wondered, briefly, as she stepped over Josefina's twitching body, what could have been.

Lunghia charged Baldomero. He grabbed the green glass disk of his necklace and formed his shielding spell.

The sharp end of the hat pin glowed indigo when it crashed against Baldomero's shield. Lunghia channelled all of the power into the point and pushed. Last time the power had been too diffuse and Baldomero had reflected most of the power of her spell back at her, sending her crashing through the airship's window.

Baldomero used his free hand to slap at Uman Che's heads, searching for the one that would power and strengthen his spell. Lunghia smiled. He'd never been good at thinking on his feet, not like she was. He preferred the simple predictability of bound magic. It was more powerful, but it required planning, and to Lunghia it had too many limitations. She preferred unbound magic, making focuses and pulling attributes when she needed them, giving her complete control.

"You shouldn't have screwed that girl," Lunghia said, forcing the hat pin further into the shield. It resisted like sun-hardened clay. "In our bed."

"It wasn't our bed anymore," Baldomero kept his eyes focused on the hat pin's point. He pushed back against it. "Not after you left me and got another stateroom."

"I was angry. You just needed to let me cool off."

"I'm tired of your endless comings and goings." He looked up at her. "I'm done with you."

Lunghia pictured Baldomero atop that stupid girl, thrusting away in the bed they'd shared the night before, and used her anger to force the hat pin further into the shield.

"Can't we just end this," Baldomero said. "You killed that girl and burned me with the death magic you pulled from her corpse. I'm deformed and ugly now. No woman will want me now. Just let me go and I'll leave you alone."

"You should have thought of that before sending Seve to kill me."

Baldomero moved his free hand, finally finding the first head, the head of creation; the one that made the world. "All of your jealous anger brought us to this." He smiled and drew creation power from the first head into his shield.

Lunghia saw what Baldomero couldn't and waited. During the quarter second interval between the change in power flow from Baldomero's amulet to the first head, she shoved the needle into Baldomero's face. His eyes went wide. He didn't know about the hairline fissure that crossed the stone of the eleventh head and hadn't expected the magical stutter it would create. Lunghia channelled all of the death magic down the silver shaft of the pin and into Baldomero's face. He'd always been so handsome. And when he focused his attention on someone that person felt as if the sun shone for them alone. But when he pulled that attention away, there was only darkness.

Lunghia let go and stepped back. The death magic turned Baldomero to ash and he crumbled, dusting the shrine with his remains.

She'd won. She stood alone in the jungle, revelling in her victory.

But it didn't last long.

The pain of solitude, the pain of Baldomero's last words, the very truth of them, stifled the joy of her victory. Lunghia fell to her knees and cried.

She'd done this her whole life. Using people for her purposes and then driving them away when she was done with them. To Lunghia, her station as a Maga gave her that right. She used her magic to control reality; everything and everyone were hers to use.

Power led to arrogance, and with arrogance came the confusion of a constant nagging jealousy. Everyone who didn't comply with her wishes was a target.

And now she was alone again.

High above in the trees a cotinga called. She whistled back to it and remembered the blue feathers that recently adorned her hatband.

They called back and forth to each other. This bird was the closest thing Lunghia had to a friend. She nearly lured it down to her, so she could steal its feathers to decorate her hat--the last batch had been so useful.

But no. She decided to leave this one friendship intact. One stupid bird in the middle of the jungle would have to be enough for now.

Lunghia walked past Josefina as she left. One more mess she'd left behind. She'd let the jungle decide what to do with the body.

Beach Cricket

By

Tony Shillitoe

Australia

"Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind, it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate - and quickly."

Robert A. Heinlein

Ilya leans forward in his office chair to study the terrain across two monitors, evaluating the small villages, the town, the transport corridors and priority targets. Statistics streaming across a third monitor show an imminent enemy attack in the fourth quadrant. The attack is predictable, expected, but he wants to determine why his enemy is persistently making predictable moves, and has been for more than a month. He subscribes to the wise words of the old chess master, Alexander Kotov: "Develop within yourself a large number of qualities, the qualities of an artistic creator, a calculating practitioner, a cold calm competitor," but there is nothing creative or directly calculating in his enemy's strategy. He has to know his enemy better. Su Tzu's teachings require him to do so. This enemy, however, is reluctant to reveal himself. He makes his strategies appear ineffectual, robotic, but Ilya knows there has to be more to him – or her. He shifts a drone squadron into the quadrant and deploys a requisite number of tanks and rocket launchers to suppress the attack, but keeps the bulk of his force in reserve. He will broker no surprises. He is the best at this game in PeaceCorp, has been for eight years. No one outplays him. No one can. He adds notes to the screen so his team members will continue his strategies effectively, checks the time and sits back to watch the battle unfold. For a Monday, it's a mundane opening to the week.

'Who's for a beer?' Ilya throws up his hand in response. 'Incoming!' Macka calls. An amber bottle rolls through the air, and Ilya catches it one-handed, to a collective cry of 'Howzat!'

'Nice take,' Midge says, before waving to Macka to retrieve his beer.

Ilya turns the spatula to flip a charcoaled t-bone steak, announcing, 'Nearly done!' He glances across the strip of lawn to the sandy beach and the azure gulf water. A pelican glides centimetres above the soft waves, black and white feathers highlighted by the crisp morning sunlight. Sundays are the best days – mates, a barbecue breakfast, beers and cricket on Henley Beach. They make work a remote memory.

'How's the serenity?'

Ilya turns to greet smiling microtechnician Midge, proudly shirtless, his emerging beer gut folding over his shorts, who's come to inspect the barbecue.

'Cooked to perfection, as always, mate,' he compliments. 'Good food to start a brilliant day!'

'Grab that bowl,' Ilya instructs, and when Midge lifts it to him he piles barbecued meat into it: sausages, chevapchichis, steak, chops, and slivers of chicken. 'Anyone got anything else to throw on?'

'All done!' Mick calls from the table. 'Come and eat.'

'I'll just clean it up,' Ilya replies, waving aside an annoying fly. As he scrapes the first line of oil and crisped crumbs, he notices Jamie's rakish figure approaching. 'Something else?'

Jamie laughs, revealing a set of cracked yellow teeth under his wispy moustache. 'No, mate, but give me that and I'll finish cleaning up. You go eat.'

'I'm right,' Ilya says, grinning.

'I'm sure you are,' Jamie says, 'but sometimes the bloke who does all the work misses out on the tucker. Let me do it.'

Ilya laughs, says, 'Thanks, mate,' and hands Jamie the spatula.

A sector in the third quadrant glows soft red. Ilya studies the anomaly, and statistics. There are three large towns in that sector, mainly light manufacturing, with subsidiary agricultural outposts. Enemies ignore the area for obvious reasons – strategically, it is inert, and the residual civilian presence puts the odds of civilian collateral damage at a politically risky twenty-two-point-seven percent. The rules for common warfare were long ago modified to reduce civilian population waste, after the chaotic era of Twentieth and early Twenty-first century terrorism and anti-terrorism; not because civilians are individually important, but because of the long-term backlash, post-war, from unwarranted civilian deaths. Ilya regularly reminds his team, when preparing for extended battles, of peace campaigner, Jennifer Hartlett's, observation: 'It's surprising how dead civilians in other countries have significantly greater voting power than living ones in our own.' Of course, that doesn't stop amateur war-gamers using human shields to force compromise, and sometimes the tactic buys time to marshal or redeploy their forces, but defeat is inevitable for amateurs, if not immediately in physical battles, then in political censuring by the world's powers. Civilians can only be sacrificed for a greater good, if the people of the winning side accept the statistics when all analysis is done. Anything less is foolish. As Howard Tayler wrote, "If the price of collateral damage is high enough, you might be able to get paid for bringing ammunition home with you."

His enemy, in this encounter, isn't an amateur, because he still hasn't revealed his full potential. Despite simplistic, automated attacks, he hasn't made significant mistakes in the early conflicts, and his incursions cost him little in military resources. Everything is beginning to appear far more measured than Ilya first assumed. And yet the latest move is still blatantly ham-fisted.

What game is the enemy playing?

He assesses the rolling stats and posts, and smiles. Whatever the game, he reassures himself, confidently, he knows the outcome.

'Pitch is ready!'

Ilya responds to Mick's call by pressing his beer bottle into the sand beneath his deck chair, and rising with the other men.

'Sides?' Watto the sparkie yells.

'Usual,' Mick replies. 'Any problems and I'll sort them out.'

A quick head count and Ilya knows there will be two teams of seven. Sometimes there are up to nine, the least is five. This is the fifth and final beach cricket game in the group's annual summer tournament. As always, mates gravitate into teams with mates, leaving Ilya, Mick and Jamie to decide which sides to join. 'Six on this side,' Jamie says, and joins the team to make seven.

'Too easy,' Mick says, as he slaps Ilya on the shoulder. 'You and I can open the bowling again.'

Ilya accepts the tennis ball, tossed to him by Macka, a nanotechnologist contractually tied to PeaceCorp, who sets himself up as wicketkeeper every game, and studies the bowling crease for potential dips or holes that might wreck his ankle. He knows he's good at this game, better than the others at bowling and strategy.

'Standard rules?' Will asks from square leg, a metre from the shoreline.

'Yep!' Mick replies. 'One hand, one bounce; full lob over the wave line is six and out. Ball in the car park is two runs max. Full lob ball on the road is out, no runs. Tippy go, of course. Reach fifty, you retire. Each side gets two innings.'

Ilya enjoys how Mick organises everything. A building site foreman by trade with PeaceCorp, organising blokes is his forte. In fact, the annual beach cricket tournament is his project, initiated four years earlier when he deduced how many of the PeaceCorp employees gravitated to the beach to relax. He is the catalyst and the magnet that brings the group of disparate men to Henley Beach every weekend over summer.

'Game on!' yells Andy, defiantly, as he strides to the crease with a carbon alloy bat he's secretly made in the PeaceCorp engineering workshop.

Tuesday morning, Ilya reads the notes from team member Jacqui, who occupied his chair overnight. With no evident change in the war's status, it's apparent his opponent is only active when Ilya is online. An emerging pattern? Why such a tactic? Some wannabe war-gamer has heard of his consummate skills and wants to take him on? He smiles. Unlikely. PeaceCorp war-gamer names are classified, even internally. Mick doesn't even know what Ilya does at PeaceCorp, so the enemy would not know he is defending the nation state in his quadrants. Even his team doesn't know his assignment, and, while he leads them, and assigns tasks to them, he is sworn to secrecy about their operations too.

He leans back to study the screens. This is beginning to look like a battle for resources, and that means retaining the status quo will be crucial, or the region will destabilise. His training and experience have taught him, fundamentally, there are four kinds of war. The first two are barbaric remnants of history: disputes over territory, and religious pogroms. In the modern world, these wars are brief encounters, resolved within a day or two, but they simmer – maybe for months, sometimes years – and erupt again, like impetuous volcanic hot springs. Veterans, like Ilya, hand these wars to trainees, under strict guidance, so newer members of the PeaceCorp can learn the trade, without creating too much damage to rectify. They are good practice grounds because they are high-risk collateral damage wars needing containment and stabilisation. Trainees learn very quickly how clumsy warmongering techniques can cost human life, and possibly their job, if it is sufficiently bloody in civilian terms. They also quickly come to understand Sun Tzu's first principle of the Art of War: "He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight."

The second two forms of war are essentially political. The most common, and the easiest to manage – actually the most enjoyable – are the wars between nation-states, instigated by political leaders using external threat as a tactic to suppress internal political issues. It is the oldest weapon in a leader's arsenal when he or she needs to keep control of a nation. Ilya points to numerous examples of diversionary foreign policies in history – the Russo-Japanese War, at the start of the Twentieth Century, and the Iraq War, at the beginning of the Twenty-First Century, his especial favourites – to show newbie PeaceCorp war-gamers why governments want such wars. These wars can run for years, if it is seen to be beneficial to both adversaries, and Ilya has one member in his team whose entire job is to maintain balance in a war between four nation states that has burned for eight years. These wars are true games, designed to entertain the masses and keep their minds away from the reality of their daily lives.

The most critical form of war, however, is when nation states go to war over access to resources. The world population reached a critical tipping point, half a century ago, threatening to deplete the dwindling sources of natural resources in the earth and oceans, and brutal wars broke out in several regions, ironically accelerating the depletion of the very precious resources they were fighting over. More by luck than intelligent leadership, the highest stakeholders agreed to convene and resolve the urgent crisis by negotiation, with no one having veto rights. The international convention was the end of the United Nations, as it operated in the Twentieth and early Twenty-First Centuries, but became the catalyst for the creation of the PeaceCorp to manage international conflict, because everyone realised persistent, uncontrolled international conflict would destroy life. War wasn't eliminated. It became orchestrated, managed.

His opponent, as a professional, will know the history, because all the accruing evidence demonstrates his opponent is no mercenary. The nation state his opponent represents has been stable and peaceful for several years, and rogue war-gamers have no incentives, or ways into the game, unless they have access to the patron of a nation that is already unstable. Somehow, he's convinced the nation-state's patron a war is in his country's best interests. So, what are his motives? Why is the nation state aggravating its neighbour?

As if hearing his thoughts, a red glow appears in the first quadrant – an incoming missile strike on a key energy installation. Ilya assesses the data before pressing keys to activate the upper stratosphere defence system. The missiles will never reach their target. His enemy will know that too. A minor diversion? He sits back, observes the aggregating data, and waits for a new alert, the real ploy.

It doesn't come.

Cricket bowling is an art and a science. The art comes in the bowler's style of delivery. The science lies in the bowler's field placement. Ilya loves watching Test matches between nations, because he studies how captains strategize bowling attacks to nullify their opposing team's batting prowess, and he brings his knowledge to the beach cricket. After all, he's a professional war-gamer. He hates to lose.

Macka is wicketkeeper. Jim and Watto take mid-on and mid-off respectively, and Will is already at square leg, which suits Ilya's planning. That leaves Huy and Abdul. He orders Huy to leg slip, because Andy is the first facing batsman, and Ilya knows from the last four games he is susceptible to deliveries down leg side. Andy also likes to play late, so Ilya points Abdul to cover position, at the water's edge. Scientific. Mathematical. Deliberate.

'When you're ready,' Andy says, sardonically. 'Some of us actually want to play.'

'Don't get too comfortable,' Macka jibes from behind the stumps.

Ilya runs in and bowls. The ball hits the sand and jags away to Andy's left. He swings and misses.

'Thought the object of the game is to hit the ball?' Will sledges from square leg,

'The object is to drink more beer!' Lyal yells from the batting team's deckchairs, lifting his bottle, and grins spread around the playing field.

Wednesday morning; the screen is inundated with flashing alerts and updates. The fourth quadrant is a mass of red dots. Ilya listens to the recorded distress messages and urgent requests from his patron government, reads Jacqui's latest overnight report, and studies the enemy's deployment of invading forces. The civilian casualty list is climbing, and escalating the defence response will only exacerbate the loss of life. The opponent is trying to force him into a tactical error, drawing collateral damage into the equation. He won't fall for that old chestnut. Jacqui has initiated evacuation procedures to shift the local people out of the quadrant, especially out of the most dangerous sectors, but people are moving too slowly, being overrun by the enemy's forces.

Ilya assesses the damage: two hundred and eighty-seven transporter and tank robots destroyed or damaged beyond use, five drones shot down, fifteen minor industrial complexes, three military bases and one missile defence centre fallen into enemy hands, three mid-size towns and eight villages captured, an estimated eleven hundred civilians dead, and fifteen thousand displaced, and on the move toward the heavily populated third quadrant. But the sectors taken are fundamentally neutralised in every strategic respect – no religious gains: both countries are traditionally one religious group; no political value: both countries' populations are fundamentally stable; no resource benefit: swathes of simple agricultural and light industrial land. Ilya has enough firepower online to take it back within twenty-four hours. It is as if the diversion in the first quadrant, yesterday, was to mask a full-scale attack in the fourth quadrant. To what end?

He switches on his microphone and calls Mohammed Nisbal, a colleague in PeaceCorp Data Centre and fellow weekend cricketer. 'Hey, mate. Can I get some intel?'

'My pleasure. What exactly?'

'Currently engaged in activity in the Centre Mid region, quadrants Forty-one, Forty-two, Forty-four and Fifty. Clues to the ID of opposing participant would be appreciated.'

'Can do. I don't get this kind of request from you very often.'

'Anomalies. Someone's messing with me, and you know I don't like that.'

Mohammed chuckles. 'None of us do. I'll set some traces and I'll get back to you on this one. Are you playing cricket on the weekend?'

'Wouldn't miss it,' Ilya replies. 'See you there.'

Andy's team makes one hundred and seven runs. Ilya cuts through most of the batters, outsmarting them with good bowling and clever field placements to exploit their weaknesses, finishing with six wickets for twenty-eight runs, but Jamie makes fifty runs and compulsory retirement – again – a milestone he achieves every innings. He has no apparent weakness in his batting, just patience and judgement, picking the right balls to hit and the right ones to leave. The closest anyone has been to dismissing him, over the previous four games, was in run-outs, when his batting partner made an error.

Under the shade of four beach umbrellas, the fourteen men sit in deckchairs, or stand, beers in hand, watching girls, sunbathing and walking by, while they analyse the highlights and lowlights of the first innings. Ilya, though, is silently annoyed, frustrated by Jamie's consistent success, his imperviousness to Ilya's probing. The man has to have a weakness. He isn't an athlete, or a recognised cricketer. He can't be that good. It irks Ilya.

The first pop-up message on his screens, Thursday morning, is from Mohammed. 'I have some intel.'

Ilya puts on his headset and opens the channel to Mohammed. 'And?'

'You're dealing with an insider.'

Ilya's eyes narrow. 'Who?'

'Oh no. That I cannot say. It is locked away in security.'

'You?' Ilya asks.

'Ha!' Mohammed gasps. 'Thank you for the compliment, but it is not me. I could not match wits with you on a battlefield. It's hard enough playing you in a cricket game.'

'Then who?'

'Like I said, I could not get the intel, beyond that it's someone in our complex. Even that is educated reasoning. You will have to find out for yourself who it is – if you can even do that.'

'This is getting personal.'

'You know better than that, my friend,' Mohammed says. 'If you need some help on this one – '

'Under control,' Ilya replies, and mutes the channel.

He relishes every war engagement, but Mohammed's lack of useful intel, beyond establishing his direct opponent is within PeaceCorp, annoys him, and the news on his screens is disappointing. His opponent is resorting to old-school terrorism on a large scale, sending civilian suicide bombers – subos – into key cities in each quadrant to attack civilian centres – shopping hubs, schools, hospitals. The Unilateral Treaty of 2072, between member nations, outlawed civilian targeted acts of terrorism – not that everybody abides by the law, but it is universally agreed raw terrorism is counter-productive as a weapon. This war is rapidly escalating into rogue territory, the collateral civilian losses rising by the hour, threatening international media backlash and destabilisation of the region. He has never lost a nation in eight years. He doesn't intend to mar his record.

Jacqui is off-duty, but he calls her on view phone. She answers drowsily, hair tousled. 'Ilya? Seriously? I'm exhausted.'

'Sorry. When did the bogey begin deploying subos?'

'Read the notes.'

'You said the quadrants were quiet, apart from a reduction in the fourth quadrant activity.'

'Read the fucking notes,' Jacqui begs and switches off.

'I read the fucking notes,' Ilya growls at the dead phone screen. 'They tell me nothing.' He focuses on screen messages from units in the four quadrants, scanning for the first subo event, finds it and swears. 6:59:34 – exactly when he logged on. It is personal. His opponent is making it personal. 'So, arsehole,' he mutters, 'I'll teach you what personal means.' He settles into his chair and analyses the stats, planning his next tactical phase.

The first media question flashes onto his screens. 'We have a problem in the Centre Mid region? A lot of people dying there.' He presses dial and waits for Andrea in PeaceCorp Media to answer.

'That's quick,' she says, bright-eyed, equally bright yellow hair forming a fuzzy halo around her head.

'There's no problem,' he states. 'We have a small-time amateur testing his wings. We'll clean it up by mid-afternoon.'

'I heard different.'

He hates her knowing tone; pseudo-intelligent, pedantic, single-minded. She wants gritty news, but she wants to shut down panic in the outside world for the Corporation. 'Well, gossip media always hears different,' he snidely replies. 'Maybe ask the real people on the ground.'

'We have,' she says. 'Devastating footage. Seems your so-called amateur is unstoppable.'

'Show me,' he says.

A window opens in the bottom left of his second screen and video streams in – a street – people running from a burning shopping mall – transition to a hospital, surrounded by fire engines – another street, strewn with debris and bodies – close up of a crying mother, cradling her dead infant – long shot of a line of ATV hover-tanks cruising along a highway, passing charred hulks of PeaceCorp response vehicles. He switches it off.

'I have statements,' she says, 'from both leaders.'

'Use the statements then.'

'It's an insider, isn't it?'

'I have work to do,' he says tartly, and ends the conversation.

He stares at the statistics, the visuals, the deployment options. This one is getting ugly. He selects the enemy force icon, opens the regional map detailing the enemy quadrants and considers his choices. Retaliatory strikes are not his style. Neither are they sanctioned by PeaceCorp. He remembers his trainer, Suma Kapartri, quoting a writer, Camus, who apparently said, or wrote, "Retaliation is related to nature and instinct, not to law." Her point was simple. 'We don't deal in revenge. We keep balance. We restore the status quo. We foster forgiveness. We keep to the law, no matter what our aggressors do to try to force our hand.'

He broke the law once, five years into his career and before his elevation to Team Leader, in a team assigned to the South East region, monitoring a minor border conflict. The key issue was political pride, and both leaders denied emphatically a conflict was in progress on the border of two small states. Civilian casualties were irritating, but small, hardly enough to attract more than local media attention. Basically, no one cared. And then it became an overnight international sensation. In an unforeseen move, the enemy obliterated twelve villages along the frontline, massacring seven hundred men, women and children in a brutally executed move to eliminate the human reason for the border remaining where it stood. They killed every journalist crew in the area in the same operation, broke every agreed law on military engagement. Because PeaceCorp were monitoring and intervening, his team knew what happened before the atrocity reached the media.

Jasmine Elliott was team leader. The assignment was her first leadership role, but the graphic information they screened did something to her, maybe because she had kids. Maybe she knew people on the ground there. Something made it personal for her. The enemy forces in the conflict were massing at a common spot where the largest massacre took place. He remembers her command to him: 'Fuck them over, all of them.' He knew she was going rogue, but she was his leader, orders were orders, and he secretly liked what she told him to do. So he focused full military retaliation on the jubilant enemy. It was over within fifteen minutes: two divisions of enemy troops dead, their equipment destroyed, the border incursion nullified. It felt good.

Video streaming of piles of charred bodies flashed across the globe in social media, and questions poured in from the Corporation leadership and worldwide interest groups. Governments demanded, and got, an inquiry. The PeaceCorp Inquiry Board interviewed him, so he told the truth, plainly, telling them he followed orders. He had no choice but to comply.

He kept his job. Jasmine didn't. She went home after a shift and never returned.

'The lesson here,' he remembers the PeaceCorp President saying in his annual address, shortly after the incident, 'is we take nothing personal. We maintain stability. A British author in the Twentieth Century, George Orwell, wrote "War is peace" as a maxim of his futuristic regime, but he was closer to the truth than he was given credit for. By managing the "little picture" wars, we sustain "big picture" peace. To do that, we stay objective. Revenge is barbaric, egoistic and unsustainable. We don't deal with the personal.' The original border conflict went quiet for several years, but Ilya knows it's back on the agenda of someone in the PeaceCorp unit. The government of one nation has changed several times since the incident, but little states carry long memories.

A red dot lights the screen in the south quadrant. He waits for the data. Another subo strike, this one on an ambassador's residence. His enemy is provoking him, teasing, goading, probing to see what will cause him to make a mistake. No mistake coming from here, he decides, but I will destroy you, and he activates increased border security along the third quadrant entry points.

Mick's team has its first batting innings, and between them they eke out eighty-four runs, before they're all out, and they break for lunch. Ilya makes a paltry eight runs, but he isn't a batsman and has no desire to be one. Sausage and bread in hand, Andy announces he intends to send Mick's team back in to follow-on from the first innings.

'It's only twenty-seven runs, smart-arse,' Mick growls.

'Seen lower scores destroy teams,' Andy retorts, as he hands Mick a cold beer.

'You're full of it,' Mick says, taking the beer, 'and we're not following-on.'

Andy laughs, and they agree, over a beer, the game will proceed as normal, with Andy's team to take their second innings after the break. Ilya cranks up the barbecue.

He can't believe the multitude of pop-ups. Warnings, attacks, subos, invasions, civilian statistics, news media – his entire nation state protectorate is in meltdown. The first quadrant has a red tidal wave sweeping across it, drowning villages, towns, entire cities. The fourth quadrant is pocked with red smudges – insurgents turning on the local population, and the army. The third quadrant blips with successions of subos as individuals blow themselves up to bring down public institutions.

One pop-up message blares 'What the fuck are you doing? – Andrea.' He closes it, but another immediately opens: 'Don't ignore me. You can't hide this!'

He puts Andrea on ignore and opens his chat channel. 'Wake up, Jacqui!' he screams, because he opens her note file to find it blank. 'Fuck! Jacqui! Wake up!' She doesn't answer. He deploys five armoured divisions from the third quadrant, activates three drone squadrons to hone in on the first quadrant invasion, pulls up the intel on subo groups in the sector and deploys eight robo-hunter teams to root out potential subos and eliminate them with extreme prejudice. His screens blare, and another message opens at the centre.

'We're dying here! Why are you not helping? – President A.'

Patrons always work through subordinates, so a direct message from this patron means there's genuine panic in the nation's leadership.

'Responding now – PC' he types and sends. The pressure is mounting. He alters his device to voice activation, and barks orders. 'Drones in sectors nine, fifteen and twenty-one, activate! Targets eleven through seventeen, Quadrant Forty-four, terminate!' Green dots illuminate and move towards the third quadrant. He spots a cluster of red lines angling across the screen towards the capital in the second quadrant. Missiles. 'Activate missile shield, code red, Quadrant Forty-two!' he orders, and waits. Green lines intersect the red ones and all lines vanish. He spots a cluster of hundreds of red dots breaking from the red wave in the first quadrant and heading for the capital. 'Activate drones in sector eighty-four! Target enemy drone formation heading southwest from Quadrant Forty-one, altitude two thousand metres. Engage and terminate!'

Another window opens: 'Can I help? – Mohammed.'

'Under control,' he says, and his reply is auto-typed and sent. He mutes all communications and focuses on the screens, the moving lights, flashing dots, swathes of red and green. So you are making your big move, he thinks, and reverts to keyboard and hand gestures to activate and direct his forces. About time. Now we get resolution. Status quo. That's the target. I destroy you, and I get all the kudos. You want personal? You got it.

He wrestles with the unfolding, chaotic war, blocking and eliminating enemy incursions, taking back lost land, stopping critical attacks, sweating and cursing, getting increasingly frustrated as he realises he's not winning, only defending. The statistics shift inexorably from green to yellow to red – lost military forces, diminishing resources, irreparable infrastructures and dead civilians. Too many dead civilians. There can be no return to the status quo. There will be no one left to maintain it. 'Fuck!' he swears, smashes his fist against his desktop, and swears again. He hasn't lost a war since training. He will not lose this one.

He assesses the four quadrants and pulls up intel from the enemy nation. Stats don't lie. If he begins counter strikes against military targets, his enemy will be overstretched and he can break the forward momentum, but he risks running out of his own resources. He hates to admit it, but he can't do this alone. He switches on his headset, checks contact details, and dials the code for the adjoining friendly nation. An accented woman's voice answers, 'Yes?'

'PC request for military support in Centre Mid region,'

'Benefits?' she asks.

'Region stability, key priority,' he replies. He deploys another drone squadron into the fourth quadrant.

'Need more incentive,' she says calmly.

'Are you kidding me?' he asks, controlling his anger. 'Your patron will be the next to go down if my patron falls.'

'Speculation,' she says. 'There are treaties.'

'We had one,' he retorts. 'I only need military resources.'

'I repeat, benefits?'

'Fuck me,' he mutters under his breath. He pauses to consider the problem, and deploys three mobile armoured divisions to the second quadrant inner border to meet a small breakthrough coming from the first quadrant. 'Best I have are preferential trading opportunities, but I'll have to qualify with my patron.'

'You can do better,' she says.

'An alliance.'

'Not worth much in this region.'

'Then what do you want?' he asks, exasperated.

'The west quadrant.'

'Are you kidding me?' He closes the conversation, and rips off his headset.

Hearing tapping on his door, he presses the unlock button. Supervisor Sharvi Aralumpulan's head appears around the door. 'Is there a problem?' He glances at the screen with its glittering red LEDs. 'Why have you shut down communications?'

'I don't need Media in my face when I'm working,' Ilya snaps. 'You know I can't stand that lot.'

'They are just doing what they are asked to do,' Sharvi says. 'Do I need to issue a General Alert?'

'I'm not beaten yet,' Ilya replies. 'I've got this.'

Sharvi looks at the screens again. 'I hope so, for your sake,' he says, reminding Ilya he will be held responsible for political destabilisation if he continues alone and loses, 'and for the sake of eighty-seven million people in that region,' he adds. 'We are not heroes in here. We don't exist.' He closes the door.

Ilya turns back to the screens, the data and makes his calculations. He opens the communication channels and the screens flood with pop-ups. It is going to be a long, frustrating Friday.

Lunch done, the teams return to the beach pitch. The sky is turning disappointingly overcast, a brisk breeze is whipping the waves into white caps, and sand stings their bare legs. 'Might be a short afternoon,' Mick comments, and tosses Ilya the ball.

Andy is opening again, this time with Jamie as his opening partner. Ilya returns the ball to Mick, saying, 'Let Will bowl. I might field a few overs to let this steak settle.'

Mick calls Will, and Ilya heads to mid-on, waving to Abdul to move to square leg. 'Need a change,' he says, as his excuse. And it is an excuse. He wants to analyse Jamie's batting from a different angle, not as the aggressive bowler, but as an onlooker, taking a different view entirely.

Andy and Jamie stride to the pitch, Andy with a stubby in his left hand. 'In case I need to celebrate fifty,' he says, grinning.

'Truth is you know you'll be back sitting down in two sips,' Macka chides from behind the wickets. The banter is on. The game is on.

Ilya watches Jamie play each ball. For an amateur, his technique is flawless. His reflexes are impressive, and he is still in, unbeaten on twenty-eight, when his third partner is dismissed. Ilya knows to get him out will take something extraordinary – or something outside the rules. He waves to Mick, and yells, 'I need a piss!' and trots toward the esplanade toilets.

Jacqui's notes open when he starts on Saturday morning: "Quiet shift. Status quo maintained. Enemy made no moves against new sectors or assets. Holding pattern solid. Negotiators continuing search for resolution." He sees the red dots moving on his screens, the red wave surging in the first quadrant, and knows his opponent has waited overnight for him. The pattern is distinct. So, he wonders, are you waiting specifically for me, or are you locked in your own pattern and my shift timing is coincidental? He deploys defences to neutralise the enemy's incursions in each sector, before he starts trawling the stats on the war's progress from the outset. It will be another long day.

Media are in a feeding frenzy, speculating the Centre Mid region is going into meltdown. Jacqui has kept Andrea and her crew off the case, with carefully crafted explanations of the situation, but there are still a host of unanswered responses he intends to ignore on his shift. Jacqui is better at protocol. He checks the screens and confirms the enemy are in a holding pattern from the previous day: no advances, no retreats, no new strikes.

He had little sleep overnight, going over and over scenarios, possibilities, options. He assessed the impact of every strategy he could devise, built and replayed them on his home computer, weighted the odds heavily in his enemy's favour to determine the maximum catastrophe. He would lose the nation state. He messaged Mohammed, in the pre-dawn hours in desperation, but Mohammed's answer was simply, 'No identity.'

A red light blinks in the third quarter – the first subo on a subway. Stats flood the screen: eighty-seven dead, sixty-two severely injured, another ninety with minor injuries. Media queries pop up within three minutes. He waits for the next attack, but the screens are silent for more than an hour, until a drone raid appears in the northeast sector of the first quadrant. He responds with ground-to-air missiles that will eliminate the raiders. It all goes quiet again.

He uses the lull to re-deploy a host of remaining arms to strategic positions. The stats warn him his quadrants, and the nation within them, are fragile, on imminent collapse, and it will only take another day like yesterday for his defence to implode. He's never been so vulnerable, not since training, so he waits and sweats, second-guessing what his opponent will try next.

Plan B is secreted in his pocket. He waves to Mick, when he returns from the toilets and barbecue area, to indicate he wants to bowl. Mick nods. At the end of the over, Will tosses the ball to Ilya, saying, 'I can't touch the bastard. He's too good.'

I'll prove otherwise, Ilya thinks, as he paces out his run-up to the crease. The game doesn't matter anymore, but I'll knock you over. He glares at Jamie, waiting at the far end for his first delivery, turns and walks to his start point, and the battle begins.

Intel floods his screen. His enemy is massing forces on the borders of the first and fourth quadrants. Ground robots are swelling the lines in the first quadrant, absolute signs a major push will come from there. Hundreds of dots appear, in the air, heading for the third quadrant. Stats tell him yesterday's fighting was about softening his defences, and not his enemy's major move at all. He rapidly reviews his depleted resources. With a concerted concentration, he can protect the second quadrant and the capital from the impending blitz, but he will have to sacrifice two, possibly three quadrants to do so. The game is all but over. He will lose, and his reputation as one of PeaceCorp's premier war-gamers will be in tatters. His dreams of promotion will evaporate. He will be consigned to low profile regions. 'No!' he snarls at the screens. 'No! I will not lose like this!' He methodically organises his forces, to overtly show his rival how his defence strategy will align to and negate the impending attack, but he considers the one remaining option to turn the tide: break the rules. He buzzes Mohammed.

'Yes, Ilya?'

'Absolutely no intel on my opponent's identity?'

'No name. You know what I know.'

'Why would the Corporation pit someone against me? I've seen no strategy memos concerning these two nations, other than peaceful stability. Have you?'

'No.'

'Someone wants to bring me down.'

'No personal conflicts – that's the rules,' Mohammed reminds him.

'But there's no logic to what's happening here.'

'Maybe there is, but higher up. Some strategies are classified, even from us.'

Ilya snorts and hangs up. 'Well, this is more personal than anything I've faced, so I'm making a statement,' he says to the screens. 'I don't lose, especially when I don't have to.' He closes all but one communication channel and pop ups vanish from his screen. He calls up the aggressor nation's map, and scrolls through all the latest intel on the whereabouts of the nation's president, until he narrows down where he will be at this moment in time: a charity benefit in a new hospital for cancer patients. The event is about to begin and is timed to take thirty minutes. Perfect. He closes all his windows, bar one, and checks his door. He scrolls through his listed conveyors, and selects 'Beta 4', before he types in 'Code T: target 1. Now.'

His finger hovers over the enter button. He's never used patron assassination. PeaceCorp banned its use, several years before he was recruited, because it was politically high risk and a common ploy of rogue war-gamers who sought to destabilise regions. By using it, he was breaking a core rule.

'If you want to learn how to do this,' Kira, his mentor, and lover at the time, told him, when he was nearing the end of his training, 'you have to learn the complicated way. There's no easy option. This is an illegal end-game tactic. I risk excommunication from the PeaceCorp for even knowing this.'

'So who taught you?' he naively asked, and, when she didn't answer, he said, 'Teach me.'

'The key,' she said, 'is always to make the hit on the target patron appear to come from an aggravated internal political group or, best of all, a psychotic individual. It's based on the Guy Fawkes concept: "A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy." Leave no traces back to PeaceCorp, and especially yourself. The blame must stay entirely with the conveyor.'

He learned the lesson. As an end-game tactic, he also learned the importance of having it ready to operate, at all times, in the hope of never using it. He has willing conveyors in every nation in the region, groups and individuals willing to die in order to kill the leaders of their countries. The process of preparation is sometimes quick, sometimes slow, but finding groups angry with the incumbent government, and isolating political nutters, is easy. He smiles and presses the key to play the end game. Cricket tomorrow, at Henley Beach, will be a welcome break.

His bowling makes no impact on Jamie, and in four overs Jamie races to forty-eight, while Ilya takes two of his partners' wickets. One wicket in hand, it seems inevitable Jamie will make yet another fifty not out, and Ilya is fuming. He steams in, and delivers a rising ball that Jamie turns away to fine leg to gather his forty-ninth run, leaving Mohammed facing the next ball.

'Bunny at the crease!' Macka goads. 'Get those beers ready for us!'

Mohammed smiles and shrugs at Ilya, but Ilya ignores the friendly gesture, intent on his strategy to get at Jamie. Mohammed is easy to dismiss, vulnerable to every ball pitched on off-stump, but he doesn't want Mohammed's wicket. He wants Jamie's. He runs in and bowls a precise delivery that Mohammed pokes at awkwardly.

'Run!' Andy screams from the deckchairs.

Jamie bolts for the far end, but Mohammed hesitates, and by the time he reacts, and starts struggling through the sand, he knows his cause to reach the crease is hopeless. Abdul scoops up the ball, and throws to Ilya to complete the easy run out, but to his team's dismay, and Mohammed's delight, Ilya fumbles the catch, drops the ball. Mohammed lunges to safety, amid his teammates' cheers.

Ilya apologises to his team, and paces back to his start, where he drops the ball again. As he squats to retrieve it, he swaps it with the ball in his pocket: Plan B. He rubs the tennis ball in the sand to disguise the split in the seam, cut with the barbecue knife as he returned from the toilet, feels the extra weight of sand inside, and is convinced Jamie won't be able to read the heavier bounce. He turns, runs in and bowls at full tilt. As he ploughs to a halt, the ball scuds under Jamie's bat, flattens the plastic wicket, and Ilya feels the adrenalin rush of victory pump through his body. The team won't win the cricket match, but he's won the duel, and that's all that matters.

Monday, fresh from the Sunday beach break, he arrives early, to avoid the predicted heat wave sweeping in from the west, only to discover he's locked outside the black PeaceCorp edifice because the entry retinal scanner seems to be broken. He presses the telco pager and waits for Angel's face to appear. It's a good day. He expects to find the war in the Centre Mid region resolved, because of his end-game tactic, and, after all, they won cricket yesterday. Angel's voice interrupts his reverie. 'Mister Mitanov?'

'It's me, Angel,' he says, laughing at her formality. Although she is relatively new to PeaceCorp, Ilya prides himself on his charm to befriend the receptionist.

'Mister Mitanov, please proceed to the forty-eighth floor immediately.' As her face vanishes, he hears the door click. He enters, confused by Angel's out-of-character tone, and crosses the empty black marble foyer to the lifts, caught between unexpected anxiety and anticipation. The forty-eighth floor is the CE's space. He's only ever been up there twice; the time he appeared before the Inquiry Board, and when he was promoted to Team Leader of the Centre Mid region. His hand trembles, as he presses the lift button. He's due for another promotion, especially after eight successful years and his reputation. Okay, he muses as he presses the forty-eighth floor button, last week was not my best effort, but I'm confident the matter is resolved. Perhaps this meeting will be in recognition of overcoming a particularly difficult assignment.

When the lift opens at the forty-eighth floor, two security officers in PeaceCorp green kit greet him. 'This way, Mister Mitanov,' one says, and they lead him to a door that slides open. Inside a windowless room are three people, standing, waiting for him. He recognises Jamie.

'Wow!' he gasps, and extends his hand.

Jamie shakes the offered hand, and introduces his colleagues. 'Myrna Barrow and Johann Marks.'

'I didn't know you worked up here,' Ilya says, looking at Jamie.

'Protocol,' Jamie replies. 'You know the rules.'

'Which is why you are here,' Myrna says bluntly. 'Johann?'

The blank wall shimmers, the ceiling light dims, and a video begins. And Ilya watches a time-lapse version of the war he's just waged – a cleverly edited combination of computer screen shots and actual footage from the various quadrants.

'You've had a busy week,' Johann notes.

'Hardest so far,' Ilya replies, accepting Johann's observation as a compliment.

'Eight years without a loss, I believe,' Myrna says.

Ilya grins proudly, and says, 'Yes, indeed.'

'A good record,' Johann says, 'worthy of promotion.'

So this is it, Ilya thinks, and satisfaction purrs in his chest. 'Thank you,' he says, feigning humility.

'So why did you sanction this?' Myrna asks.

She directs his attention to the screen, where a mobile camera bobs on the head of an individual entering a hospital. The camera weaves through a crowd, pushes past a soldier and focuses on a party of people, surrounded by media devices. At a central podium, an individual is talking into a microphone in a foreign language - until chaos breaks loose as an explosion engulfs the party. The camera tilts and falls, but the audio records the rattle of automatic weapon fire before the camera goes black. The screen dulls and the ceiling light brightens.

Ilya blinks, and realises all three are staring at him. 'I don't understand,' he says. 'When did that happen?'

Myrna's dark eyes narrow. She says curtly, 'We don't have time for games, Mister Mitanov. We have the data. You know what happened. Rather than risk losing, you broke the rules. If you'd conceded a loss of your patron's state, graciously, we might have been able to re-establish stability in the Centre Mid easily. Instead, your selfish action has destabilised the entire region. We now have one nation state going rogue, as multiple factions vie for political control, and another in shambles from defeat. War is not personal, Mister Mitanov, and it's not about winning. It is about balance and wisdom.'

'There are ethics to what we do,' Johann reminds him. 'War is not the tool of the personal ego any more. We manage it to ensure there is peace for the maximum number of people.'

'We thought you might have the wisdom and skills to be brought up another level,' Myrna says. 'Sadly, not so.'

He wants to argue. He wants to tell them he did what he thought he had to do to save his patron's nation, but he knows they won't broker lies. He knew he was breaking a cardinal rule when he released his covert assassins. He knew the risk. 'Why is he here?' he asks, indicating Jamie. 'He hasn't said anything.'

'Classified, Mister Mitanov, especially to citizens,' Myrna replies.

'Your personal gear is available at the foyer counter,' Johann says. 'Of course, even though you no longer work for us, you are forbidden to tell anyone you were ever here. You do understand what that means, don't you?'

He knows what it means. PeaceCorp security extends beyond the building. He's heard stories of renegade former employees disappearing because they thought they had a right to speak about their former employment. 'Can I know who was representing the other patron?' he asks. 'It's just curiosity.'

'Classified,' Myrna repeats.

'We're done here,' Johann says. 'You already know it was one of our own. That's all you need to know,' and he indicates the door. Ilya looks at all three, lingers on Jamie, wondering why his cricket friend said nothing in his defence, shrugs, and follows the security guards to the lift.

As he descends, the realisation he's been sacked sinks in. 'I was trying to do the right thing,' he murmurs. 'For fuck's sake.' The lift door swishes open, and he walks across the black marble foyer to the dark wall of one-way glass behind which the receptionist sits. Before he reaches the glass, a panel opens, and a cardboard box slides onto the floor. He looks at the box and stares at the glass. 'Serious, Angel?' There's no answer. He sniffs, rubs his nose, and squats to open the box.

Inside, they've packed his personal stuff – a coffee mug, a box of headache pills, a container of multi-vitamins, a toothbrush he never used at work, a tablet used to store his music tracks – and a grimy, damaged tennis ball. He stares at the ball for several seconds, reading the name of the nation state he'd been battling scratched into the felt. When he picks it up, and feels the weight of sand packed inside, he understands. 'You bastard,' he says to the air. He pops the ball in his pocket, picks up the box, and heads for the door.

A P.R.I.M. Journey

by

Lyn McConchie

New Zealand

She stood thinking in the centre of her bedroom. She couldn't remember when she'd realized she had the gift. But what mattered was now she could use it to buy the revenge for which she burned. She grinned and something in her expression showed feral, bloody. Reminding them, had there been watchers, that the human animal is only veneered in civilization.

She stood, drawing into her memory the sight, sound, and scent of the place where she wished to be, then - she was there. She flung back her head and laughed as her hands went out to touch the ancient trunks of the trees. This was the third time it had worked. By now she knew her parameters. She had to know the place. She had to will herself there with every ounce of her strength. And, this too she had learned, she 'knew' if there was another person close to where she would arrive.

For a moment she stood touching the rough wood gently. She made the effort of will again and her own bedroom firmed about her. It was becoming easier. A few more times to practice and she'd be ready. Her enemy wouldn't be prepared for this. It was beautiful, the revenge she had planned. In the privacy of her bedroom there was none to see the hate and the tinge of madness in her eyes.

Outside technicians tended the huge machine. Officially its creator had called it the Personality Rebalancing and Integration Machine. P.R.I.M. for short. The technicians called it the Dream Machine. Only Martin Cernowcyz, its creator, knew exactly how it worked. Others knew no more than the machine's system vanished into that rarefied area where math becomes art. But ten years after its appearance it had made changes to the human landscape. The percentages were still roughly the same \- in thirds. But the new possibilities had altered laws and treatments.

Now, after they'd tried the psychologists, the councillors, the psychiatrists, they tried PRIM. The law said no one who was dangerous to themselves and more importantly, to others, should be free. So from all over the country those who'd been certified as insane and dangerous came to PRIM. It was a last resort. One third of all who entered the machine were removed from it to the morgue. Another third were carried out, driven so deep within themselves they would never return. Most of those died too, usually within weeks. It was the last third which continued to draw in the numbers. They were the ones who walked out, heads high, eyes cleared of madness and nightmares. PRIM could heal as well as kill.

In her bedroom the woman clenched her hands. She must prepare very carefully. It wouldn't do, now she had the means, to spoil it by haste or carelessness. She made phone calls, spent the passing hours in the small doings of a busy farm. Then she was ready as the car turned into her drive and she stepped inside to be driven away. She kept her expression bland, her voice quiet. Even when she arrived and was talking to her enemy, she maintained an iron control.

None saw the encompassing stare as she studied the apartment in which she moved. She made her mental notes of dimensions and furniture. And as she left, her gaze followed the stairs downwards, considered the remaining units in the small apartment block. She made calculations as to which wall other occupants were most likely to hear through from the apartment in which she had been. Her face remained bland but within a slow, lethal smile crept through her mind.

Back in her home again she planned. She must lay out times, alibis that would be just convincing enough without suggesting fabrication. Nothing too ironclad but definite proof she could not have been committing any acts of which she might later be accused.

A week later she was ready. It was the weekly stock-sale day and she had lambs to take in. She did so, dropping them off and pausing to chat to several other farmers she knew who would remember her. Then she drove home quickly. She ran a bath and stepped in and out, before donning the same clothes as she had worn on her previous visit to her enemy. She gathered herself, reached out with will and feral hunger, and felt the instant transition.

She was there. The home of her enemy, and before her she saw the woman's back as she prepared something at the kitchen bench. The traveller smiled; a slow triumphant stretching of thinned lips. Above that the eyes were chilled with hate. She spoke very softly, savouring the moment.

"Well, well, and hello to you."

Her enemy spun so fast she staggered. One hand went to her mouth. "How did you get here - why...?"

"Why am I here? It's a long story." Her hand gestured towards a chair. "Do sit down, you may as well be comfortable - for the moment." She watched as her enemy obeyed, too bewildered to refuse or protest. Her voice became falsely solicitous. "You've had a shock, are you warm enough, I can get you something?"

"No, no, I'm fine." Good, her enemy was confused at the speed and oddness of events, by the time she understood what was happening to her the first part of the plan would be accomplished.

"I'm here to tell you a story I think you should hear." She saw the small relaxation of tenseness and bitten back fury. Let her think it was no more than some tale. She'd learn differently soon enough.

"Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was just nine when her mother died but she had relatives all ready to take her in. They took her in quite willingly too. After all a slave isn't easily come by these days. They worked the child in the house and outside in their garden. She was constantly punished for misdeeds they claimed she had committed and for shortcomings they claimed she had.

"Each time she was told the beatings or the withheld food was for her own good. She was wicked, and anyhow, she wasn't the real daughter of their dead sister. Just an adoptee of bad blood their foolish sister and her long-dead husband had picked out of the gutter."

Her mouth soured on the words as she remembered. She had come from love to punishment, from a generosity of spirit to a narrow-minded meanness. From the light of love and caring to a cold-hearted household where it was made bitterly clear she was welcome for her ability to work and for no other reason. Every penny spent on her was begrudged. She was often punished by with-holding of her meals so she was thin and always hungry. She learned to steal food, so she had a full belly. She learned to lie, sometimes it saved her from the beatings. And over seven years in hell she had learned to hate.

"That wasn't all." her eyes shifted to an odd shininess, which could have been tears, but wasn't. "You know what else, don't you? You've denied it, but no longer, no more." She leaned forward from where she stood against the kitchen cabinet. "Your husband liked little girls. You were willing to allow it, just so long as the neighbours weren't talking. Perhaps it was a rest for you. He wasn't in your bed and you liked it that way. Never mind what it did to the child who was eleven when he started. I wasn't really related, so what did you care?" The tone was so edged with savagery now the woman addressed cowered back in her chair.

"That upsets you, does it? It upset me a lot more." Her voice hardened. "It ruined my life. In some ways I can understand him, men get it where they can. I imagine with a frigid wife a girl-child was a convenience. But you \- a woman is supposed to protect children. To risk her life, even die to protect them if necessary. God knows I don't much like kids myself, but I'd never have stood by and watched one being abused. You connived at it. Without you shutting your eyes to what was happening, he'd never have been able to get away with it."

"I didn't... he didn't do... you're a liar, you always were."

"No. I'm not. It was what you told yourself. I was a liar and a thief. If I was a liar you didn't have to believe or listen. If I was a thief you could beat me and justify it. It was all so easy. Starve me until I stole to eat. Then tell everyone I was a thief and had to be punished." Her smile was terrible. "We both know the truth though, don't we? Now's the time all your own sins come home to roost."

"What - what do you..." the words were in a suddenly fearful whimper as realisation began to sink in.

"What do I plan? Oh, I'll let you find out. It's a surprise, just like the surprises your husband used to bring me." She walked two brisk paces forward as her hand lashed out. "Here's a token to give you the idea." She watched as her enemy rocked back from the blow, eyes incredulous.

"You're mad. You won't get away with it. I'll call the Police. I'll have you jailed, you wicked girl. You'll be sorry."

"No," The answering voice was suddenly wondering. "No, whatever happens, I won't be sorry." It firmed. "Goodbye for now. I'll be seeing you again though - soon."

She whisked from the room into the tiny hallway, already reaching into her own mind. Dimensions twisted to allow her safe passage. In her house she stripped the clothes from her body swiftly, dropped them into the waiting washing machine and flicked it on. Again she dipped in and out of the cooling bathwater. Then, dressed in farm clothing she hurried to the kitchen, she would phone... the phone rang as she reached for it. She smiled as she answered the call, a friend who wanted to talk, a favour asked.

It was minor but it involved a visit to a second person at once, her prepared alibi could be saved, this was better. She completed her usual farm tasks after the visit, all of the time waiting for the car she knew would arrive. It pulled up at the gate just before three in the afternoon. Two men in suits drifted down the path, eyes busy as they looked about them. Now, she must be convincing, just upset and indignant enough.

The conversation went as she'd expected. Yes, she was the person they were looking for. Yes, she did know a Mrs. Albertson, the woman was her adopted mother. Yes, she'd seen her recently. How recently? A week ago, why? There was no answer, only more questions. She permitted irritation to show. Had something happened? Her question was again ignored as they pressed for her whereabouts today. About midday, where had she been then, could she tell them? She could and did. They stepped outside to use their own phones in privacy while she began her dinner preparations.

Outside the detectives were discovering their quarry seemed to have told the truth. "Look, if she was at the sale until eleven this morning and her friend talked to her on the phone here at half past twelve, there's no way she could have been in Ranton at twelve. The chap at the store saw her bringing the sheep trailer back about half-past eleven. The Albertson woman claims the girl was in the flat for ten minutes at least. That leaves one hour. One hour to drive a two hundred mile round trip and not be seen by anyone. The phone call was pure accident. Her friend says it arose from something said to her only a few minutes before she rang. The Albertson woman's over eighty and going senile if you ask me. I thought she was hiding something too. Let's leave it for now."

They departed in a haze of polite apologies. The woman hugged herself as the car vanished down the road. It had gone wonderfully. She'd leave the next event a few days while the realization sank in with mother-dear the Police were going to take no action. Let her enemy feel helpless for a change. She moved on to phase two four days later with her plans prepared and memorized.

She had a meeting in an hour and at this time of day people often rang to catch a farmer inside for lunch. She was lucky. A supplier rang to ask if she wanted the usual delivery and spreading of fertilizer again this season. She chatted for several minutes before confirming the order. Once the call was ended she sprang into action, donning again the clothing she had worn on her earlier visits.

She stood in the middle of her room and senses stretched out, shaping the room where she'd go, checking for anyone there. No, her enemy was alone, and she reached, twisted the dimensions, arrived silently in the hallway and stepped through the hall doorway, smiling, to confront her prey.

"Surprise!"

The woman fell back with a faint, gasping whimper as she felt blindly for a chair. She slumped into it, cringing as the other advanced. "Go away, leave me alone. I'll tell the police."

"That's what I used to say." Her tormentor said with a terrible gentleness as she looked into terrified eyes. "You know what he used to say to me? He said no one would believe me. You told the Police about my last visit and guess what? They didn't believe you either. They think you're either senile or telling lies. I've got plans for you, mother dear!" The last words were loaded with a savage sarcasm.

"I have all the time in the world to deal with you. I'll keep coming back like this. Each time you'll hurt a little more, then a little worse. Finally, I'll kill you - and no one will be able to prove a thing."

She struck, enjoying the thud of the blow. The feeling of power as the long-ago hypocrite shrank away with a thin cry of pain and fear.

"Now you know how I felt, helpless with no one to listen or help. I suffered for seven years. You won't last long." She strolled to the hallway, shifting home once she was out of sight.

At home she stripped fast, down to her underwear. She'd chosen carefully before she'd agreed to the first official visit. Every dress she wore was made of light cotton. It would wash like a rag and dry in the machine in half an hour. She dropped the outfit into the machine, starting the cycles. She thought this second time too she would get away with what she'd done without too close a police investigation. They'd check and her alibi would stand up again.

With the frock dry she folded it into the middle of a heap of other clean dresses. She was already dressed for her woman's group meeting. She drove there, aware she would have visitors again on her return. She did, but after a check with the group and a word with the Fertilizer company confirmed her phone conversation and the time it occurred, they became polite again. This time she acted out her part with greater annoyance. The detectives left, halting only to have a word with the community constable at her village's one-person police-station.

"We don't really think there's anything in it." The constable was assured. "Some internal family squabble perhaps or more likely the old woman's losing her mind. Just keep an eye on this one's movements so far as you can."

She guessed it would be their next step and she'd allowed for it. The dress she was wearing on her visits had been one of two bought from a chain store, hundreds of frocks like it, all identical. She'd purchased the second for cash from a shop she never used, and on a very busy evening when no seller would be likely to recall a particular face. She'd bought the first openly from a local shop. With it had come a sturdy plastic drawstring bag. Long ago she'd been friends with a man who'd been a soldier in his day. He'd taught her a soldier's saying she now lived by.

'Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted.' And, 'always have a simple, flexible plan.' To some extent the woman had a chess-masters mind. She could see several moves ahead, making her plans on that basis, keeping them simple. She'd made a careful reconnaissance of both areas, finding a tree deep in thick bush fifty miles from either her own or her enemy's home.

Her third visit was laid out with all possibilities in mind. This time it was a push. A push left no marks. Even as her enemy landed, wailing, on the floor, she shifted to the tree where she stripped her dress from her body and donned a light t-shirt and slacks, left there on her way out. The dress was thrust into the drawstring bag and placed in a hollow in the tree an arms-length above her head. The hole was shallow, just deep enough to conceal the small waterproof parcel.

Then she shifted back to her home and the silent phone as she began to dish up a prepared meal. She sat to eat just as the knock came. It was the local constable to check up on her with a specious but reasonable-sounding excuse. This should convince him and his colleagues if nothing else did. She'd been in different clothing and home again within minutes of the claimed attack. If her adopted mother had rung at once, the police at her end had rung here, it had still permitted her the five minutes needed to work her plan.

He asked to use her bathroom. He would be prying hastily through her bathroom cupboard, the door left invitingly ajar and showing the stack of clothing. He'd find only a clean folded garment in a pile of them. The constable politely drank the offered tea at her table, before reporting back to an exasperated superior.

They were there to do police work, not to have staff tied up on in some time-wasting family feud. Still, the old woman was insistent her attacker had been this woman, and her doctor said his patient had definitely suffered a fall, and she was badly bruised and shaken. The old woman herself said she had been pushed this time, not hit. The superior sighed. They would have to watch developments. It could get nasty; family fights often did. It was the motive that puzzled them and a female officer was detailed to make enquiries.

"Never mind the usual stuff. We already know no one involved has any record. Find out any gossip about the old woman. Ask about her marriage. The girl left home at sixteen. Why did it take twenty years for her to come back and visit? There's something odd here and I want to know what it is."

The officer reported back a few days later. "I found someone who knew the family, she lived next door years ago and didn't like them." The ex-neighbour had been happy to recount the gossip and hints from the time. She'd also been able to suggest two other avenues, which might be profitably explored by a seeker after old events. The officer had sought, and found. Now she hunted out her superior to share her gleanings.

He listened before summing up. "So, they took the child in when her mother died. She'd been the woman's adopted daughter there and therefore not related to this pair so they felt free to ill-treat and over-work her. The girl left at sixteen and didn't visit for twenty years until recently. What prompted it?"

The officer shrugged. "I'm told one of the two natural children was distressed by the rift. She persuaded her adopted sister come with her to call on their mother. Everyone seems to agree the visit was a bit stiff but that's normal. There doesn't seem to have been anything to suggest trouble."

She was dismissed while her superior reached for a phone. No, he was told. The Welfare Files showed nothing in particular. They'd asked the girl to return after her departure on her sixteenth birthday. She'd refused. No reason given. There were no allegations of ill-treatment made at the time. The Detective Chief-Superintendent shrugged. She'd sit this one out. There was no apparent recent motive, nor was there any proof of the allegations made by Mrs. Albertson. In fact, there was proof to the contrary since it was physically impossible for the old woman to have been assaulted by the one she claimed to have done it.

She studied the assembled file again. The parameters were ridiculous. Even stretching times like elastic, the accused had been a hundred miles away in different clothes sitting down to a recently heated meal less than fifteen minutes after the alleged attack. What did they think the accused was - Superwoman? She shuffled the file into the computers 'out basket' section, under 'no further action.' There were more important things to work on than the false complaints of one vindictive, probably going senile old lady.

However, she had to move when she received the phone call a week later. "She says what? It was the daughter who pushed her down the stairs? She is definitely injured?"

The Police machine sprang into action. This time the clean-folded dress was checked forensically - without result.

"The accused says she did wear it on her original visit. It was washed then, folded and put away and has been unworn since then. We could find nothing we could identify on the exchange principle. You'd play hell with anything you could find anyway. No one denies the girl was there on a family visit. Think what any lawyer could do with such a claim. In my opinion someone's crackers."

"I didn't ask you."

"Okay, be like that." The scientist rang off chuckling. No one could make bricks without straw and he didn't envy the Chief her job. The Detective Chief-Superintendent sighed, with the old woman insisting she had been attacked they had to be seen to be doing something. They called in a psychiatrist.

"Find out if it's real or all in her head if you can. We think there's a reason either way and knowing what might give us a lead."

They'd used the psychiatrist before and trusted his knowledge and common sense. It took almost two months, during which several further attacks were claimed, and investigated without enthusiasm. The rank and file believed the old woman to be a nutter. Why else would they have called in a shrink on her? It was the psychiatrist who was able to produce a possible motive.

"It is likely the girl was sexually abused by the father with the mother's implied consent. Mrs. Albertson admitted this is what the girl gave as a reason for the attacks. She says it's a lie of course, the girl always was and is a terrible liar, and a thief as well."

"What do you say - on the basis of probability and experience?"

The psychiatrist hesitated, pursing his lips. "Off the record? I'd say the allegations could be true. I'd also think it was Mrs. Albertson who knew what was happening but chose to shut her eyes to it." he watched his companion shudder. "I know, but it happens more than you think. Women in her position have reasons to keep quiet, two reasons in this case. One is the girl was unrelated, the other was Mrs. Albertson had already taken part in a couple of years of physical abuse when the sexual assaults began. She kept silent for fear of what might happen to her if it all came out or what the neighbours would say if the sexual abuse was discovered."

"And if it's true the daughter would have had a motive?"

"Yes, and so does Mrs. Albertson if she's lying about these attacks. She's been a widow and pillar of the community for the past twenty years. If any of this came out it would ruin her. She may also have a bad conscience. That makes it more likely she's fantasizing."

"The fantasy being triggered off by the visit of her adopted daughter so long after the abuse and her leaving the family home?"

"It's possible." The psychiatrist informed him thoughtfully

"So what do I do?"

"Do nothing. I'll talk to Mrs. Albertson. Try to make her see these accusations have to stop. If it continues you could speak to her own children about it."

In any event the outburst which met his well-intentioned words of warning decided him to do so himself.

Mrs. Albertson's tormentor came primed with the information on the next visit. A phone call to her from an adopted sister horrified at where her kindly impulse had led them all had been very clear. Even the old woman's daughter had not believed the story once she'd talked to the police. She'd never liked her father who was quick to strike, and her mother's sour outlook had made her teenage years depressing. The idea her mother had ignored the abuse of her adopted sister disgusted her. She cradled her own small children against her and thought of what to say before seeing her mother. When she arrived she was brutally clear.

"This nonsense stops. The Police have checked Jan's whereabouts each time you've claimed she attacked you. It isn't physically possible for her to have been with you when you claim. The psychiatrist says it's probably a fantasy brought on by your guilt." She eyed her mother. "I was only eight when Jan left but I remember enough to think she's telling the truth. If you bother the Police again, Johnny and I will have you committed. The Police say next time you call them claiming Jan assaulted you, and it isn't physically possible, they'll look at charging you instead."

"Me?" The voice wavered shrilly. "What for?"

"For wasting Police time," her daughter snapped. "Keep quiet about anything you think you see. I don't care if it's Jan or pink elephants. The Police don't want to know and nor so I!" She slammed out.

Mrs. Albertson made one final attempt. On that visit Jan was lucky as she later heard. She shifted in, pushed her victim hard, then leaped for the hallway, shifting again. Outside the door a knock sounded seconds after her disappearance. Mrs. Albertson reeled gabbling to the door to face a lady with Meals on Wheels. She was assured no one had passed the meal-deliverer. She'd delivered to the man next door but not entered his flat. She had also stood a couple of minutes checking her schedule before knocking on his door.

Mrs. Albertson had to accept this, or at least accept it would be the woman's testimony to the Police. She also knew in sick terror she had seen Jan again and been thrust brutally hard against the table edge. She had a couple of blue pinch marks coming up on her left arm as well. But with listening to the meals-on-wheels lady being adamant no one could have passed her, she finally understood what would be said about her injuries.

'Self-inflicted' they'd say. With this stupid woman to swear no one had left the flat for ten minutes before Mrs. Albertson emerged, any complaint was out of the question. She spent her days after jumping at any sound. At nights she dozed, waiting for the hated voice to call 'Surprise!' She crouched over her meals, gulping them like a beast. Sometimes her fear made her vomit afterwards and she lost weight. A week passed, two weeks, three. She began to hope it might have ended. Was it possible Jan would not return?

Jan came back one bright, sunny day towards the end of summer. Not the sort of day beloved of horror writers but that made it all the more ugly. She spoke softly, even though her abilities made it known to her there was no one nearby. She leaned forward, her mouth leaking soft threats of what was to come. How the one who had betrayed Jan's childhood was to die, by the knife possibly - or perhaps by poison? She watched in feral satisfaction as her adoptive mother collapsed completely.

Her eyes took in the slack mouth, the scrawny form, crazed fear in the faded eyes. A fetid stench came to her nose as she moved back in disgust. On her original visit this had been a woman of neat appearance, slightly plump, well-groomed and looking almost ten years younger than her true age. The woman she studied now looked twenty years older and as if it was weeks since her last bath. A sated look spread across Jan's face as she leaned down to pat the bony shoulder.

"For years I had to take whatever you dished out. Now you've had a taste. I'm not going to kill you – today..." She paused until the white face turned to look up at her in a half-hope. "But I can always come back." The last words were very quiet though she could see them strike home. She nodded and for the first time permitted her dimension-shift to be seen. She had no plans to return.

Two weeks later her adopted sister phoned with the news. Their mother had suffered a complete collapse, raving with wild paranoid fantasies and hysteria. They'd had the old woman committed to a good home. She'd grown worse there in days so the home was now saying some form of restraint and force-feeding might be required. A day later came another call. Mrs. Albertson had found something sharp. The funeral would be in two days, could she come? She went, standing in vivid sunshine beside a grave amid people, many of whom she had known as a child. She drove home slowly, shed her black clothing, and spoke to herself.

"It's over!"

Around her the farmhouse faded until only the chair on which she sat, remained. The walls resumed their pale grey as the room shrank. Jan knew it now. The dream machine programme she'd chosen rather than sleep confinement when she'd been certified as dangerous to herself, and perhaps to others. She'd been one of those who, abused, had never been able to reconcile the inability of the law to give her justice and her rage became hazardous when in reality her adoptive mother had died unpunished.

She stretched. A slow, luxurious movement relaxing every muscle for the first time in years. She'd lived a dream of retribution but in the end she'd made the decision not to kill and it had saved her. Her destiny and freedom were back in her own hands. She rose, walking steadily to the door and it swung open under her hand. Her eyes were clear, unstrained, her movements confident as she departed. Behind her as she passed, the staff who tended the dream machine smiled at each other, this one was another score for their side, a healing they could count against the failures. But Jan had no eyes for them or for the P.R.I.M. machine that had given her life back, she was running towards her friends and family with out-stretched arms. A prodigal safely returned from another land.

MOTHS

by

Jacob Edwards

Australia

We were two weeks out from Maudlin Mountain when the chosen one was struck down. As the satyrs' hooves receded and the boy crumpled to the ground, I slowly stood up and shook my head. We were so close this time.

Ox'n'wagonheart the Warrior let his shoulders slump, the tip of his two-slice sword stirring defeat in the bloody dirt. Armoured bosom heaving, he turned and gritted his eyes at me. "Wizard," he snarled. "You've doomed us! Look—" He intimated with oversized chin at the rag-doll corpse. "The boy's dead. Our last hope. Why didn't you do something, you woe-begotten conjunct?"

I stepped from the shelter of the bigglesworth bush and picked thorns from my robe. The Historian groaned and sat up, an inky bruise spreading across his temple. "Not his job," he murmured, reaching for his trampled hat. "You're the bleeding warrior." He unrolled a crushed parchment and scratched at it with broken quill. "'The chosen one was gathering firewood when the satyrs attacked. Ox'n'wagonheart, entrusted with the boy's protection, did nothing.'"

"Nothing?" Ox'n'wagonheart bellowed. "I slayed two-score or more of the cloven beasts! It was Mister Wizard here who could have saved him. But no, he was cowering in the bushes like a washerwoman."

"Ox'n'wagonheart," the Tracker cautioned, her blind gaze still directed at the satyrs' dust-trail. "What's done is done and cannot be otherwise. Remember that we three are your friends."

The Warrior grunted. "And what good will my friends be when the Evil One is unbound and the lands in ruin? And all because Bewilbured here cannot cast a spell."

I cocked my head but said nothing. The Historian winced. "That's 'Wilberforce'," he mouthed.

Ox'n'wagonheart unstuck his foot from the remnant gore and stomped towards me, nostrils flaring. "Wilberforce?" he snorted. "Farce, more like it. What good is a wizard who cannot spin stars? Whose wand wields nothing but waft? You, wizard—" He hunched over me, his great maw unhinged. "Oh, wizard who will not, wizard of want. You're a fraud, nothing but a puff of smoke." He poked a meaty finger at my chest. "You might as well not be here."

The Tracker turned, her eyes like speckled eggs. "Have a care, Warrior. A wizard must stay in control or—"

"Control?" Ox'n'wagonheart hefted the two-slice and gestured pointedly at the erstwhile chosen one. "How is that being in control?"

"Control of the magic, Ox'n'wagonheart. It is we others who must control the situation."

The big man glared at her. "So you're blaming me, too. Is that it?"

The Tracker shook her head but the Historian nodded. "'Ox'n'wagonheart was on his first quest. Emboldened by naivety, he—'"

"Auu'rrr!"

I don't know whether the guttural rumble came from him or from me, but as Ox'n'wagonheart spun to face the Historian, his colossal grasp closing like a manacle over the hilt of the two-slice, I raised my conjurer's hands and clapped them together above my head

— smack —

and even as a bolt of lightning thundered down from the cloudless sky, even as it surged through Ox'n'wagonheart's sword and flung him to the ground to convulse like a fish, the sudden urge drained from me and I clutched with pinched fingers at the bridge of my nose.

"So close," I muttered. And if I kept my eyes shut then I could almost believe it. Just two weeks south of Maudlin Mountain. But the chosen one had fallen and the Warrior now lay dusted off beside him. There would be repercussions.

"'Once again, Wilberforce was forced to invoke the magic.'" The Historian spoke in stops and starts, intoning dark swirls to the cadence of his quill. "'And as the balance shifted, so too did the Nature Gods turn in their sleep.'"

The Tracker tilted her nose to the heavens. She could feel the change coming. "Oh, Wilbur."

I gave her a wan smile and sighed, breathing deeply of the surrounding carnage: butchered satyrs marinating in ochre and spiced dirt; Ox'n'wagonheart, smoke wisping from his tunic, reeking of ozone. Choosing not to linger upon the pitiful sight of the chosen one, I turned instead to the Historian. "Meet me at Tank's."

Returning my up-and-down nod, the Historian touched nib to temple. "'The chosen one lay with neck twisted, his eyes eternal in their uncertainty. Hitching up his wizardly dignity, Wilberforce began to run.'"

My stomach lurched as I fled down pathways littered with bigglesworth bushes, through the gnarled and disapproving shadows of tantric trees. Dark foliage whistled past my ears as each ragged breath caught on the dryness of my throat. I wondered what price I would pay this time.

Running was a futile exercise and in my mind I could just about hear the Historian, his pursed lips echoing the rasp of quill on parchment: "'Every magical outcome is underwritten by an equal and opposite non-magical consequence. Having effected the lightning that struck Ox'n'wagonheart, Wilberforce could no more escape its cause than a tortle-tuss could sprout wings and fly.'"

So what could precipitate a bolt from the blue? While my brain idled over this thought, I skidded past a crucifixion cactus and into the light of a cloverleaf clearing. Which way? I chose at random and dashed forward, past borrowers' burrows and skeletal proph'sy plants. With any luck I could put some distance between me and the others before Nature called to collect her debt.

An over-enunciated change to the climatological system, I mused, flailing like a tumbletussle on the downhill path. A flaming dragon in a tight spiral, creating a dervish pressure system, highly localized yet mobile. But what would bring the dragon down? Puffing, I hurdled a trilogy of ring roots. Acute food poisoning, perhaps. Half a dozen hell hogs stuffed with mad mushroom, which itself would need a liberal spray of giddy goat urine to precipitate. And if giddy goats had come down from the mountain then a blue moon pogo-panda must have been born yesterday and even now be pounding through the forest in search of bamboozle beets.

Consequence? Even as I thought it, my robe snagged on the truncated remains of some shredded bamboozle. A borrowed balance is restored. Losing step for a second, I dropped one foot into a fresh-popped pogo-pit. My ankle turned. I flopped forward, slid on my knees through a squelchy circle of hell hog droppings and butted head-first into the wrong end of a giddy goat. It eyed me for half a second and then turned and butted me right back, its horns glinting as it hooked me up and slung me over its head. I caught sight of a small wooden sign proclaiming GRUFF'S BLUFF and then I went tumbling over a precipice, deeper and down, head over heels over base over apex, falling and bouncing in a landslide of rocks, limbs and debris. I landed on my stomach in a deathly hollow and exhaled forcibly. "Oomph."

Slowly, I picked myself up and put the pieces together, grimacing pre-emptively with each movement; and yet nothing seemed to be broken. My head felt like a bingeberry and my ankle was swollen, but there was nothing more serious. None of the fallout one might expect from such an ill-thought use of the magic. Hmm. I pursed my lips and looked around for a fibrous fortune fern from which to fashion a splint. I spied one and hobbled off.

All told, it had been a lucky escape.

The farmhouse was little more than a hovel, leaning crooked with the wind and nearly overshadowed by a sprawling shanty town of truffle troughs and pig-pong sties. The creaking of their wooden frames was matched only by the squealing of baby pig-pongs.

"Are you a wizard?" a small voice inquired. I paused and cocked my head, searching with still eyes. Eventually, I spotted him, there by one of the fence posts, small and dirty and thinner than any of the pig-pongs: a boy.

I shifted my weight and raised the staff of convenience, its will-o'-wasp runes a sun-baked, knobby brown against the brittle grey wood beneath. I'd picked it up yesterday under a toorall-li tree, fashioned by entropy and clearly destined to be my walking stick. "Yes." I nodded gravely.

The boy returned my gesture, solemn beyond his years. "I wish I could be a wizard. But mum says the pig-pongs won't look after themselves. Only, that's rubbish, because they do. You leave 'em alone for weeks and they don't even notice!"

I scratched my beard. "So you have the responsibility of doing nothing, whereas I hold the fate of the world in my hands." I hobbled over and settled down on an adjoining fence pole. "Ah, if only I could be a simple pig-pong peddler."

The boy boggled at me. "What, the whole world? Past old Finnicky's farm and the town and— and—"

"Everywhere," I assured him. "From Ruminants' River across the Parallel Plains and out to the Great Puddle Sea. The Evil One stirs, you see, and if we cannot vanquish him then he will break from his bloody sty and smear the world with offal."

"Unless we stop him? You and me?"

I mustered a hearty chuckle. "Not you, youngster. Me." I stood and began to shuffle off, airing a back-handed wave over my shoulder. "Oh, there are others of course — those brave souls who have joined me in my quest — but the danger is unspeakable. All the best to you, young peddler."

"Wait! Wait!" He scampered after me and tugged at my robe. "I could come with you. I can wash pans and— and—"

I twitched an eyebrow. "And do magic, I suppose?"

"Well, not really."

I shrugged. "There you go, then. I've come looking for the chosen one, so unless your power is lying dormant or something, then—"

"It could be! It could be. How do you know it's not? I could be the chosen one and my great magic is just, you know, what you said?"

"Dormant?"

"Yes! Look, can't I come with you? You can teach me magic and— and I won't have to muck out the pig-pong pens anymore. I'm not afraid of anything, you know."

I laughed as if humouring him. "Fair enough. I suppose we could do with someone to gather firewood. Ask your mum, and if she says yes then you can catch me up." I whistled cheerily and hobbled off. "Nice to have met you, little peddler."

He turned and scampered off, squealing a little as he ran. Pig-pongs stopped their snortling to watch. The door of the farmhouse banged once then twice, yielding up its emptiness as the boy rushed in and out. "Er, bye mum," he called. "See you in a few weeks, I guess."

I paused by a boden bush as if checking the direction of the wind. The boy came panting up and I tapped his spindly chest with my staff. "Questing is no picnic, young man. You could die up there in the mountains. Turn back now, I say. Go home and leave it to someone else."

He grinned and shook his head. "I told you: I'm not frightened of anything. Well, maybe hairy-legged hing-hongs. And Aunt Agnes, of course. But nothing out there." He pointed. "And besides, I might just be the chosen one, and you can teach me how to do spells. Is it easy? I bet it's easy."

We set off down the trail, the boy flitting around like a will-o'-wasp and me leaning heavily on the staff of convenience; and though the sun shone warm overhead, a perceptive breeze blew cold through my robes. "Anyone can do magic." I grimaced at the pain in my leg. "It's like falling down a cliff."

Somewhere not far away, I knew, the Historian would be writing: "'And so began another of the wizard's great quests to vanquish the Evil One and so cleanse forever the four and a half lands.'"

By my side, his gleaming eyes cast to an ocean of his own imagining, the chosen one smiled.

Tank's Alehouse squatted by the open road, lanterns like fruminous eyes on either side of the door, its famous rooftop barrel like a deformity in the settling dusk.

"Wait here," I told the chosen one, and then pushed inside.

The alehouse was dimly lit and about half full. Farmers, mostly, but also a doom-sooth'r and a sombre smattering of merchants. I stepped towards the bar but something was wrong. I pulled up short.

The barmaid, who usually spared a smile for my order of jingle juice, was skittish and downcast of eye. Tank himself looked pale, as if the blood had run from his ruddy cheeks. "Jingle juice. That'll be two coin, half-peg, mister."

I frowned, my beard prickling at something in the atmosphere. It was as if they didn't know me. "There's three. Thank you."

Taking my tankard, I turned wizened eyes upon the room and picked my way slowly between tables. Nobody was looking at me. Not the farmers or merchants, not even the doom-sooth'r. In fact, most people were very deliberately not looking at me. Curious.

I spied the Historian and the Tracker sitting at a table near the back corner. The Tracker shook her head as I moved towards them, her blind eyes fixed on some cobblewebs that hung from the ceiling. The Historian blinked nervously and scribbled something on his parchment. I tried to lip-read.

"'Wilberforce arrived at the Alehouse, but he'd diced once too often with the Evil One and his luck was running poor.'" I furrowed my brow and sniffed tentatively at the jingle juice. The Historian gouged the table with his quill. "'Little did the wizard know that he was being hunted. Mercenaries combed the four and a half lands, half-crazed with greed and eager to claim the reward.'"

Ah. I stopped, sniffed again at my jingle juice and then turned back towards the bar. A meaty, pong-fisted soldier stood in my way, a WANTED parchment brandished between fat fingers. He shoved it in my face as if it were a trophy ear. "You are Wilberforce the Wizard!"

I gave him my most amiable smile. "The splitting image, they say. I wish I could do magic, I really do. Then perhaps I could fix up this leg of mine. Here's to the spell-cutters, eh?"

I raised my tankard as if to drink, but the mercenary caught my wrist. "Are you saying you're not Wilberforce the Wizard?"

"Indeed, no, but if I see him then I'll be sure to let you know."

I tried to step around the man, but several more of his kind appeared, gristly and with an unpalatable layer of fat. "You sure look like him."

"Yes, I know, and you're not the first person to tell me that. Perhaps we were switched at birth." I changed tack as if to squeeze between two of the mercenaries. "A wizard, you say? Ho-ho, ha. No, I'm not a wizard."

The Historian half-pursed his lips and shrugged. "'Three times Wilberforce denied the accusation, and even the most pong-headed soldier was beginning to have doubts. But then fate twisted and the mud stuck. The chosen one chose this moment to make himself known.'"

"Of course he's a wizard." The boy must have been listening at the door. He ran inside and pointed at me, proud as a stalker sap. "He's a mighty wizard and I'm the chosen one and— and we're going to save the world!"

Silence.

The Tracker winced and squeezed her eyes in search of true sightlessness. There came a faint scratching as the Historian drew a squiggly line under this inopportune prophesy. Then, with a sotto voce whisper of metal, swords were drawn.

"Now, look," began the doom-sooth'r, rising to his feet and looming gently behind a seashell-like nose. "Violence is not the answer. Let us—"

Without taking his eyes off me, the first mercenary raised his arm and elbowed the doom-sooth'r's highly pronounced bobble ball. The man clutched at his throat and staggered backwards, collapsing onto a nearby table and spilling the sacred tankards that rested there. Several farmers rose slowly to their feet, scarecrow thin but with muscles rippling like scythes beneath their skin.

"Behold," yelled the chosen one. His voice was shrill and he was flapping his hands about his ears as if trying to do the conjuring trick I'd shown him with copper half-pegs. Except—

Except that it wasn't a trick. Not this time.

Tinkle-tinkle. Like an unwanted gift from heaven, gold coins started to drop from the rafters: a steady trickle at first, then heavier. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. The boy was doing magic — actual magic — and for a moment everyone stopped to stare, unaware perhaps that he'd stepped off a cliff.

"'Gold,'" wrote the Historian. "'A terrible rain of gold. From whence did it come?'"

Horrified, I shook my head. >From the rafters, of course, where it must have been hoarded by generations of bullion birds patiently fashioning a nest egg through the passing of years. More years than the chosen one had been alive. And why would the gold now fall? Only if one of the coins was a 'lucky' half-cob from the drought-stricken reign of King Kliche, exhumed from the graveyards and known — some of them, at least — to hold traces of liche lice. Only in its death throes would a bullion bird scatter the seed of nations, but if the nest egg had become infested...

"You see? That's wizardry!" The first mercenary held his WANTED scroll aloft and shook it like a severed head. "Dead or alive, lads. Come on!" He pulled his sword back to swing at me, but in that precarious instant a bullion bird fell stone-dead from the rafters and struck him on the nose. Succumbing at last to the artistic nibbling of the liche lice, its bones separated and the entire bird blew apart in a foul, feathery explosion. Jerking back, the mercenary caught the tip of his sword against the chosen one's throat and accidentally ran him through. "What? Oh."

The chosen one dropped gasping to the floor, all eyes upon him as he curled up and died amidst a disgorged horde of glittering gold. No time for regrets. I swung the staff of convenience against the first mercenary's chin strap, flung my jingle juice at his fellows and then hobbled frantically for the door. The Tracker rose like a pantomime wraith and followed. Grabbing his hat, the Historian ran after us.

Pent-up suffering and anger broke lose all around. "Get them!" suggested someone. "Gold!" observed several others.

Time caught up to itself in a rush and Tank's Alehouse lifted to the roof, struggling to contain a devilish whirligig of tables and chairs, short swords and tankards. Soldiers poured in through the doors and farmers bunched together, digging in and planting their aching fists. "Child killer!" yelled one; "Black heart!" another. Merchants gathered back-to-back, purveying their lives behind calculated dagger thrusts. Tank stood on the bar, cleaving the air with an enormous mock turtle that had a barrel for a shell. He turned it in a savage arc and brought it down on a mercenary's head. I could hear the bone crack.

Being much practiced at this sort of thing, the Historian, the Tracker and I moved with the flow of the mêlée, riding its surging waves until it frothed up and dumped us clean out the front door of the Alehouse. As we picked ourselves up and hurried toward the trees, an axe-wielding colossus appeared from the shadows and lumbered past, breathing heavily.

The Historian clicked his tongue and called out. "'Even more tardy than his predecessor, Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior arrived too late to save the chosen one.'"

The big man stopped outside Tank's Alehouse and turned. "Oh. Are you sure?"

At the Tracker's beckoning, he trudged over to join us under a three-toed tinsel tree. The Historian reached for his feather and ink. "'No sooner had it begun then the new quest ended, the chosen one dead and Wilberforce and his companions cast adrift once more at the well of impotence.'" I stared hard at him and hurriedly he licked the nib of his pen. "'But all was not lost, for the wizard stood strong in the face of disillusionment. Leaving the burning Alehouse behind, he led them in search of better roads ahead.'"

Sure enough, Tank's was now ablaze, its timber crackling and its rooftop barrel like a flaming pyre in the darkness. Angered shouts became panicked cries and the air was thick with smoky coughs. Another bridge burnt, I thought, clutching tightly at the staff of convenience. But needs must.

Briefly, I caught sight of the doom-sooth'r, his cloak on fire, hurtling towards the well. Then I turned away, pushing off through a tangle of serendipity shrubs and leaving the others to follow. The Tracker took my arm and stared off into the night, her eyes wide as we shuffled along. Whoop'n'wackem started after us, hefting his axe regretfully. "Are you sure the chosen one is...?"

The Historian muttered something unworthy of narration. "Yes. Dead as a dingle's dongle. Kaput'ski. Bequested."

Whoop'n'wackem sighed heavily and nodded. "Shame."

We travelled through the night and made camp at dawn. While the Historian poached pecklin' eggs over the fire, the Tracker gazed searchingly at everything and nothing. "Somebody's here," she whispered.

Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior snatched up his axe and went charging off into the trees. The barmaid from Tank's Alehouse emerged from the other side of the clearing and padded up to us.

"'Which just goes to show,'" observed the Historian, "'you can't pick your pecklin 'til it's puckered.'"

"Excuse me?" The girl stopped in front of me and smiled. "Do you think I could come with you? I mean, keep coming with you. I've been following you anyway and, well, it seems a bit pointless to stay hidden."

I put my plate down and dabbed sternly at the egg on my beard. "This is not a social club, young lady. Much though I enjoy the odd tankard of jingle juice, I don't see that you belong here."

Regarding the two of us with silken gaze, the Tracker whispered into the Historian's ear. Swapping his pan for a pen, the Historian nodded. "'Though a great wizard by anyone's reckoning, Wilberforce was perhaps too hasty in rejecting the overtures of the chosen one.'"

I steeped my chins. "The chosen one?"

"Yes." The barmaid threw her head back, braided hair lashing the air behind her. "I am the chosen one. I've always known it, of course."

Whoop'n'wackem burst back into the clearing, his chest heaving like the humps of a startled drolledomy. "What? Oh," he said, and then: "What?"

"I'm an orphan, you see. Never knew my parents. But I was left outside the door of the village idiot a mere fortnight after the crown princess of Pompomia disappeared along with her newborn daughter and five beakers of alchemical cure-all. And if you look at the colour of my eyes then—"

I waved her away. "Okay, so you're an orphan. But who isn't?" I raised my chin at the Historian. "Orphan?" He nodded.

Next the Tracker, who shrugged. "Yes, I'm an orphan."

"Me, too," sniffed Whoop'n'wackem, "and— and if I had a son then he'd probably be an orphan as well." He dropped his axe and sat down.

"You see?" I turned back to the barmaid. "Orphans. So, unless you can do some serious magic, then I suggest—"

"I can do magic. Look!"

She pointed to the far side of the clearing, and when I craned my neck to see, she scuttled in the other direction and ducked down to hide behind Whoop'n'wackem.

"That," I said, "is not magic."

"It's better than magic," she countered. "It's magic without the magic. Look—" She stood up and tapped Whoop'n'wackem on one shoulder, skipping nimbly to his other side as he turned the wrong way. "I'm sixteen years old and I work at the Alehouse and I haven't been beaten or dragged out to the stables or anything. Now, can you tell me that isn't magic?"

The Tracker went and put her arm around the girl, and for a while there was silence, broken only by the Historian's muttered inklings. "'Despite his misgivings, the wizard came eventually to accept the chosen one. For evil stirs, he reckoned, and even warm jingle juice is better than a stew of cold comfort.'"

I glared at him and then snorted. He had a point.

"Wonderful!" Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior clapped his hands, hammer to anvil. "We've found the chosen one so now we can begin. You know, I've a really good feeling about this quest."

The Historian gave a knowing nod and so I threw a pecklin' egg at him. Then I rolled grumpily beneath a low-slung log-rot and settled down to sleep. "We'll see."

We walked for days across moors and fields, where nothing much would grow and even the big dippers drooped, their majestic boughs turned strangely pliant. The land was sickening, it seemed, and as push plants gave way to shovel shoots we found ourselves wading through a swollen copse of dussendorf mud mines. 'Up to our necks', as the Historian put it, 'in the Evil One's foul business.'

Nothing wholesome lived this close to Maudlin Mountain. Only stench striders, strudel spawn and larger, more demented denizens of the endless dark. We struggled on with elbows crooked protectively over mouths and noses, our eyes salty but blinking and alert to the ever-present threat of fecalgators, their sluggish passage denoted by v-shaped ripples through the quagmire. The largest we came across was bigger even than the chosen one, and pushed itself uphill with oozing menace, attacking flatulently. But Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior stayed diligent. He sloshed to and fro and cleaved his mighty axe through the goo, aiming for the stitch-line above the snout. Roaring his disapproval, he split open the mud mine and sprayed us all with rancid gator flesh.

We had just cleared the dussendorfs when a screeching flock of disharpsies attacked, swooping down from the foothills, talons badly manicured, tongues stretched taut with bitterness and hunger. "'Their lives once again imperilled,'" the Historian began, as the Tracker dragged him towards shelter, "'all eyes turned to the chosen one, who was caught in the open with no-one to protect her, save Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior.'"

Sure enough, Whoop'n'wackem stood like a colossusaurus, his feet planted in their own divots, the double-headed blades of his great axe glinting red in the sunset. Mighty shoulders rolling gently, he tilted his chin to the sky. "Whoop'n'wackem," he bellowed. "Whoop-and-wack-them."

"Awwk-boof," the disharpsies returned, their caustic eyes bubbling red. "Gudfa-paawk."

They dived at the Warrior, beaks needling, merciless and sharp, like femme-bees to a bluster-bull's testicle. Whoop'n'wackem swung his axe in a shovelling arc, broadsiding the foul-mouthed crones. "Die!" he suggested.

"'Whoop'n'wackem swore to protect the chosen one, and punctuated his oath with eloquent swats of his grinding axe. But the disharpsies were too many for the Warrior to withstand, and so the chosen one was left helpless: exposed and alone at the foot of Maudlin Mountain. The four and a half lands held their breath as— Oh.'"

Prompted by an elbow to his ribs, the Historian stuck his head around the low-hung t-tree behind which he and the Tracker crouched. "'Er, rather, Whoop'n'wackem somehow fought off the Evil One's cronies and left them, ah, smeared like shibatzis across the ashen plain.'"

The Historian grimaced and scratched his head, the feather leaving an inky scrawl upon his temple. "Gitcha pawrrk," rasped a fallen disharpsie, its broken wing flapping weakly in the dirt nearby. "Ahhggk-fook."

"'But still, it was a hollow victory, for the chosen one had been taken by surprise and— and—'"

The Historian trailed off, his eyes searching for the girl's bloody corpse somewhere amidst the hag-rot and feathers. He caught Whoop'n'wackem's eye but the Warrior just shrugged, his chest and shoulders heaving.

Shaking my head, I rose from the tangled shelter of a bigglesworth bush. So close, I thought. Really, this time. So very, very close. A tear of frustration set the corner of my eye twitching, and so I rubbed at my forehead. "'Age-weary and set upon by burdens hitherto unknown,'" the Historian would say. But as I blinked and looked up, the Tracker stepped out from behind the t-tree. She stared past me and smiled.

Turning around, I saw the chosen one emerge from a ménaged clump of bigglesworth bushes, her tunic so stuck with thorns that in the shadowy dusk she seemed almost to bristle. "Are you alright?" she asked Whoop'n'wackem. "That was very brave of you. Well, I suppose it was. I couldn't actually see anything from where I was. Could you help me with these thorns?"

I raised an eyebrow at the Historian. This chosen one was good.

We set out again at dawn, the sun's pallid rays doing little to soak the grey from Maudlin Mountain. It was cold as we walked and our breath hung ragged upon the air. The chosen one shivered.

"So what exactly am I supposed to do when we get there?"

The Tracker gazed ahead, blind to everything save the future. "Magic," she said. "You'll have to work magic."

"Oh." The chosen one was silent for a while, then bared her teeth hesitantly. "About the magic..."

We stopped.

"'Doubt assailed the chosen one,'" the Historian noted. "'As destiny approached and she could sense the Evil One tossing restless in his sleep, suddenly she felt small and alone: just a speck of dust on the living map of the four and a half lands.'"

"Ha!" exclaimed Whoop'n'wackem, clapping the chosen one gently on the shoulder. "Don't listen to him, Miss. He's got the spirit of dead scribes for blood. Doesn't know what he's saying half the time."

"'And so the Warrior offered her false comfort, as if his strong arms could protect her from what was to come.'"

The chosen one looked searchingly at me. "And what is to come?"

"'Foolish girl. She knew not of—'"

"Death," I said, planting the staff of convenience in a potting mix of gravel and ash. "Magic, then death. It's the Prophesy of Doom-sooth. While the Evil One sleeps then the four and a half lands shall know peace."

"He's been sleeping for thousands of years," put in Whoop'n'wackem.

"...but when finally, he awakes then the land will know nothing other than darkness and war. Sickness and famine. Death."

The Tracker smiled thinly. "Now is the time. The Evil One stirs."

Whoop'n'wackem nodded. "He's been stirring for thousands of years, too, they say. But now he's really stirring, and we have this one chance to stop him." He twirled his axe thoughtfully. "Right place, right time, I suppose."

The Historian scrawled surreptitiously on a scrap of parchment: "'And time was fast running out.'"

"Yes." I thought back to the quests of yesteryear, from the newborn hope of first trek through to the wizened gristle of this final hour. "We must strike now while the Evil One still sleeps, or all will be lost and all will have been for nothing."

"'Many tried to slay the Evil One. Even more died trying.'" The Historian frowned and scratched this out. "'Now, only Wilberforce the Wizard remained to quest the good quest and bring hope to the four and a half lands.'"

The chosen one frowned. "But what about me?"

"'Er, because if Wilberforce couldn't guide the chosen one to her destiny then— then destiny would answer not for— for—'" The Historian dabbed furiously at his empty well and then looked up, distraught. "I've run out of ink."

Whoop'n'wackem leaned over to see. The Tracker reached into her pockets for a replacement.

"What is, will be, and what will be, is." I held the chosen one's gaze for a moment, then tilted my head at the rocky peak above. "Time to go."

Five hours later, the chosen one had us locked in a mid-fight crisis.

"What if I can't do it?" she wailed, the wind zigging and zagging along the ridge, gusting through her long braids. "What if the magic doesn't work?"

The Tracker stood unmoved by the gale. "It comes from within, girl, and you are strong. Go. Go now."

"But— But what about that?"

She pointed a shaking finger at the brandied flapdragon that pounded after Whoop'n'wackem, its wings stirring up great explosions of air, its eyebrows blazing like rainbows above mountainous eye-ridges.

"'Whoop'n'wackem fled from the beast, and it was only his great prowess as a Warrior that kept him alive at all. In mere seconds he would fall, brought down by the Evil One's pet. But in that time the entrance to the cavern lay bare and unguarded.'"

"But— But I don't want him to die!"

"Whoop'n'wackem," came a distant bellow, as if in agreement. "Whoop-and-wack-them."

"If you don't kill the Evil One then he'll have died for nothing," I told her. "Come on. Quickly, now."

The flapdragon leapt like a kittykong, its tail smashing the tip off a nearby peak as it landed almost playfully atop the Warrior. Whoop'n'wackem shot out from underneath and swung his axe at an exposed toenail three times bigger than himself.

"No," the chosen one shook her head. "I won't leave him. Why can't you kill the Evil One? It shouldn't have to be me!"

"You chose to be the chosen one," the Historian muttered, not bothering with his pen.

"And now I'm choosing not to be."

I rubbed both hands wearily down my cheeks. "Look, my girl. Yes, you have a choice. You could just walk away. But where would that leave the four and a half lands? We're talking about the Doom-sooth Prophesy."

"Come." The Tracker set off towards the unguarded entrance. "We only have one chance at this."

The Historian nodded. "'And as fate decreed, so too did the chosen one act. While Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior distracted the billowing flapdragon, Wilberforce and his companions crept into the Evil One's lair and—'"

"No!" screamed the chosen one, and then: "Die, you horrible, scaly dongle-drag."

Following the direction of her reproach, I could see Whoop'n'wackem the Warrior hopping up and down along the bottom lip of the brandied flapdragon, his armour smoking at the ambient heat, his great axe chipping away at one towering spire of ivory. Where momentarily they had reflected puzzlement, the flapdragon's sulphuric eyes now slitted with understanding. Slowly, nostrils flaring, it took in its infernal breath and prepared to let loose.

"Whoop'n'wackem," yelled the Warrior, one last time, and then

— smack —

to the sound of a far-from-thunderous handclap, the brandied flapdragon dropped onto its back and expired, the rocky plateau breaking loose under its weight and tearing free, sliding into the abyss. As the jagged cut disappeared beneath us and the pall-born Whoop'n'wackem plummeted from sight, the chosen one lowered her hands and stared after him.

"But— But— What have I done?" she whispered.

"Heart attack," I murmured, edging away from her. The Tracker sighed and followed after me.

"'That was the end of Whoop'n'wackem,'" noted the Historian, his narration unsteady as he nimbled over to join us by the mouth of the cave. "'The Warrior fell, fighting to the last, his axe wedged between two wisdom teeth and left there: a talisman for future generations to seek.'"

The smashing and rattling of rocks came at last to an end. From far below us a cloud of dirt rose and settled. The chosen one gazed out in empty disbelief. "But— But how?"

Heart attack, I reiterated. Maybe an aneurysm? Blood clot. Which in a brandied flapdragon could only come from uncooked food. A sacred tow-kow, perhaps? And if the flapdragon had gulped down one of those then the Good Shepherd must have climbed Maudlin Mountain, way back in the mists of creation, before the twin gods Mubmo and Jubmo fought their war over the right to search for his lost staff.

Even as the thoughts came to me, the chosen one kicked at the rubble beneath her feet and bent down to retrieve something. "Stupid bloody stick," she muttered, and threw it away.

But the sap ran true, even after all those years. The sacred staff stuck to her fingers. As she swung, it crashed down upon the pumice stones and bounced up, striking the chosen one between the eyes. Reeling away, she tripped on the ringed remains of a tow-kow hoof and disappeared over the edge, gone the way of Whoop'n'wackem.

"'And so the choice was made. After all,'" the Historian wrote, "'every magical outcome has an equal and opposite non-magical consequence.'" He looked at the Tracker, then at me, and then at the newly sprung chasm. Rolling out a new scroll, he shrugged. "What now?"

For thousands of years the Evil One had tossed and turned, ready to wake and yet fever-bound, kept in check by the lingering power of the Good Shepherd. Now he stirred.

Deep within Maudlin Mountain, he stirred.

"She was just a child," I muttered. "I shouldn't have expected so much."

The Tracker took my arm. "You could still kill him, Wilbur. You know that, don't you?"

I tapped the staff of convenience against the Evil One's stone coffin. "Yes, yes I suppose I could."

The Historian nodded sombrely. "'With the chosen one gone, it befell the Wizard to perform one final act of magic. Wilberforce. Let the name be known throughout the four and a half lands. Let doom-sooth'rs praise him and mothers name their children in his memory. And let it not be forgotten that if it weren't for Wilberforce the Wizard then the Evil One would long ago have risen up and...'"

I turned and left him to it, the Tracker by my side as I shuffled from the cavern, the magic kept safe within me, hidden away. If we moved fast, then we could make it back down to the foothills by nightfall. After all, Maudlin Mountain was no place to camp at night. Not without a Warrior.
"There'll be time for that later," I called to the Historian. "After the next quest, maybe. Or the one after. Come on, we have to find another chosen one."

Shading our eyes against the sun, we picked our way through the rubble and started the long trek back down the mountain.

The Burning, the Brightness

by

Patricia Russo

USA

"Oh, come on," Mavvie said. She was sitting at Salua's kitchen table, making holes in the tablecloth. The way that Mavvie constantly perforated anything and everything within reach used to drive Salua up the wall. Put your damn gloves on if you can't control yourself, she would snap. But Salua had given up the battle years ago. At least Mavvie usually fixed whatever object or objects she'd ventilated, which was more than most people with destructive habits did. "It's Deelis and Frayn's thirtieth anniversary. Everybody's going to be there. You have to go."

Though Salua had reconciled herself to the incessant hole-creating, Mavvie's bossiness could still grate on her nerves. "I don't have to do a damn thing. Now, for the second time, do you want any of these cookies? Because if you don't, I'm putting them away."

"It's not good for you, staying cooped up here all the time." Mavvie waved her arms to encompass Salua's home: kitchen, living room, one bedroom – not much, but hers free and clear, her safe place, her refuge. Mavvie was one of the few people she allowed to come over, though with Mavvie it was more a case of it being just about impossible to stop her. "When was the last time you went out?"

"When I went to the bakery and got these cookies."

"Great. An excursion to the corner."

"It's two blocks away."

"A distinction without a difference. This isn't healthy. You're practically a damn recluse."

"You know I don't like crowds."

"I know that's been your lame excuse for years. Do you really think you're fooling anybody? This all started because of Beck."

"Oh, god, not that again."

"I'm right. I know I'm right, so don't even bother to deny it. What happened between you two? You guys used to be friends. Hell, more than friends, eh?"

"Stop it."

"You know that Beck is going to be at the party. That's why you don't want to go."

"I don't know that Beck is going to be at the party. Neither do you. And I'm not going because large gatherings make me uncomfortable. End of story."

"End of story, my ass. You haven't even started the story."

"I hope you're going to mend my tablecloth. I like that one. It matches the curtains. And that shade of green isn't very easy to find."

"What? Oh." Mavvie looked down at the wreckage; the tablecloth was a cobweb, with only a few skeletal threads maintaining its physical integrity. "Sorry. Of course I'll put it back together."

"The coffee mug, too." At least Mavvie had finished off the coffee before digging away at the ceramic.

"Will you stop worrying about tablecloths and coffee cups? I'll fix them. And don't imagine I didn't notice you changed the subject. Something happened between you and Beck. Come clean."

"Anybody ever tell you that you're a pushy bitch?"

"Often."

"Nothing happened."

"Now that's a lie. You two used to be so close. So you had a falling out. So what? That was years and years ago."

Years and years ago, yes. And Mavvie still couldn't let it go. "We didn't have a falling out."

"What, then?" Mavvie started working on the mug, rubbing her finger over the perforations, drawing the dispersed molecules back together. She always knitted her eyebrows when she did that. When she'd been younger – when they'd all been younger – the frowny-face she put on while concentrating was cute. Now it just made her look old.

"Do you know for sure Beck's been invited?"

"Everybody's been invited."

"So you don't know."

"You're changing the subject again."

Like a dog with a bone; like a leech on a vein. Salua sighed. "We didn't have a fight. We didn't have an argument. And we were never lovers. We were – we are – just too much alike. Things used to happen when we were together."

Mavvie glanced up. "Things?"

"Stuff."

"Oh, that clarifies matters completely."

"Shut up." Salua turned away. She stared at the dishes in the sink; she hadn't gotten around to them for a couple of days. Okay, four days. "It's better if we stay apart. We talked it over. It was a mutual agreement."

"The mud's not getting any clearer."

All right. All right. Mavvie was pushing her buttons, and Salua knew Mavvie was pushing her buttons, and none of this was Mavvie's business or ever had been, but Salua had had enough. "Fine," she said. She stalked to the table, pressing her fingers together. When Mavvie looked up, Salua yanked her fingertips apart. Sparks flew, arcing between her hands, dancing in the air as bright as specks from the surface of the sun. Mavvie squeezed her eyes shut, but Salua knew she could still see the fire-crumbs through her closed lids.

"Turn off the spigot already!" Mavvie yelped.

"As long as you drop the subject." Slowly, Salua allowed the sparks to fade. She felt a little buzzed; it had been a long time since she'd pulled a stunt like that. The crash would come later. It always did.

"So you do the burning thing. And so does Beck. This isn't news. Damn it, you seared my bloody eyeballs. Get me a tissue or something."

Salua tossed a dish towel on the table. It wasn't particularly clean, but then she wasn't feeling particularly charitable toward Mavvie at that moment.

Mavvie muttered something under her breath, but she used the towel to dab at her watering eyes. "Too much alike, you said. You think if you and Beck are in the same stupid room, you'll burn the place down?"

So much for dropping the topic. "Something like that."

"Bull. I never saw that happen, not once. Nothing even close."

"We did it when no one was looking. Except for a couple of times when...when the circumstances were out of our control. You remember that hair-thing."

Mavvie tilted her head. "Yeah, I remember. You guys did a hell of great job – that's what I remember."

"We're attractors. You must have heard of that."

"What I'm hearing is another excuse."

Salua sighed. "I'm tired of this." The drop-off in energy was starting; the buzz had faded, and the drained, shaky feeling would soon come on. It might be a good idea to sit down, she thought.

"Beck's worse off that you, in case you didn't know. Even more of a damn hermit. If hermits can have pets. What's that creepy lizard's name again?"

"Red. And it's not exactly a lizard."

"Yeah. I never thought it was. Not exactly anything else, either. One day, I'm going to get Beck to cough up the truth."

No, Salua thought, you're not.

But Mavvie wasn't really concerned about Beck's quasi-reptilian companion. "When was the last time you talked to him?"

Like a piranha with a --- "We email a few times a year."

"How old-fashioned." Mavvie was looking at her with a glint in her eye that Salua didn't like. "But then we're old, aren't we? All of us. Look at Frayn and Deelis. Thirty years together. Hard to believe, right?"

"Not really. The only thing that's hard to believe is that story of how they first met." Salua kept her gaze on Mavvie, who was faux-innocently replacing the holes in the tablecloth. "Too symbolic, water-doers and the ocean and all that."

"That's the theme of the party, you know. The pier. The jellyfish. The storm."

"They're going to make a storm?"

"No, no. I mean the décor. And the, you know, costumes."

"You are kidding me."

"So you see, with all those water-type metaphors around, fire-doers like you and Beck will be pretty damped down, forgive the expression."

"Stop it."

"Come to think of it, Beck is a water name, isn't it?"

"Names don't mean as much as some people imagine."

"Maybe not. But age usually means more than people want to admit."

"Your point?"

"You don't have the energy you used to have. Hey, I'm talking about all of us. But tell me, how are you feeling right now?"

Drained, but she wasn't going to admit that to Mavvie. "The advancing years don't seem to have sucked the oomph out of you yet."

"This?" She jerked her head at the holes she was mending. "This is nothing. It's just messing around."

"With matter."

"Eh." Mavvie shrugged. "Nothing like fire. My point is, whatever you and Beck used to get up to together, you really think you could pull off a major combustion nowadays?"

"We didn't get up to anything. Stuff just happened."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Stop it."

Mavvie sighed. "Two old hermits, two decaying recluses, scared of their own shadows. Nah. I don't believe it. The smart money is on lovers' quarrel. Always has been. And you're still carrying a torch for him, pun intended."

"First – decaying? I thought you said I seared your eyeballs."

"Dazzled them a bit. And I'd like to see you do it again."

"Don't tempt me." Salua pulled out a chair and sat down. Her legs had started to feel a tad weak, and if Mavvie noticed, she would never hear the end of it. "Second, damn it, we weren't lovers."

"Maybe you never did the deed, but don't tell me you didn't have feelings for him."

Possibly it was the weariness, the bone-ache of energy expended, but the way Mavvie's fingers were moving seemed odd. A bit blurry, slightly out of focus. She felt a little sick to her stomach, and that made her remember the moment of queasiness she'd experienced when Beck had first picked up Red (not that he'd named it yet; they hadn't even been sure it was truly alive – or at least she hadn't), cradling it like a baby. "Don't," she'd cried, but Beck – his hair had been shaggy then, unfashionably long – had merely shaken his head. "It's all right," he'd said softly. "It's friendly."

No one had seen what they had done. They'd burned so brightly that time Salua had thought the whole city would have noticed, but even the people a few meters away, chatting and laughing outside the bar on Twelfth Street, hadn't so much as turned their heads. Mavvie had been there. Salua never told her that she'd missed the whole thing, and never contradicted the story Beck came up with, that he'd found the creature in a cardboard box, abandoned behind some trash bins.

The best lies were those constructed around a kernel of truth.

She'd spotted it first, the odd igloo-like structure, contraption, device – she couldn't be sure – shoved between the garbage receptacles outside the already-shuttered restaurant they'd been heading to (everybody having forgotten that the place closed early on Wednesdays.) The rest of the group cursed each other, laughed at their own faulty memories, and headed up the street toward a bar that was definitely open. "Not another drinking session," Deelis complained. "I'm hungry." Somebody – Keivin, she thought, or it could have been Lemby – said something about dropping in for just one drink before resuming the quest for dinner.

An igloo, made of metal? The material appeared to be metal, at any rate. But the components of it – bricks? Could you call metal pieces bricks? – didn't seem soldered together. She crouched to get a better look. The surface of the whatever-it-was seemed corroded. She didn't want to touch it. Why not, she wondered. The palms of her hands were tingling. Because I think it's going to be hot, she realized.

"Oh, boy," Beck said, behind her.

Of course it would be him; it would be Beck that noticed that she wasn't with the group, who would turn around and come back to check on her, see if something was up. "Stay there," she said. "It's hot."

"No," he said. "It isn't. But it needs to be."

Only then did she see what Beck saw. He'd walked right by it – he wouldn't have detected it if it hadn't been for her. And she wouldn't have understood what it was if it hadn't been for him.

"Maybe we should leave it alone."

"When have we ever left anything alone?" He squatted next to her, grinning his bright manic grin.

"We don't know what's inside."

"Yeah, but we know how to find out."

Always reckless, always over-confident. Sometimes she found him inspiring; other times, she just wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Not that it would have done any good. The only person Beck listened to – infrequently – was Mavvie, and that was only when she amped up her 'I'm the boss of all you fuckers' attitude to the max.

Beck rubbed his hands, building up friction, building up heat. Salua own palms tingled more fiercely, the sensation approaching the edge of pain. She knew Beck was right. Heat would cause the object to open. "Like an egg hatching," she whispered, and Beck grinned again. "Or a bomb exploding," she added. His grin did not waver.

"Let's do this thing," he said. "You know you want to."

That was true. And maybe that was the worst part of the stuff that happened when the two of them were together, when they joined fire energy and fire energy. They complemented each other, and when they linked their strengths, the result was a more powerful force than either could generate alone. And with the power there in her fingertips, in her palms, flowing down her arms, oh, yes, she so wanted to use it. There was no denying the thrill that came with letting go, letting the fire out, letting the burn – burn.

How many times had they done it by the night they joined forces to warm up Red's casing? At least forty or fifty. But opening the igloo was the riskiest thing they'd tried up to that point. Nothing like making little flames dance on the surface of the lake Frayn had taken them to for a picnic; that had been a game. Nothing like burning the leaf-woman who had leapt at them in full daylight just outside the shopping centre in the Heights to ash; that had been self-defence. Leaf-people had short life-spans, but they were deadly, smothering their victims and extracting the nitrogen from their tissues. Not their fault, as they detached from their mother-plant without any roots; they needed the nitrogen to survive and propagate. The one outside the shopping centre must have been desperate; usually leaf-people confined their attacks to animals. Getting rid of it had been necessary. And easy.

This was different.

Beck put his hands on what Salua could no longer think of as an igloo, but as an egg. She let out a breath, then placed her hands next to his.

The casing felt scaly. Almost, she pulled her hands back. But Beck was already glowing, his face shining like a storm-lantern, his grin the brightest she had ever seen. She let the heat flow from her, joining his, melding together and enveloping the egg, igloo, casing, shell; once, she looked up, and could see the light they were creating reflected in the night sky.

It couldn't have taken more than five minutes for the shell to crack, the egg to hatch, the casing to open, and the creature they later claimed was an exotic species of lizard to emerge. And Beck had immediately scooped it up and hugged it, gently, to his chest.

"What kind of name is Red for a lizard, anyway," Mavvie said. "All right, fine, look. I've fixed everything." The tablecloth was whole again, as well as the coffee mug. "You happy?"

Salua blinked. "What?"

"Are you happy?"

"No," Salua said. "I haven't been happy for twenty years."

"Can you believe this?" Beck muttered, peering at the screen. His eyes weren't so good anymore, but he hated wearing lenses. And implants? Even worse. Half the people he used to know had gotten them, but that sort of nonsense wasn't for him. So his body was wearing out some. Breaking down, to be frank. His back hurt all the time, and his concentration wasn't what it used to be, either. But that was nature, and you didn't mess with nature unless you had to. Doctors were the worst messers-about with nature in the world. Makers and doers, they went with nature, not against it, whatever the typicals might think. Hell, if he had to squint, he'd squint. "Who celebrates the thirtieth anniversary of the day they met? Idiots. And what is this nautical theme bullshit?"

It didn't count as talking to yourself if there was another living thing in the room. Red was in his basket in the corner, curled up, snout on butt. He hadn't been too active recently. Beck had moved Red's water dish and food bowl next to the basket, so all the little fellow had to do was stretch his neck slightly to lap or nibble, which was all he ever seemed to do anymore. Beck needed to carry him to the litter box – he tried to remember to perform this duty regularly, but sometimes there were accidents. His fault, not Red's.

"No way in hell I'm wearing a sailor suit," Beck growled. And what was this? Another message. From Mavvie. He wanted to delete it, but hesitated. Curiosity had always been his downfall. If he deleted the message, he would make himself nuts obsessing over what it might have contained. Better to leave it, read it later, when he was in a better mood.

"Hah. Like that's going to happen, eh, Red? A good mood. That's almost funny."

The creature that was not a lizard, not a reptile, not any species that could be found in even the most comprehensive taxonomy text, did not stir. Beck could hear Red's raspy breathing, though. Asleep, that's all. Nothing more. But one day....

One day was not today, however. Not yet. Beck looked around the room. When was the last time he'd even taken a swipe at the dust? He couldn't remember. Fuck, what did it matter, anyway? You cleaned up, shit just got dirty again.

Bloody Deelis and double-freaking-bloody Frayn. The only thing they could do was dabble with water. What the hell good was that? They couldn't even make it rain, just draw a bit of moisture out of the air, dew-drops at most. Real exciting. Thrilling stuff. And they'd finagled a career out of it, setting themselves up as expert horticulturists for rich idiots who didn't know any better, making a good living out of tending rare flowers and exotic plants and other crap like that. A good living? From what he'd heard, they pulled it in hand over fist.

Bastards.

"Shit," Beck muttered. "When did you get to be such an asshole? They're your friends. Or they used to be. You should be happy for them."

In his basket, Red let out a snort. Or a fart. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

"Watch it," Beck said. "I'm wise to you. I know sarcasm when I hear it."

So when had he turned into a genuine asshole, and not just a maybe-a-little-too-exuberant sort of guy who got on people's nerves once in a while? Not until after finding Red and helping him come into the world. Helping him be born. Not until after a couple of other things had happened, too. A couple? More like a couple dozen. But it had been that last one that had just about broken him.

That last time, with the haystack-sized mound of hair, which Lemby claimed had to be somebody's idea of a practical joke, must've taken some bored idiot weeks to collect sweepings from dozens of hair salons and barber shops, just to block traffic on the main avenue, but which Mavvie totally freaked out over; Beck had never seen such an expression of horror on her face – that had been the end of road for him. Mavvie started sounding the alarm, literally, blowing a whistle that sounded exactly like that of a traffic officer's, running into the street with her hand raised, stopping cars, waving for them to turn back. First problem, the avenue was a two-lane street. Second problem, nobody took Mavvie seriously as a traffic cop. Hard to blame folks for that, especially since Mavvie was dressed in a purplish-blue outfit that made her look like some kind of enormous berry with a head perched on top of it.

Where Salua had sprung from, Beck still wasn't sure. At the time, she had seemed to appear from nowhere, running like a sprinter at a track meet, arms and legs pumping. She had been shooting off sparks even a block away. Long afterwards, he had asked her, typing carefully, striving for neutral words and a bland tone, how she had known what the mound of hair was. I didn't, Salua replied. I was as shocked as you were, as everybody was. Yes, Beck answered, but you knew what to do. Mavvie called you, I saw her on the phone. But how did you get there so quickly, and how did you know?

You knew, too, Salua replied.

And that was true. He had. But he hadn't had a clue until he'd seen her pelting toward him, sparks flying from her skin. His own heat began to surge, and a flush raced up his body, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, something that hadn't happened since he'd been a teenager. He yelled at Lemby to go help Mavvie stop the traffic; he yelled at pedestrians to get to shelter. They must have looked crazy then, all of them, Mavvie in her ridiculous dress, spindly-limbed Lemby who was even less plausible as a police officer than Mavvie, with his stupid pencil-moustache and even more stupid chin tattoo, Salua running, sparking like a downed live wire, and himself bellowing like a crimson ox. As Salua got closer, Beck held out his right arm. She grabbed his hand with her left, and as soon as they touched, they swivelled in synch and unleashed fire on the massive mound of hair. It caught alight instantly.

He hadn't expected the screaming.

The hair-stack burned, but it screamed as it burned. It screamed with the voices of a thousand children.

Only he and Salua heard it. Cars screeched to a halt, pedestrians ran, but that was because of the fire, nothing else. Not even Mavvie and Lemby heard the screaming. Mavvie had said something like, You two just saved the city, but Beck could barely make out her words over the din in his head. Salua jerked her hand out of his. By the time the real police showed up, nothing was left but a smear on the asphalt and a stench hanging in the air. That, and a lot of hysterical men and women who were worse than useless as witnesses.

"I can't do this anymore," Salua had said. "We can't do this anymore."

They'd known each other around ten years by then, maybe a little longer. Ever since freshman year at that crappy community college she'd transferred out of and he hadn't. He'd seen Mavvie on campus a lot of times, but hadn't paid much attention to her. She'd always been handing out flyers and crap like that, trying to get people to join a club for what she called 'the makers and the doers.' That was cute, makers and doers. Beck suspected Mavvie had invented the term herself. It was a lot better than what most people called them, both behind their backs and to their faces. But he hadn't wanted anything to do with a goddamn club. Bunch of losers sitting around bullshitting about their childhoods and all the woeful challenges they faced due to being bloody makers and fuck-help-us doers. Then one day he'd seen Salua talking to Mavvie, outside the library it was, or maybe the student union building. When their eyes met, it took less than a second for both of them to recognize that they were the same.

Shit, he'd known Salua longer than Deelis and Frayn had known each other, despite the fact that Deelis and Frayn were a few years older, and he and Salua weren't throwing some idiotic anniversary bash for themselves.

"That's because it stopped being fun," he muttered. He glanced over at Red, who hadn't moved since he'd last looked at him. "You were fun," Beck said. "You were amazing."

Once upon a time, for the first several years, at least, he and Salua used to get together on purpose, just to practice. Testing themselves, exploring their limits, pushing past them. Tossing fireballs back and forth, trying to set the air alight (tricky, that – had to take the water content into account), making stones burn – though it all had a legitimate purpose, a lot of what they did felt like play. Even when they did it for real, when they were out, either only with each other or with the friends they eventually made, a few of them from the club Mavvie never really did get off the ground, though most not – when they came across something that needed to be handled by heat or by fire, it was still just for fun. They did it because they could. It wasn't like they were professionals. Salua had studied art history; he'd dropped out after three semesters of lackadaisical efforts toward an associate's in business administration. Frayn and Deelis were the only fuckers who'd turned their damn making and doing crap into a paying gig. Even when it was something serious, like that leaf-person in the shopping centre parking lot, it wasn't serious serious. It was just shit that happened.

Salua said he used to grin all the time. That he reminded her of a kid on a roller coaster ride, one of those buggers who got off on the adrenaline rush. Not that she used that word, but he took her meaning.

They'd all been kids back then, though, hadn't they. Even Deelis and Frayn, who were a couple of years out of school and had relatively decent vehicles and rarely got carded at bars. Beck couldn't really remember grinning the way Salua said he had. He ran his hand over his head. His hair. That hair everybody enjoyed telling him looked stupid, looked like something from their grandparents' time. Back then, he didn't give a rat's ass what they thought. He kept it cut short now, the little that was left.

Just shit that happened, the kind of stuff that all people who had some making or doing in them experienced. Only it happened more often when he was with Salua, and the shit that happened when they were together was more intense than the shit that happened when they weren't. It wasn't like it was with Frayn and Deelis. Those two dumbasses loved one another, Beck supposed. But their abilities didn't feed off of and reinforce each other.

He'd heard the screaming for days. Sometimes he still heard it, especially in the liminal moments between floating up through the surface layer of sleep and being fully awake. But they'd done the right thing. Later, Mavvie had shown them a journal article, an honest-to-crap scholarly article, about hair-mounds. Old-world hexy-woo-woo stuff, and the piece she'd read passages from was full of qualifiers and 'it has been claimed' and 'it has been reported', but they got the idea. Somebody had created that shit with evil intent. The strands were meant to latch on to people and penetrate the skin, eventually crawling their way to major arteries and veins and crap like that, where they'd expand. There had been hundreds of thousands of hair strands in that mound. Maybe millions.

Fire would destroy the making, the article stated. But it hadn't mentioned anything about the mound screaming as it burned, and neither he nor Salua had brought the subject up.

Beck looked back at the screen. He would read Mavvie's message, but not just yet. He keyed in Salua's contact code. Old-fashioned, to do it like that, but he didn't like the new comm modes (didn't like the name, either – sounded like commodes), didn't like the new screens, didn't like dictating to a machine. "If I want to talk to someone, I'll talk to myself," he said. "Or you."

Red didn't reply. He's sleeping, Beck told himself. He slept a lot, these days. "You got to wake up in a minute, kiddo. Gonna take you to the potty."

First, though, he typed a short message to Salua.

Mavvie stayed for hours. Eventually, they polished off the cookies that Salua had intended to last for a week, and Salua made dinner. Mavvie couldn't keep herself from perforating the silverware, but she was conscientious enough to repair the damage without having to be reminded, and even offered to help wash up.

"You're not going to change my mind," Salua said.

While Salua had been preparing dinner, Mavvie had taken it upon herself to make an excursion to the liquor store. They were on their second bottle of wine. "Don't you want to see the old gang again? Keivin? Lemby? How about Melca? She used to look up to you, remember?"

"Do things still happen to you?" Salua asked. She picked up a spoon with enough holes in it that it could have served as a miniature sieve. "I mean other than stuff like this, stuff you do yourself."

"Once in a while. Not so often."

"Do you do anything about it?"

Mavvie shook her head. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. All that's past and done. Deelis and Frayn, yeah, they've got their business, but most of the work is done by their assistants. At our age, it takes too much out of us. You know that's true."

"It was always different when Beck and I were together. We – we kind of boosted each other. We did things we could never have done alone."

"And what sort of things do you imagine could happen at a party? You go, you eat, you drink, you toast the happy couple, you catch up with people you haven't seen for decades, and then you kiss everybody goodnight and go home. That's it. No drama, or not that kind. Just a gathering of old friends."

Salua shook her head.

Mavvie emptied the second bottle into her glass. "Anyway, you've got a couple of weeks to decide."

"It might almost be worth it, to see you in a mermaid costume."

"I am not," Mavvie said, drawing herself up, "wearing a mermaid costume. I am going as a starfish. Stop laughing."

"I'm not laughing."

"Yes, you are. You're just keeping your lips pressed together. You're laughing on the inside."

On the inside, what Salua mostly felt was exhaustion and anticipatory regret for having had three glasses of wine. When Mavvie finally left – after being persuaded to allow Salua to call her a cab – Salua's only desire was to take a shower and fall into bed. But there was a ping on her comm unit – she had the sound turned off, but the little red alert icon was blinking on the screen. Check it in the morning, she thought, but she knew who it was, who it had to be.

"Deelis and Frayn are a couple of morons," Beck had written.

She smiled, and typed back, "Don't begrudge people their happiness."

To her surprise, a reply came back immediately. "You can be happy without sailor outfits and yachting caps and anchors and fake seaweed and crap like that."

"I'd like to see you in a sailor suit," she wrote. That was the wine; she never would have typed such a thing sober.

"Not on your life. But I'd like to see you."

Salua went very still. They'd spent twenty years – no, a bit more – apart. They hadn't even kept in touch with voice comm, much less vid. Safer that way, she had said. Minimize the temptation.

She could still burn, and so could he. That much she knew, and she knew that he knew it, too.

Another silent ping. She read it. "I miss you."

"Beck, did something happen?"

She waited. She waited so long that she was almost sure that he was not going to answer. When the message came, it was only one word. "Red."

Ah, shit. "I'm sorry."

"He went in his sleep."

"I'm so sorry, Beck."

They'd called him Red, or rather Beck had called him that, because of how the metal casing of his egg, his shell, had glowed with a burgundy hue before it had split open. Red's own scaly skin was greyish-green. Had been greyish-green.

"I was thinking of burying him, maybe in a park somewhere."

She was about to write back, "That might be a little conspicuous," when he continued, "But then I thought cremation would be more fitting."

Salua hesitated.

"Please?" he sent.

It was the question mark that broke her heart. Beck's worse than you, Mavvie had said, but Mavvie didn't really understand. Salua knew why Beck had wound up spending most of his time in his own company. It was safer. There were other people out there they both could have connected with, perhaps even more strongly than they had with each other. The two of them had stopped on the very brink; if they'd gone on any longer, they would have never been able to separate. They might have wound up in bed; they might have wound up blazing forever, an unquenchable conflagration. Probably both.

She'd said it first, that they needed to stop. And though she'd known that he felt the same unease over the power they generated as a team, and the too-frequent coincidences (too frequent to be coincidences) that occurred when they were together, for a while he resisted. There had been a long, alcohol-fuelled discussion that had lasted all night and most of the next day. We can control it, he argued. We can limit it. We can see each other once a week. All right, once a month. We can practice getting a handle on this, this – on this. But even as he argued, and drank, and argued some more, she could see the defeat in his eyes. She let him talk himself out; she helped him drink all the booze in his place. In the end, just before they both collapsed, he said, "You're right." She'd slept on his couch; the following day, still half-drunk, she'd gone home. That had been the last time they had seen each other or heard each other's voice.

He could have done it alone. Red weighed maybe seven kilos, tops. Beck could have done it himself in two minutes, even now.

"Of course," she wrote back. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

Beck and Salua were the only ones at Deelis and Frayn's anniversary bash who hadn't made even a token gesture toward complying with the theme. Some folks were in full sailor gear from a variety of historical periods. Some others had merely tied a scarf around their heads ("Why?" Beck asked. "Pirates," Salua explained) or worn a shirt with anchors embroidered on it; one woman had a rowboat on her head. Granted, it was a papier-mâché rowboat, but still.

"I don't know any of these people," Beck said.

"Be fair. We have been out of the loop for a couple of decades."

He smiled. It wasn't a particularly cheerful smile, but it was a smile.

They had cremated Red and mixed his ashes into the dirt at a small park near Beck's place. Flames in a park at night – but no one had called the police or the fire department. Some things never changed. Nobody ever had really noticed, really paid attention to what they could do when they were together.

Other things, of course, did change. Had changed. And it wasn't just a matter of less hair or more wrinkles: when they had joined their fires together to reduce Red to ash, they paused at the same instant and looked at each other. She saw the question in his eyes, and nodded: me, too. It was different; the intensity was gone. Later, she had told him, "Mavvie said we were worrying too much. It fades with age."

"What does Mavvie know. She makes holes in things."

But that had just been Beck grumbling; they had met, once for coffee, twice for lunch, since then, and nothing had happened. Mavvie was thrilled they'd come to the party, and Frayn and Deelis had welcomed them warmly, despite their lack of costumes.

"We don't have to stay long," Salua said. Ten minutes of mingling, and Beck was already getting antsy. "An hour, all right? We do owe old friends that much, don't you think?"

"I suppose. Where the hell have they hidden the bar?"

"Relax." She patted his arm. When they had been young, after the first eager period of practicing, they'd avoided touching each other casually; the sparks had always been too close to the surface. It was easier now. Banked embers, she thought. "I see it. Why don't you go out to the patio. I'll bring you some grog."

"Good idea. It's loud in here." He paused. "Grog?"

"Joke. Just go, I'll find you."

Mavvie snagged her as she was making her way back through clots of younger people dancing and clumps of older folks trying to shout above the music. Mavvie's eyes were bright – almost as bright as the spangly starfish on her silver-and-gold dress. "Double-fisted drinking, now?"

"One's for Beck."

Mavvie gave her a big kiss on the cheek. "Go for it. Life's short."

"It's not like that," she tried to say, but Mavvie had already moved on, waving at a group that included Timmis and Lemby. Or Salua thought the two older men were Timmis and Lemby. The passage of time created masks. Some of them were easier to see through than others.

Beck was alone on the patio. He was standing very still.

And suddenly the old feeling, the one she had thought was banked down safely under the layers and strata of years, stirred. She placed the drinks on a small wrought-iron table. "What is it?"

"Maybe you should stay back."

She considered it for half a second. "I think it's too late for that," she said, moving to stand next to him. The closer she came, the stronger the sensation grew. Something out there, in the darkness beyond the lights of the house. This isn't supposed to happen, she thought. This is supposed to be over with.

Perhaps some things didn't change as much as you wanted to believe they did.

"It's a worm," he said. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes. Moving underground. But it isn't headed this way. It's going – "

"East."

"Yes."

"Fireworm," he said.

"Yes."

"Hungry."

"Yes. I know."

"I know you know." He still hadn't looked at her. "We're not as young as we used to be, but I think we can take out a fireworm."

"We could leave it alone."

"Could we?"

"We'd be starting down that slippery slope again, Beck."

"I think that slope has been waiting for us for a long time. And you know what happens when fireworms reach the surface."

"Yes."

"One of those classic cases of having to fight fire with fire."

The heat was already rising within her; she didn't have to touch Beck to know that it was happening to him, too. But it wasn't the same as she remembered. The fuel isn't there, she thought. It's not just a matter of being rusty. We're not as strong as we used to be. "We might not win this time," she said.

"We can't know unless we try." And now he did look at her. She wanted to glance away, but she couldn't. He held out his hand. "How fast can you run?"

"Faster than a fireworm can tunnel through dirt."

He smiled, a brief flash of his old smile, his old grin. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely." She took his hand. She knew he was measuring her heat, the same as she was measuring his, calculating, gauging, figuring the odds. Fifty-fifty, she judged, against a fully mature fireworm. The damn thing must be at least two meters long. She could almost see it, blind and burning, eating through earth, angling toward the surface. It would emerge ---

Beck pointed.

Yes. Just about there.

They did manage to move faster than the fireworm, despite having to take the long way around, avoiding fences and hedges and walls, trying to trespass as little as possible. They were waiting for it when it burst through into the open air and flamed like a torch, white flame, incandescent in the dark.

Fire with fire.

They burned so brightly in the night it was a wonder that nobody saw. But then, nobody ever had.

It took more than an hour to defeat the fireworm, to incinerate it and make sure none of the fragments had the slightest glimmer of life left in it. Afterwards, exhausted, they sat on the ground, their clothes sprinkled with ashes, recovering their strength. But the crash wasn't as bad as Salua had anticipated. Adrenaline was holding it at bay for a while, she figured. Or maybe, just maybe, this would be the worst of it, this fatigue, the tremors in their hands, the ache in their bones. Stronger together, she thought. We always were stronger together.

"It didn't scream," Beck said.

"Fireworms don't."

"Right. That's right. They don't."

This was her chance, Salua knew. To say it again, to call a halt: We can't do this anymore. Beck was expecting it, steeling himself for it; she could tell by how tensely he was holding himself. She said, "Do you think they've missed us at the party?"

That made him laugh. "Not a chance."

"We should go back. Make our goodbyes."

"Goodbyes?"

"It's only polite. Before we go home."

"Home." His voice was suddenly toneless.

"Yeah," she said. "My place is closer."

She waited. After a moment, his hand crept into hers. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

"Of course not."

"We're attractors," he said. "It really isn't coincidence. When we're together, we draw these things to us."

"I know. I read the same books you did." She gave his hand a little squeeze.

"We're not as young as we used to be."

And that made her let out a laugh. "True. And next year we'll be older, and the year after that even older. And one day we'll discover that we have nothing left to burn. But I suspect that, together, we'll always be able to sparkle."

"Sparkle. I like that." Then he said softly, "But what if we find out that really, in the end, we can't stand each other?"

She thought that over. "I don't believe that's going to happen," she said. "Do you?"

"No," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her. "No, I suppose I don't."

"You know Mavvie is going to be over the moon."

"Mavvie," Beck said, "can go turn the moon into a giant colander for all I care," and kissed her.

Third Night Charm

by

Gene Stewart

USA

Coming down the curved staircase meant hugging the wall to avoid both cracked stair boards and the rickety bannister. The ghost hunt's leader, Karl Demerest, an older man with cancer, alimony, and a desperate gleam in his gaze, left a scrape in the grime on the wall with his shoulder. His military style sweater had dirt, balls of dust, and clumps of damp wall paper on it. He investigated hard, crawling everywhere.

Joining the trio at the ground floor rendezvous, he counted ducklings and frowned. "Where's Compton? And that new girl he brought?"

Asking the question answered it in most of their minds. A smile made the rounds. Karl crushed it. "Find them."

A closet, most thought. He'd cuddled many an eager trainee in closets over the decade Compton had been with the group. His behaviour would have gotten him thrown out long ago had it not been for his value to the group's overall goals. His family's connections in the region gained them permission to explore properties otherwise off-limits to ghost-hunting. His technical knack kept them supplied with work-bench knock-offs of cutting-edge equipment, often made better with useful innovations added.

Compton also drew spirits. With him along, activity spiked. Leave him home and exploring dilapidated houses and abandoned factories, asylums, hospitals, bars, hotels, or other businesses became tedious, dangerous endurance tests.

Suspicious that Compton sweetened the sites or rigged equipment to act up were expressed and checked. No one had found the slightest evidence supporting notions of cheating. Compton even welcomed inspections of his machines, and accepted gladly the buddy system, which he called the spy system. Backup technicians operating the monitor board or debriefing the sensors was great, too, in his opinion.

His one foible passed unremarked beyond occasional good-natured teasing, or had before the ghost hunt in Fechte's Mansion ended by their leader, Kurt, opening the house's back door in time to spot Compton and the cute blonde girl naked and thrusting in the gazebo.

Running to the middle of the yard, Kurt pounded on the lattice surrounding the gazebo's base and yelled Compton's name until the man himself, fully clothed if still zipping and buttoning, stepped down from the gazebo to stop the noise.

"What?" Compton smiled, all innocence until he winked.

"You're out of the group. This is ridiculous. I've had enough— "

"Never knew you had any. Are you speaking for the group all the sudden? Thought we voted." Compton played to the others, who stood near the house's back door watching this confrontation amusedly. "I don't remember any vote. Just because you're a dried-up old prude— "

"Who you calling old?"

"What do you care, as long as I do my job? Tell me that. What does it matter to you if I have a good time, too? We all work hard in our day jobs and this is our break from all that."

"I've had it. You're a distraction. Not to mention a liability if a property owner gets wind of your, your shenanigans."

"Shenanigans? What if I told you Mary and I— "

"Get out of here. Seriously, or—"

"Or? Or what? Or you'll what, call the cops? Report what? One of your ghost hunters was getting lucky? Having consensual sex with—

"With a girl young enough to be his daughter."

"How old do you think I am? Bull shit, Karl, she's of age, she's in college like the rest of them, a sophomore for—"

"Look at yourself. Have you? Ever? I mean, take a good song look at what a joke you've become since you were in college. Remember way back then? Long time ago, and you've gotten no—"

"What I do makes your little group possible. If I leave, you have nothing, and you know it."

"We'll see about that."

Compton turned to the group. "You people think all this over. I'm starting my own group as of right this second. You're all welcome. If you'd rather hang with him—" He gestured rudely toward Karl, whose desperate expression had worsened to death's head intensity. "If you'd rather see how long he can roll on empty inertia, no hard feelings. Come find me once you see reason."

Compton and the blonde, now dressed and by his side, walked away holding hands.

At the yard's edge, wrought-iron gate half open, Compton paused. He turned back. "I want all my stuff back. That includes the equipment I made and the cases for it."

He and the girl strolled from the old house as if on a carefree date, even swinging linked hands and skipping a few times, each tossing back their head in a laugh. They appeared to vanish as dark between streetlights took them whole. They rematerialized at the next cone of pale light.

They were not seen after that.

Twenty years of them missing passed.

The local ghost hunter group shattered and scattered that night, when Compton left, most graduating to less juvenile pursuits as life took hold with the teeth of marriages, babies, responsibilities. A few joined other ghost hunting groups. It was a kind of addiction, they admitted. Thrill of the chase, despite catching so very little.

Karl Demerest left Compton's equipment, packed neatly, on the man's front porch the next morning. It was seen sitting there a week later so one of the group took possession of it, pending Compton's return. Small town etiquette prevailed, along with honesty, in those days.

Karl shut himself away and died a few months later, any regrets kept to himself and never mentioned by those surviving him.

During the two decades of Compton's absence most who'd known him, especially those who'd prowled old places in the dark with him, holding his instruments, trusting his backup, talked of him fondly now and then Speculating on what had happened to him, whether he'd eloped or been jumped by accident or malice, and the cute blonde, had he married or dumped her, lost her to another? Such chat amused them over dinner or when a campfire or the passion for the latest investigation burned low.

"Maybe the girl was a ghost."

"Nah, he brought her with him that night, remember?"

"No one knew her, did they?"

"She might have been a new transfer."

"Anyone hear her talk? Ever? Maybe she was an exchange student, shy of the language."

"I think she was a ghost, took him into the spirit world."

That last became the running, mild joke about what had probably happened to Compton. It was a good way of dealing with doubt.

Compton's return to their lives came when he appeared on their TV screens. He'd become the host and head ghost hunter for a cable show. He and four others, including the blonde, who'd married him, scampered all over various spooky locations seeking evidence of hauntings.

A buzz sparked through town. Excitement peaked when Compton announced on his show that he would bring his ghost hunting group to his home town. "I intend to finish the one unfinished investigation of my career." This captured his old group's imagination and earned them drinks or meals in local night spots in exchange for their increasingly-detailed reminiscences of the good old days, and what Compton was really like.

Compton did not breeze into town, he drove sedately. He arrived a week ahead of any scheduled events. Two days of prep and three nights of shooting were planned. Over the week his team came separately, as did the TV production crew. Compton and the blonde, whose name turned out to be Mary for those who'd forgotten, drove through town nodding, waving, and smiling at acquaintances and familiar faces in a three-year-old Jeep Patriot with 175,000+ miles on it.

"No limo" wags asked. "No big SUV?"

"Where's yer hummer," one joker called, making Compton laugh.

He and Mary stayed at the local Day's Inn, ate at local diners and small restaurants, including fast food places, ordered pizza, and generally hung with the blue collar crowd. At the diner Compton was buttonholed by a local newspaper reporter and asked why he was eating there. "Love the chili here, best I've ever had. It's better than I remembered it."

He also visited with old friends, sometimes meeting them, other times going to their places.

"We're not rich, no. Never even been to Hollywood." He laughed. "The production company's part mine, out of Boston. We're trying to do solid documenting of the paranormal. No scripts or hokey reaction shots, no fake cliff-hangers before every ad spot." He sipped some beer. "We genuinely explore those places. We show what happens, even if it's nothing."

"What are you reading these days? Do you read up on ghosts? A lot of new ghost books out." The reporter was young and obviously a fan.

Compton shook his head. "Nah. I'm reading Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon right now. I try to keep business and down time separate. Clears the head, sharpens the senses."

No one he and Mary talked with walked away disliking them. He met the mayor and police chief and regional sheriff, pleasing them all. The mayor liked the publicity and commerce, the cops liked the cooperative, inclusive attitude toward security.

No one anticipated what Compton would find at the old Fechte Mansion, although many joked he might have to deal with the angry ghost of his old team leader Karl Demerest. "Doubt he's cooled down yet, being in hell and all," went the joke.

Mary, who remembered that night well, doubted it. "We're married. We eloped that night, in fact. If he's still there in spirit, he could hardly object now."

She blushed and said nothing when asked if she and Compton planned to re-enact the gazebo incident, as it was long since referred to. "It's still there," she was assured, in knowing tones.

Compton reassembled as many of the old team as possible, Karl having died and one other having moved away. A cousin of the missing member filled in, keeping things in the family. They joined his current team to become a force of eleven.

That first night of investigation, a festival atmosphere prevailed in town. Deputies kept gawkers back, the TV crew set up and worked professionally, and Compton kept the town crowd happy when he was free, and otherwise led the teams through the premises following as precisely as possible the original walk-through Karl had organized and directed.

Everyone agreed it was a great night. It produced a number of EVPs, some anomalous lights, a shadow person glimpsed peering around a doorframe, even an apport thrown at Mary, an old yellow Ticonderoga No. 2 school pencil. Whose teeth marks dented it remained unknown.

The second night, Compton's new team alone tackled the place with their new equipment. Laser grids, sensor arrays, subsonic sound-net scanners, EMF wands, and other esoteric machines provided amazing new opportunities for spirits to make themselves known, or for ghosts to be caught doing the gazebo, as some joked. "Gonna get one mid ghostly thrust," one crew member quipped, another immediately asking if he was carrying tissues to wipe up the ectoplasmic spurt.

Those following the show's progress and getting to interact with Compton and his team mates, who had fans themselves among the townies, declared themselves well pleased.

No one anticipated what was looming.

"Third night's a charm," Compton declared, smiling into the camera. "I'm hoping we stir up a full-body apparition or achieve intelligent communication with a spirit."

"So do your producers," someone called, provoking laughter even from Compton, who nodded in agreement.

"That'd be great. It is a TV show so of course we're always hoping for telegenic activity. I know it can get annoying, all the nothing we find, or the subtle, subjective EVPs."

"What the hell's that?" someone mocked, breathlessly, mimicking the hokey go-to-commercial break markers over-used by too many ghost hunt shows. Another joker yelled, "Stop. No running."

"You could rediscover orbs." This from the print reporter, looking young, shy, and sly.

Compton laughed, rolled his eyes. Being a pro, he took the opportunity to dump some factoids. "Genuine orbs are rare, give off their own light. The rest is dust and bugs and camera artefacts. Same with rods. Just bugs zipping past the lens too fast for the camera to resolve."

"So, anyway." He pointed at a camera, then to his nose, and the cameraman nodded and flashed a thumb's up. "The first night both teams went in. The second night, my TV team went in. Tonight, I plan to go in alone." He glanced at Mary and gave her a smile. "It's not something I usually do but I want to experience this place, its energy, for myself."

"Just so you come back out," Mary said, loud enough to be heard by the microphones.

Laughter crackled through the crowd, some of it nervous.

Compton went in alone carrying a full spectrum still camera and a GoPro. When he wanted to comment, he would turn the hand-held cam toward his face and talk to the audience. Otherwise, it showed what he saw, which, in the dark mansion, was not much.

He had decided against an infrared camera on the grounds that it was one camera too many and he wanted the still to take shots of each room in hopes of capturing shadow people or spirits manifesting. While infrared worked well for spotting cats, rats, and other vermin, or marks where people had touched, or sat, it was of less use in spotting actual ghosts. For that, ultraviolet was better. "We're not interested in cold or hot spots tonight." He explained all this to the audience as he crept into the foyer, pausing at the base of the staircase for a 360° panorama.

A thump sounded. "Security, is everything clear? Am I alone in here?"

"Roger that, swept it just now. You're on your own."

Compton walked past the base of the staircase toward the kitchen, passing a parlour on his left. Something fluttered past the right edge of the frame and he stopped. The cam's viewpoint swept up to show the empty stairs. "No one, nothing," he muttered.

A blur of motion indicated him stooping and retrieving what fell.

"It's a photograph of a little boy in a Hallowe'en skeleton outfit." He held it before the camera. "Seems old. Curled at the edges, a little grimy."

He poked around in the parlour, tried some EVP work using a small digital recorder, then went to the kitchen. A lack of activity sent him back to the stairs, which he climbed slowly, doing commentary about how weather, particularly humidity, or storms with lightning, affected hauntings. "Underground rivers can do this, too, by producing electron flow, as oceans and waterfalls do with ozone. A haunting can be enhanced, or strengthened, by deposits of quartz nearby as well, which tend to hold piezoelectric charges. Any way a spirit field can condense energy helps the manifestations of what we call ghosts."

A metallic chink stopped his rote monologue.

He took the last few stairs quickly and scanned the floor, finding a length of charm bracelet with a single charm on it just inside the doorway of a bedroom. It was the so-called round room, located in a rear tower.

"I saw the flash of this falling out of the corner of my eye." Compton picked up the charm.

Most agree that was when his voice changed. "I, uh. This is. This is... interesting. Uh. I'm pretty sure I've... uh."

He said no more and did little more than flash the charm on camera. It seemed to upset him, most agreed. Entering the round room, he began walking around its perimeter, doing timid EVP work by asking neutral, vague questions. "I'm here, uh. Are you?" and "We could talk, couldn't we?"

Compton moved slowly until he came to the closet door. He commented about it being cut to match the curve of the room. "They don't do work like this anymore." He paused, seemingly out-of-breath. "It's like the Oval Office in the White House or Jefferson's estate, Monticello." He scanned the door top to bottom.

As the camera showed the bottom of the door something slipped partway out from under it.

Compton gasped and stepped back, at once stepping back toward it and bending to see what it was. He pulled it and it seemed to resist, then came out, and he held it for the camera to see. It was a photograph of a young woman. "You," he whispered.

He grasped the handle and opened the door, calling out, "Show yourself," and at once yelling in surprise and falling back.

In the closet a young man stood. He wore a black hoodie, black jeans, and black sneakers. His face, hidden in shadow, showed only glaring eyes. Something gleamed in his right hand.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Looking for my Daddy." The voice was deep, a teenager's smoker voice, rough and snarling.

"Securi—"

"Wouldn't do that, Dad. Not unless you want everyone to know."

"Know?"

"The little boy trick-or-treating is me, Da. The charm, you should recognize that."

Compton held the charm up again, letting it dangle in the camera's frame for a moment before the camera lowers to face the floor. The rest is audio only.

"Yes. I remember it. I gave it to her."

"Do you remember her name, even? Or was she just another little ghost hunt fuck-bunny to help you spurt some ectoplasm? Aren't those your terms? Say her name."

That last yelled, angry.

Compton cleared his throat. "Maria."

"MONICA."

"Monica, yes. Monica. I misspoke."

"She died, you know. Cancer. Spoke about you, followed your career even before you went national."

"I didn't know. Why didn't she—"

"Why would she have let you know? You didn't give a fuck. Or maybe a fuck, a single quick dirty little closet fuck, was all you had to give."

A pause, then Compton said, "Put that down. It's ridiculous."

"Is it? Now you can be a ghost, too. Unseen, unheard, invisible. Kept in the shadows. See how you like it."

A small click was heard. Given the explosive sound of a gun going off roaring an instant later, the click was likely the gun's hammer being pulled back.

The camera dropped, bounced once, and showed a nearby baseboard. A shadow crossed this baseboard.

Security by that time was sent in by producers, who had given Compton the benefit of the doubt, in consideration of how rapt the video held the gathered townsfolk. "This is great TV," one was heard to say.

"Which room, which room?" Security was running all over the house.

"Upstairs, round room, you face it when you hit the top of the stairs."

"Got the camera."

The picture moves, blurring and spinning. It is then turned off, going black. Further communication was through security walkie-talkies.

"Is he all right?"

"Nothing here, boss. Just the camera."

"Check the closet."

"It's hanging open. Empty."

"Under the bed, check everywhere."

After a pause: "Nope, he's not here."

As it turned out, the episode never aired.

Compton was never seen again. No sign of the kid in the hoodie was ever found.

There was no blood at the scene.

Many put it down to a bizarre publicity stunt but for what? No one could ever answer that question.

Mary, despondent, filed for divorce and his death certificate the same day, seven years later. Both were granted in due course, so she inherited his estate, which was not much by then.

Internet whispers accused her of murder, collusion, or worse, but she ignored them. Without substance, they remained the pastimes of idiots.

The Fechte Mansion remains, crumbling worse than ever. Local kids sneak in, risking broken bones and hard falls to scare themselves with self-induced shadows and misperceived sounds. They swear they sometimes hear a bracelet drop, or a quiet click of a gun being cocked. They swear there are several shadow people there who often pass by windows or block beams from flashlights. They swear the place is haunted.

It is like many an abandoned, dilapidated place in many a town or city, shadowy and alone, a place ghosts might well be stuck, unseen, unheard, ignored by the most of us most of the time.

Three years after Compton vanished so dramatically his widow, Mary, while enjoying a book and cup of Darjeeling in the bay window of her house, jumped when, into the gutter of her book, between pages 100 and 101, a length of charm bracelet bearing a single charm fell.

It fell out of the air, an apport.

Cold all over, she flushed with warmth as she picked it up to examine it. A half-inch high die-cast sculpture of the bust of a man's head reminded her of Compton, her lost husband. She had to get a magnifying glass to read the inscription on the bottom.

"I'm sorry and I am always near."

She wore it on a chain around her neck from then on.

Sea of the Dead

by

Phil Margolies

USA

A god could not have timed the hull pop better, nor worse. Not that there were such things as gods. Ghosts yes, but gods no way. At least, I'd never read an evidence-based, peer-reviewed paper on that topic.

As nonchalant as I was about the regular sounds of our undersea habitat, even after four days down here most noises still startled my mother. She peered past me and out the viewport looking for a ghost. That was why we were down here after all. She yelped and her tea cup rattled against the saucer. Her face pursed as she looked back at me with motherly regard.

"I won't have these dead people cluttering up my porch, Jonathan."

"Mother."

She paused and the breath grew stale in my lungs.

"Not because they're dead, mind you. It wouldn't be so bad if they were rotting, decaying corpses and all, but they're ghosts. It's unnatural."

"Mother."

Another pause.

"It's all your father's fault, of course. I told him--"

"Mother, please."

"Well, finally you're being polite." She sipped her tea. "What is it, dear?"

"One, we're 160 meters beneath the surface of the ocean, you don't have a porch. Not the kind you're thinking of, anyway. Two, ghosts are natural. Kovacs and Weaver proved that twenty years ago. If they weren't natural, they wouldn't exist, because nature is, by definition, natural."

"Whatever you say, dear."

"And three, Dad had nothing to do with the ghosts outside the habitat. These men have been dead for a century. Some ghost back in Seattle, maybe, but not these."

"Well, I knew something was your father's fault."

"Mother!"

She ended the argument with an arched eyebrow, then abandoned me in the kitchen. My fist gripped the handle of my coffee mug until my knuckles hurt. I considered dashing it against the bulkhead, but settled for a swig of cold unsweetened black coffee. A shadow flitted past the viewport. My heart skipped, but it was just a ghost. My legs twitched. I wanted to escape, but the habitat was only so big and I wasn't going to take the transport capsule to the surface myself, abandoning her down here. My thoughts rushed back six months to last October. My younger sister Lynda and I met in Seattle atop the rebuilt Space Needle so she could foist our mother on me.

"Let's pretend you have a choice," Lynda said, applying the gentle glare she had inherited from our father. "Either you take mother or your research includes your sister."

I ground my teeth and refused to meet her eyes. She knew I hated ultimatums.

"What do you mean, me take her, Ell? You know I work at the bottom of the ocean."

We were twenty years out of childhood, but still addressed each other by our private nicknames "Ell" and "Jay." Except for dad's funeral, this was the first time since we'd earned our doctorates that we talked face-to-face and not BlitZ, texts, old-fashioned Skype, or even e-mail.

The menus lit up on the table, but we both ordered from memory. She let me stew while she checked her phone. She knew I hated being ignored. Finally, she set it on the table.

"Ell, I took care of mother and you when--"

"--dad was off for months at a time inside and out of volcanoes," she said, parroting my voice. "And then you add..."

"I didn't get to live the normal teenage life."

"Every time, Jay. Ev-very time. You went to college and never returned home. It was just me and Mom. Then after Dad..."

"Don't, Ell. You know--"

She ignored my pained look and deliberately drew my gaze toward Mount Rainier. The volcano's shoulders were barren of snow, not unusual these days. I imagined it burbling and gurgling, ready to blow and finish the job the Quake had started sixteen years before. The earthquake that brought down this tower's predecessor and made 40,000 new ghosts.

A shiver ran across my shoulders. "It hasn't erupted in what, 100,000 years? You expect it to go before Mom, Ell? She's only seventy-four."

"So was dad when..." She flicked her wrist as her words trailed off.

My jaw flexed. Four years now and I still struggled with the concept that dad was gone. I stirred my water my lemon. She hated that.

"Jonathan," she said with a measured pronunciation, then paused her coming lecture until I set the lemon down. "I'm a volcanologist, just like dad. Rainier's more active than since the eruptions of the mid-1800s. Last time I talked to Dad, he made a point to remind me of his damage estimate paper. It could obliterate this city, along with half the state of Washington."

"And you think half a kilometre under the ocean is safer for mother?"

"God, Jay, I love mother, but I'm going to..." She shook her the next words out of her head. "She's on anxiety meds, you know. Has been since... They're not helping. If you don't take her...." Lynda's eyes puffed up and she looked near tears. My brain kvetched about the ultimatum, but I knew what my answer had to be. "Just like dad," she had to add.

My palms smacked the table, splashing our water and jolting the surrounding diners.

"Damn it, Ell." My voice slipped through clenched teeth.

"Jay, I'm - No. I'm not. Not anymore. It's been four years since dad died. Accidents happen. You're in the right line of work to--"

"It doesn't work that way, Ell. Ghosts don't - God, why do I let you draw me into this conversation?"

She looked toward the mountain again, her jawline tightening. She turned back to me when our food arrived.

"Jay, I'm still sad, too. I just deal with it differently." She laid her hands over mine. "She's driving me crazy."

"I deal better with crazy?"

"Dad said you took after Grandpa. Then again, Grandpa didn't study ghosts, he just believed in them, right?"

"What choice did I have? You didn't spend three days talking to Uncle Joe, a month after his funeral."

"I thought you said ghosts didn't interact with people. They just are...were?"

"I said 'talking to' not 'chatting with.' Yes, ghosts exist here in the real world. The research isn't clear on why they seem more prevalent today, or rather why more of the living can see or at least admit to noticing the dead. That's what I'm studying."

Absently I dipped my lemon back into my water. Lynda closed her eyes, opening them only when I laid the lemon on my napkin.

"Sometimes I think I study impending death and you study the aftereffects," Lynda said as she turned her phone like the hour hand of a clock. "Between graduation and the day Dad went to the Philippines, he and I had lunch up here every Thursday. I learned a lot about him. A lot we missed out on as kids."

My gaze returned to Ranier. In the hazy air, it seemed to float above the Earth. I wondered what Lynda would do if I refused. I wondered if I could study myself after she killed me.

"Yeah, I'll take her."

Famous last words.

I blinked and the mountain was gone from my thoughts, replaced by a peachy-brown fish darting across the viewport. Mother had not reappeared. I listened for a moment, but only heard the natural drub of the habitat. With a deliberate sigh, I stood and started prepping for my journey to the submarine. A lot of researchers spent time on expeditions with an assistant, I reminded myself. Just not their mother.

I found myself standing in the airlock, staring through the window into the overpressured wet room where the round moon pool in the floor let me slip into the ocean. Beyond that, accessible only by the moon pool, was a grillwork platform that my mother apparently imagined as an old-fashioned veranda. I blew out slow breaths to clear the mental fog lingering around me, then backed out of the airlock and sealed the door. A flicker out the ready room window caught my peripheral vision.

A translucent figure glided past. I stumbled backward into the workbench, sending the tool clattering to the floor. I had been dealing with ghosts professionally for a dozen years now, but they could still spook me.

"They're just ghosts," I said to myself, "not something to be afraid of."

"What was that, dear?" My mother ambled into the room. "Are you all right?"

"A ghost on the porch, I..."

She pushed past me and peered out. After a moment, she backed away, the excitement dropping from her face.

"Mother?"

"I was watching them. From my bedroom. I realized, well, you're right, Jonathan. I can't agree they're natural whatever their nature, but this is your research station and I'm your guest."

Over her shoulder I saw two ghosts drift past each other, each bobbing slightly. Like acquaintances passing on the street.

"I can see them more clearly now," she continued. "There are a dozen or so, all young fellows...or at least they were when they died, I suppose. Just wandering about, sometimes cluttering the porch. There's one with a nice chin, very distinguished."

"They were on a German submarine in World War--"

She waved a dismissive hand, then froze with a worrisome smile on her face--worrisome because she obviously had an idea.

"What?" I asked, sure that I didn't want to know.

"I'll bake them some cookies."

"Mother!"

"I don't think I could go a century without a decent cookie. They are on our porch, Jonathan. I am going to offer them cookies."

"They don't eat, Mother. They're dead."

"They're still people, dear."

She vanished through the common room into the kitchen muttering something about tea. My mind jumped back to a debate with Lynda on our mother's sanity. Was she just quirky? Senile? Or a restive insanity that emerged after my father's death?

I only had a fourteen-day residency in the habitat a hundred kilometres southeast of the Brazilian coast, not counting the two days for compression coming down and the same for decompression on the way back up. What else was I going to do with her now that she was my responsibility? The grant allowed me an assistant. I never told the Institute it would be my senior citizen mother. She came with a PhD of her own, even if it was in art history. Dad claimed she was a psych major in undergrad, but Lynda and I had never seen any documented evidence.

She plays dumb on purpose, I think, Lynda had said the day mother and I flew to Rio de Janeiro. She acts the kooky old lady, people treat that way, and she learns a lot about them without suspicion.

"Definitely a psych major," I muttered to myself.

The prep work done, I wandered back to the kitchen where my mother scraped a spatula around a bowl. She looked up with expectation, her hands staying busy.

"I'm going out to visit U-199 now."

"Visit me what?"

"Visit U-- the German U-boat that sank, was sunk 100 years ago during World War II." Frustration burned in my neck. "That's my research project, that's why we're here."

"That's good of you, dear. You'll be back for dinner, of course."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," I said, too loud apparently.

She set the bowl down.

"No, I don't. Not really, but that doesn't mean I can't listen."

She breezed past me, her teacup suddenly in her hands. She patted the space next to her in the booth.

My mouth opened to argue, but her look warned there was no escape. I sat beneath the window across from her, my own small measure of rebellion.

"A German U-Boat," I said, trying to disguise a sigh.

She winced and rubbed her neck. My heart punched my ribs, but I said nothing as she unscrewed the top of a pill bottle. Of course, she kept them in the kitchen, I thought, she spent most of her time in here.

Just anxiety pills and muscle relaxants, Lynda had told me. I sunk into the seat thinking my mother was the last person I thought of as stiff-necked. My father on the other hand...

"Go on, dear," my mother said. I sucked in a deep breath.

"U-199, it's a German submarine. It was sunk a century ago, and today there are, as you can see, the ghosts of the submariners--the men who were on the submarine--just milling about, it seems. I'm especially curious about why they are coming over to our habitat."

"Well that's obvious, dear," she said as if explaining to my seven-year-old self. "They're lonely. You said no one has visited them in 100 years."

"No one's visited them because no one knew they existed."

"Haven't people been seeing ghosts for thousands of years?"

I leaned forward, elbows pressing onto the table, suckered in by her apparent interest. "Only the crazy people or those out to make money. At least that's what we thought. There's been no scientifically accepted explanation for ghosts before. Then about twenty-five years ago, all of a sudden, ghosts everywhere. People noticed them. Sane people, scientists, skeptics--"

"And your grandfather."

Scientists published papers in respected journals, turning previously insane theories into actual science. Kovacs and Weaver showed that ghosts were natural, more theoretically than experimentally, but they established the basic premise: a quantum mechanical effect based on the bio-electrics of brainwaves during the extreme emotional events surrounding the physical process of dying coupled with a visualization mechanism based on a combination of infrasound at about seven or nineteen hertz with the electro-chemical processes that exist in the brains of a sub-set of humanity. No soul, demon, or God need apply.

I shook my head. "Grandpa was a believer, not a scientist. I'm interested in the why. Why now? A change in them, a change in humanity, the universe? Do ghosts have a purpose?" I sat back hard and considered my own statement. "That smacks of religion, not science."

My Mother lowered her tea. "Where is the line today between science and religion?"

"The radicals and the religionists have their own beliefs. I'm searching for a scientific rationale. There has to be one, I just know there has to be."

"Your father spoke to your grandfather, you know, after the funeral."

"Grandpa's funeral?"

"We never had one for your father." Her eyes looked past me. "Your father talked his ear off. Not literally, of course."

My head clouded, but she just drank tea and watched me across the rim. I pressed my lips to suppress a dozen questions. She was a psych major, after all. I stayed silent, refusing to let her draw me in.

"He told me your Uncle Joe complained you did the same thing," she said, breaking the stalemate. Despite its muted tones, the cabin light lit a sparkle in her eyes.

"Ghosts don't talk, Mother. Uncle Joe never said a word to me."

"Whatever you say, dear." She left me at the table and checked the oven. I had not appreciated the full kitchen--refrigerator, dish washer, electric stove, the works--when I reviewed the schematic. The scent of the cookie dough swelled through the room. I watched her spoon blobs onto a sheet. I escaped to the ready room when she slid the batch into the oven.

Tucked into my dry suit, I had just unlatched the airlock hatch when she shuffled into the ready room.

"Why don't you ask them?"

Already tense, my breath rushed out. "Ask them what? Mother, they're ghosts, there's no evidence they can communicate." The memory of our conversation in the kitchen made me flush.

"Isn't that what scientists do? Investigate, ask questions?" my mother asked. She didn't wait for my response, instead dismissing me with a flick of her wrist. "How do you know if you don't ask them, dear?"

I watched her amble off, then checked my dry suit again. Then, agitation still rising, I sealed myself in the airlock. Once the pressure equalized, I spun open the inner hatch and stepped into the wet room. Minutes later, I glided out, encapsulated in the undersea sled, no ghosts around, at least none that I saw.

Eight point three kilometres southeast at five kilometres per hour was what, an hour and forty minutes? I tried to focus on the questions that mattered. Why were the ghosts visiting the habitat, if indeed that's what they were doing? And why now? Before we arrived, we had watched hours of video from the habitat's automated cameras. There had been no ghosts evident since the last expedition left over two weeks ago as far as we could tell. The video and the team lead's report were what slipped us into the schedule now instead of next year.

The hum of the sled in my helmet enveloped me. The thoughts that surfaced came from lockers deep in my psyche. Grandpa talked to dad? Or, at least dad claimed so? My father who dismissed ghosts as "more baloney than all the delis in Brooklyn." My father who said I should study a "real science"? Who seemed prouder of my sister's B- in physics than my PhD?

My father who allegedly vanished into the caldera on the last day of his expedition. Three days of frantic calls to the US Embassy in Manila, my sister's trip--she was the only one with a passport at the time, and no answers.

There were ghosts on Mount Banáhao.

That's what Murray claimed in his seminal Nature article. "Their presence has been detected in the vicinity of all ten locations surveyed." Banáhao was one.

Was my dad really there to study them? My father, the hard scientist, the skeptic? Did one of them push him in? Was he one of them now?

"That's crazy," I said aloud to myself. Ghosts do not interact with the world around them. They can't. I resisted the urge to shut my eyes. My brain slipped back into autopilot.

The underwater altimeter told me I was flying a dozen meters above the sea floor, but beyond the range of the sled's lights I was blind. Only in the last third of my journey did the depth reach 200 meters. A check of the GPS told me I was close.

The stern of the sub came into sight, just meters in front of me. I slowed and set the autopilot to hover in the current. The sub lay angled on its port side, nose down in the side of the hill marking the edge of the continental shelf. I could see the skid mark where it hit the slope and slid--

That wasn't right.

The sub sunk over a century ago. No sign of where it hit should have remained. I switched to the more powerful flood light on the bottom of the sled. Of course, the track was new, and a moment later the obvious conclusion hit me. The sub was slipping down the slope. A scan of the hillside brought a rational conclusion to my speculation. There had been an undersea landslide.

A man stepped through the side of the sub. Or rather, his ghost, still dressed in his uniform. Under the bright glow of the floodlight, he looked washed out. I adjusted the lights seeking a balance between seeing him better and seeing him at all. The ghost did not seem to notice, instead turning and drifting back through the side of the sub, only to return seconds later. If I had not known better, I would have said he was pacing.

Digging through pseudo-science to discover any real, rational hard facts underlying it was a conceit I inherited from my mentor, Dan Hudson. Dan had taken the old concept that ghosts followed the routes they had when they were alive and demonstrated a factual basis, an undetermined form of electromagnetic memory. Mostly true, I knew from observation but not always. But that was Dan's research. My focus was a different aspect. "Apparel in Death: Clothing and Accoutrements in Ghostly Manifestations" was my dissertation. My thoughts turned to the ghost's uniform.

Clothing on ghosts was a question I had not been able to figure out despite five years exploring the topic. Why would ghosts be clothed? Their clothes did not die, they just decayed with the corpse. Yet most ghosts--but perhaps importantly not all--appeared in clothing that related to their lives. Perhaps if their last thoughts included their clothing, then that was how they would appear. Perhaps...I shook my head. This was just another mystery that would fall to a good theory and sufficient evidence. I had to focus on gathering data, not pontificating theories based on piece-meal facts.

The U.S. Navy's interrogation report on the sinking named the forty-nine submariners who had perished. One of my objectives was to see if I could visually identify the ghosts of those men in order to determine if there was any correlation between their activity as ghosts and information known about them from their lifetime.

So, who was this pacing ghost?

He wore an officer's uniform. Young. Wehrmann, probably. Or maybe Triebs or Krause. How old were they?

And was he doing this before I got here?

Remote cameras historically captured more ghosts on film than people saw or felt, but that fact had been trending the other way over the past two decades. Perhaps it was similar to other phenomena that were not increasing in frequency, but rather just being noticed more. Were ghosts like moths to flames, being drawn to us? That might explain why there was no evidence of ghostly activity when there was no one at the habitat. The habitat's automated cameras recording nothing but sea life over the past six months when the habitat was empty.

A muffled rumble overtook my thoughts. Sand kick up, obscuring the water. The sub rolled a few degrees and slipped a meter or two down the slope, or at least I thought it did. The ghost--Wehrmann, I decided--looked for all the world like he was trying to catch his balance. The observation slipped away as I thought of my mother in the habitat. I had to get back.

Every 30 seconds I called on the wireless in my helmet, but she never answered. All I could think was the oven caught fire and she tried to escape through the wet room.

No, she was okay. She had to be. Just scared. I swallowed down a nasty taste in my throat. It would take hours for someone to reach us and days for us to surface. How long would we have to decompress on the way up? What if she was hurt? Situated on a broad flat plain, the habitat was at nearly zero risk from an undersea slide, but still my stomach competed for space in my throat. I revved the sleds engine, but it could not speed fast enough.

Finally, the habitat came into sight, still welded to the sea floor and no sign of a hull breach or other damage. No sign of ghosts either.

I docked and secured the sled, then slid into the ocean and pulled myself through the moon pool.

I tore my mask off.

"Mother, are you okay?" I shouted into the intercom, but she did not answer. It took an hour-long five minutes to transition through the airlock. I busied myself stripping out of my dry suit.

"Mother?" I called as I opened the inner door. Still not answer. "Mom!"

My feet ground scattered cookies into the deck as I raced across the common room. I found her huddled on the floor beside her bed, pale and shaking. She moaned and stretched one leg as if trying to stand.

A buzz in my pocket distracted me. I pulled my cell phone out of my waterproof utility pocket. Had I accidentally brought it with me? In the habitat Wi-Fi connected it to the cable trunk than ran to the buoy on the surface with its satellite uplink. In the ocean, it was useless. I set the phone on her nightstand, then knelt in front of her.

"Mother, are you hurt?"

My voice, unsettled as I was, seemed to calm her down. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and after three deep breaths, she opened them.

"I told you I was making cookies for those ghosts out there."

"I know, I told you that was crazy. They're--" I waved off my own explanation. "There was an earthquake, just a little one. I think, or just the sub sliding. Maybe. I don't know."

She cocked her head with a stern admonishment. "I was looking out at the porch from that window in your ready room. After a little while, he came back, the one with the nice chin. I knocked on the window and he looked at me."

My mouth opened to interrupt, but her glare wised me up.

"He looked at me and I held up a cookie for him. I don't know how I expected him to eat it. Ghosts don't need to eat, do they? Can they eat? Don't answer, dear, I'm not done. He got this look on his face. Like he had not had a good chewy chocolate chip cookie in ages and he knew he couldn't have this one, no matter how he wanted it. Then he got upset. There were three of them and they all seemed quite agitated."

Her voice broke. "Then the habitat was creaking and water splashed in through that hole in the wet room. You were gone, the water coming in, I was so frightened. I dropped my teacup. Your father bought that cup for me. Oh, I loved that cup. It reminded me of him and now its bits and pieces."

That was my mother. The world could be ending and she'd worry about the cheap china dad swiped for her at some tourist trap in Venice.

"That's not possible, Mother," I said. "Ghosts can't interact with the material world. They're natural, but not material."

"Whatever you say, dear."

"Mother, I--"

"I don't know what's possible and what's not possible, dear. I just know what I saw."

I guided her to the kitchen, then poured her tea. She inspected the new cup with a melancholy look. I tugged my anger inside and let it fester as I slipped back to the common room. This was a mistake. I shouldn't have brought her.

Psych major or not, my mother was not qualified to be here. It was too dangerous. She was a burden that I shouldn't have to bear. Lynda knew it, too, with all the BlitZs and texts we'd been shooting back and forth. I should have told Lynda no and suffered the consequences. I had to take my mother back to the surface.

I closed my eyes and resisted a sigh.

I hated abandoning my expedition after only four of my allotted fourteen days. What were the odds of getting another trip down here any time soon? With a cloud of anxiety following me, I checked the weather scanner. The conditions were calm and clear now, but what about when we surfaced? Standard procedure required two days to ascend. Of course there were emergency protocols, but my mother was seventy-four. Would she be okay? It did not matter, a voice in my head chimed in, she never left the habitat down here. She wasn't the one who needs to decompress. I shook my head. It would kill her if I died rescuing us.

I was sure the Institute would want to send technicians to evaluate the habitat. A vision of my grant money sieving out of my account gave me a headache. Wincing, I surveyed the transport capsule and attached sealed supply container latched to the roof above the ready room. As per the protocols drilled into me before we descended, it waited stocked and ready to surface us safely. I had spent most of our first day at the habitat showing my mother how climb up there on her own if I were incapacitated and operate it if we had to evacuate.

Surely, the Institute would let us stay. We were not in immediate danger, but I would have to contact them anyway. I patted the pocket where I kept my phone, but it was not there. Where would I have put it? The habitat's phone buzzed just as I reached for it. I answered before I could think to invent some excuse, but found the truth surprisingly satisfied the program safety officer's concerns. It was as much trouble for me to abandon my research as it was for them to retrieve us ahead of schedule, I concluded.

I set my worries aside and joined my mother in the kitchen.

"Your father had fewer social skills than that nice, young dead man," she said as I sat beside her.

"Mother."

"I was married to the man for 42 years. I'm bound to notice such things."

"We can talk about that later." I desperately hoped she would forget. "The situation is not critical, so we can continue our work down here. Are you okay with that?"

She responded with a nod that may have been more just moving her head to stare at her new cup. We fell into a welcome silence. I struggled to puzzle together ghosts and submarines and mayhem. Instead, my brain sought out memories of my father, the expert volcanologist with a passion for safety who got overly curious and fell to his death in a bubbling caldera witnessed by three colleagues. Perhaps something else happened. Could he have seen a ghost down there, or did one spook him? Could a ghost have pushed him? My throat tightened.

"Your father was proud of you, Jonathan."

My neck twitched, dumbfounded by her mind reading.

"I wasn't reading your mind, dear. You wear that wistful expression every time you think of your father."

My jaw tensed. "He was proud of my career choice? Really?"

"He was proud of you."

I refused to reply, wanting the conversation to die. The incessant din of the habitat broke my nerve.

"Why did he go to the Philippines, really? Was it ghosts? Is that what you're saying?"

"Why did he go anywhere? To explore, to learn, to discover. He was a scientist."

To escape I wanted to add, but instead swallowed the thought.

"I had to be the man of the house when I was supposed to be a kid."

"I let you think you were the man of the house."

"We should have gone with him, been a family. Stayed together."

"Active volcanoes are not playscapes for children. Someone had to raise you and your sister. Your father gave--"

"He gave us nothing, Mother. With all his absences, you were both mother and father to me and Lynda."

"I gave you a foundation. Your father gave you a future."

My mind raced around an obstacle course of shifting ideas. The sub. Seattle and the Philippines with their volcanoes. Ghosts everywhere and dad in the midst of it all.

The article discussing the ghosts of Banáhao appeared three months before dad left for that final trip. A connection? Not possible. My father didn't believe in ghosts. He told me that nose-to-nose. Yet my mother claimed he'd talked to my grandfather, post funeral. My father told me point blank ghosts weren't real, weren't natural because...they just weren't, just could not be. Yet, wasn't I just as much a scientist as he was? Even though I was deep into a nascent science that had no definitive name.

"Our vows were 'always and forever'," my mother said, her voice jarring me. "Not 'unto death do we part.'"

"Until," I said, blinking to recover. "The traditional vows are 'until death do we part.'"

She brushed her cheek. Was she crying? I couldn't tell.

"Whatever you say dear." She sipped her tea, then made a face at the cup before looking back to me. "Talking about your father makes me wistful, too. Let's talk about ghosts instead. Maybe they sense natural phenomenon like earthquakes and volcanic eruptions."

"You're thinking of animals. Ghosts don't--"

"--interact with the real world. You have said that repeatedly. Did you think to ask those dead sailors?"

I flubbed a response as a vision of Wehrmann's ghost struggling to keep his balance streamed through my head. Mother suddenly twisted and squinted out the viewport.

"Mother."

"I wasn't going to go ask them, dear. I was just checking."

I stared past her. Nothing but water. But, maybe. What was that Sherlock Holmes expression? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever else remains must be the truth, however improbable?

"Ask them," I said low to myself. My tongue ran over my lips.

"Oh, I tried that. You saw the result. The dead only talk to the dead and the dying." A worried look suddenly returned to my mother's face. My breath caught. "I hope they don't make you pay for the damage," she said.

A self-conscious laugh escaped my lips. "I'm not concerned about that. I'm worried about you."

"You're forty-one years old, dear, you shouldn't have to worry about your mother." She waved a hand in the vague direction of the sub. "Go do some science. I'm going to rest." Her wistful smile returned. "And then maybe I'll bake them some more cookies."

Two hours later, I slowed the sled as the sub came into view. I spun down the propellers and drifted. After a few minutes of seeing nothing but marine life, I revved up the sled and took a wide swing around the sub. It had not slipped anymore after my earlier visit. When I came around, a ghost floated on the slope facing the sub. My heart tried to escape through my throat. Here was my chance.

I wasn't sure who he was. Not Wehrmann, I thought. Same uniform, but the face was different, or at least appeared so in the light. I pointed the floodlights toward the sea floor in front of him and let the light bleed up so I could see without washing him out. The bottom-lit effect made him look slightly sinister. He did not act like he noticed.

I wasn't sure what to do. Wave? Blink the light? Think at him?

My fingers played across the sled's controls and I watched them until they brushed the sonic controller. Intended to interact with fish, I could certainly repurpose it. Ghost theory noted that the unease and chilling effect of sightings may be due to infrasound. Could I use it as a communications medium?

One way to find out.

I twisted the dial to the infrasound range and listened as a low hum came on in my helmet. Not the real sound of course but a simulation of it so I would know it was working. The speaker aimed away from me so I doubted the queasy in my stomach was anything other than my own anxiety.

The ghost looked up--jerked really--until the black pits of his eyes stared straight at me. Or rather at the sled. I pulled one hand out from under the hood and waved at him. He ignored me even as he drifted closer. Another edge of the puzzle took shape in my mind.

I flipped on my voice recorder, but as I started to record my observations, the ghost blurred. I blinked. His aspect was off, thinner, narrower. Another blink and I realized he had turned as if peering over his shoulder back toward--

An alarm echoed in my helmet. I checked the sled's systems and all was normal, which left me confused before I realized it was the remote alarm from the habitat.

I slammed the thrust control forward, the shaft vibrating so hard I thought it would crack as I accelerated past the ghost. Not this again, I thought, but each time my mother failed to answer my call, my heart thumped harder until I was sure I'd have a heart attack before I got back. The bio-sensors in my dry suit chirped at me about my racing vitals until I silenced the monitor.

The lights on top of the habitat glared back at me, blinding me to everything in the sea until I was forced to turn my eyes to the sled's console. I eased toward the docking rails, but decided I didn't have time, instead just clipping it to the grill work porch. I pulled myself through the hole into the wet room. My foot skidded on a baking tray. What the hell? Was she really that crazy?

I shouted for my mother, but like the last time heard no reply. I cleared the airlock, dry suit still on, the mask discarded somewhere. I couldn't catch my breath as I raced through each room of the habitat. Ready room. Common room. Her quarters, then mine. I started for the kitchen, but a buzzing drew me back to my mother's room. My cell phone lay on the table beside her bed, the screen darkening as I reached for it. Had I left it here when I found her curled up on the floor? I couldn't recall.

I scrambled to the kitchen. Her new teacup sat half full atop a napkin, her pill bottles lined up beside it. I tried to jam my phone into a utility pocket, but missed and it rattled as it hit the table. I left it and paced back through the common room to the ready room. Where hadn't I checked? Tears crowded my eyes. My eyes followed the ladder to the capsule up to the hatch, but it seemed screwed shut.

I shouted for my mother again. Nothing.

Out the window, a ghost drifted by toward the kitchen.

The kitchen. Something in the kitchen that should have caught my full attention. Standing in the entryway, the only thing I saw amiss was a baking tray askew on the stove. The pit in my gut widened. My mother never left unclean dishes around and she always put things back when she was done with them.

Where else was there?

I thought I heard her voice drift weakly toward me.

The capsule. She had to be there. She'd panicked and climbed into the capsule to escape whatever happened with her ghost-cookie experiment. That must have been what triggered the alarm. Before I could move, my phone buzzed and hopped on the table. Lynda's text tone.

I snatched the phone. My neck tensed as I read the exchange.

Ell: Crzy stf J Mtn activ incr ghost rpts all ovr twn.

Jay: K will look intuit love you always and forever.

Ell: J? WT?

Ell: J? UK?

"Huh?" I said outlaid. When I had texted Lynda and why that?

A heartbeat later, my brain got the message my eyes had been reporting. Beneath the tea cup was not a stained napkin. It was a slip of the Institute's stationary with my mother's perfectionist handwriting. I sank into the booth.

Jonathan,

Before you jump to conclusions, I don't have cancer or dementia. I'm sound in my mind, even if neither you nor your sister believe that. My body not so much, but nothing that will kill me. I gave you and Lynda a foundation, but I have outlived my usefulness. I'm a burden, I know (don't use such an obvious code to lock your phone, dear). You both have your future. You shouldn't have to keep foisting me on each other.

I can't aid Lynda more than your father did, but I can help you without being more of a burden. And maybe I can be with your father again. We vowed always and forever, remember.

Love now and forever, Mother

P.S. I'll be in the supply container to surface with you when you're time here is up. I've got the cookie tray with me, btw.

#

I stared at the capless pill bottles, then tipped them toward me. Both empty.

A chill raced up my spine and down my arms. My neck hairs tickled as if someone were watching me. I turned toward the window. At first, I saw nothing but water. Leaning forward until my nose pressed against the glass, I glanced at a sharp angle along the habitat toward the platform my mother called her porch.

My mother stood there, or rather her ghost did with something clutched in her hand. The light flickered and she moved. In front of her hung a submariner, the one with the nice chin. My mother's arm drifted toward his face and a choking sound lodged in my throat.

A cookie.

"Mom." The word escaped my mouth.

She answered with a faint smile of motherly satisfaction.

Bats Domino

by

Gustavo Bondoni

Argentina

She was just another cliché in a room full of clichés, in a world full of clichés.

But then, who was I to judge? Was there anything more overdone than a hard-boiled detective sitting in a smoky bar trying to dig for unexpected nuggets from fringe members of the local underworld?

Yet here I was, watching her approach my table. I knew she was coming my way despite the fact that most women who looked like that wouldn't be caught dead beside a guy with my looks – or my bank account.

So that left one option: the dame was trouble. At least I could enjoy her approach, a red cocktail dress over curves that should have been illegal and long black hair that, predictably, was combed straight over one eye.

"Hello, Ace," she said.

Okay, okay, I admit it. I had succumbed to the worst of the clichés myself, but I'd thought what the hell? When something impossible gives you the chance to take on an alter-ego in a parallel universe, and a particularly hokey one at that, why not go all out? Besides, the locals didn't seem to see anything objectionable in the name.

"Hello." I kicked out a chair, well aware that talking to her would put me on a road that would, at some point, get me beat up by whoever was footing the bills for the dress and jewellery, but I had a box with a button for exactly those situations.

She sat.

"You got a name?" I asked her.

She laughed. "Man, you're definitely deep in character, aren't you? Name's Madeleine, but that's only for this world. Folks at home call me Allison or at least they used to. I don't go back much these days."

Ouch. I knew there had to be others like me on Dernai. It was only logical after all, but I hadn't been expecting to run into any of them in one of the worst dives in downtown Handole. And, thinking about the name she'd used, even my mind – something less than a steel trap – put two and two together.

"Hey, you own this place. But you're from Earth!"

"Keep it down, honey," she replied. "I thought you'd have caught on before now. Who else would have named a dive like this the 'Mixed-Metaphor'?"

The joke was a bit subtle for me, but you could see it if you looked around. Half the patrons eying the oversexed bar singer were seedy-looking humans while the rest were vampires in evening dress. Maybe 'The Crossed Cliché' might have worked as well, but it also might have been a little too obvious.

The lessons about life on Dernai were coming quickly. I hoped I caught on before they caught on to me. She seemed to have read my mind, though.

"I just thought it would be fair to warn you that, when you leave tonight, you're going to be having a conversation with a couple of vampires. They're on to you, you see."

"They know?"

"What? No, of course not. If they knew you were from a parallel universe, they'd be scared out of their wits, not waiting to beat the crap out of you in an alley. They think you're after the diamond."

"Diamond?"

"The one Bats Domino has in his case."

Bats was a bass player, and I wondered where he'd gotten his name. Was it just another case of parallel universes being similar, despite the differences, or had someone told him about the famous bluesman? Probably the latter, I thought with a wince. Vampire humour could be moronic.

But they could also be pretty dangerous when they got mad at you, and they tended to move in packs – I reminded myself to avoid even thinking of the word 'flocks'. My interview with old Bats would probably be painful. I decided to slink out the back door at the first opportunity. "Thanks," I grunted.

"Don't mention it. Can't have you spilling your guts just because someone has you backed into a corner."

Touched by her concern for my well-being and her trust in my ability to protect myself, I timed my move perfectly. The old guy at the piano – either a human who'd been out of the sun too long or a vampire who'd walked into it by mistake – struck up a tune, one that I knew would soon be followed by Madelaine's famous throaty song set. I skedaddled towards the kitchen, pushed through and out the back door.

There were two cooks smoking beside a dumpster that looked like it could have been lifted straight out of New York City. One of them gave me a bored look. "You the one they call Ace?"

Man, I needed to change that name. Every time I heard it, it sounded cheesier. "Yeah, what's it to you?"

"Just this," he replied casually. I almost missed the fist flying towards my head, but there was no way I could miss the stars going around as I dropped to the ground. "Bats told me to tell you he was sure you'd come this way. Now we get to wait for him."

Oh, good. That was just what I needed. A delusional vampire who thought I was out to get him. The night was just getting better and better. Since the guy's stance made it pretty clear that any attempt on my part to get back up would get me kicked, I just sat against the wall. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

He glared at me but made no move, so I pulled a cig out of the packet and lit up. I wondered how he knew I wasn't armed, and then I remembered that he probably didn't care. These guys were tough to kill, even if you happened to have a wooden stake handy, which I didn't. Carrying one of those around was a good way to get lynched in this particular city.

"So, did Bats tell you why he wanted to see me?" I asked. He said nothing, kept practicing his role as a sullen teenager. "Yeah, I thought so. Why would he tell a punk so far down the food chain?"

Nothing. They train these young vampire hoodlums pretty well. But at least I could be satisfied with the hatred in his glare. I would have to be careful with him if I got out of this one. But there was no certainty that I would. I wondered what Bats had in mind.

The tableau lasted a few more minutes. It was cold out, and I hadn't dressed for sitting on a wet asphalt floor in an alley. I passed the minutes alternately smoking, shivering, and wishing I'd worn thermal underwear – but then, who could have predicted this? I certainly hadn't gone in there looking for trouble. I didn't even really have a case to work on, just a request from a friend who was starting to look less and less of a friend as the night wore on.

Eventually, Bats put in an appearance, with two large vampires in tow. I could tell they were vampires by the way their eyes seemed to absorb all light. One of the goons was carrying Bats' bass in a huge case. The case where the diamond was purported to be hiding.

"Hey Bats, glad you could join us," I said. My host nodded to the kid, who kicked me in the ribs, not quite hard enough to break anything, but with enough force to let me know he meant business. I took the hint.

"Listen up, scum," Bats said. "Because I'm only gonna say this once."

I started to say: "Oh, good," but the look on the face of the guy who'd ambushed me made me hold my tongue. I would need my ribs later.

Bats pretended not to notice. "I believe that you're out to take something that belongs to me. I don't have any proof, of course. If I had proof, your body would be lying in a dumpster somewhere, sucked completely dry, capisce?"

Capisce. Yet another indication that someone was feeding this bozo his lines. There was no analogue to Italy here, much less an Italian mob which might go around saying things like that. It was as if the stereotypers were working overtime. I wondered whether some realities might be more permeable, have less of their own personality than others. It was something I'd have to dwell upon another time, though. Bats was looking down on me as if waiting for an answer.

"Look man," I said, "I'd never even heard of you until I started hanging out at the Metaphor. I have no interest in anything you might own."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't believe you."

"That would be your problem, wouldn't it?" I knew that this was just about the moment in which I should stop running my mouth. Any one of them could have taken me in a straight fight. All four working together wouldn't even need to work up a sweat as they pounded me into goo. I made a mental note to get off work early and take some kind of martial arts class when I got back to my own reality.

"Actually, I'd say that the one with the big problem would be you. You see, if you don't manage to convince me, I'll have the boys here teach you a little lesson."

"Why do you even think anyone is after your stuff?"

"This is Handole. There's no such thing as a secret."

"And why do you think I'm the one after your stuff."

He shrugged, an impressive sight coming from a fat vampire. "I hear the rumour, and suddenly you become a regular at the joint. One can always add two and two together."

And come up with five, I didn't say. It wasn't necessary, because I suddenly knew who the people coming after the diamond actually were. "I'd say your math misled you. Do you know any tall guys with fur that looks kind of a light greenish-grey?"

"There's no such thing."

"Pity, because they're the ones who are coming after your diamond."

His eyes narrowed at the mention of the stone. He hadn't spoken about it. I could see his thoughts coalescing. Now he had me, he thought. He was wrong, but that didn't stop him from keeping up his side of the charade. "And where would I find this impossible group of people?"

"Well, I don't really know where most of them hang out, but you could start by asking the six of them standing behind you."

Bats smiled, staring straight at me, and I could already hear his next words: 'do you really think I'm that stupid?' But the words never came. One of the goons – either too dumb to have heard of that particular ruse, or confident that his confederates had me covered, had turned to look. "Er, boss?" he said.

"What is it?"

"I think the guy might be telling the truth. Have a look."

Bats turned away from me, and I really wish I could have seen his expression. It wasn't much of an alley, and I was sitting against the dead-end side with my back to the far wall, so I could clearly see the guys slinking into the street-side entrance. There were more of them now, and they looked pretty strong – not bulky but wiry – and the greenish fur made them look somewhat sinister. I know I wouldn't have wanted to tangle with them.

Despite the fact that they seemed to have arrived just in time to save me from a beating or worse, the sight of the newcomers gave me a bad sense of foreboding. I'd researched the local intelligent populations pretty thoroughly before setting out on my own, and these guys weren't on the list. Humans, yes. Vampires – which at some point in history had diverged from the human population – as well. There were even some strange mutated birds off on an island in the southern hemisphere that were considered people, even though I hadn't seen any.

But nothing even remotely similar to these strange figures appeared in any of the literature.

Bats seemed to agree with me. "What the hell?"

It was all he had time for before the creatures charged.

No contest. Even without the element of surprise the strange green guys would have wiped the floor with Bats' crew. Vampires are a bit stronger than humans, but they seemed to be pretty much evenly matched, individually, against the attackers. When you take into account the fact that there were nearly three attackers to each vampire, it was a walkover.

I watched for a bit, since it seemed that getting involved in a fight that I had nothing to do with would be unwise in the extreme, and I wondered why the vampires weren't turning into bats or into smoke, and then I remembered that, though they could turn into bats, they were exhausted afterward, which would leave them at the mercy of their attackers.

The grey-green attackers seemed to be concentrating on the goon with Bats' case. It was obvious that they wanted the diamond, and equally obvious that they were going to get it. I decided to make myself scarce before any questions were asked about my own role in the proceedings.

I didn't get very far. One of the attackers saw me and decided I must be trying to get help. He hit me exactly once, in the face. I went down and stayed there, barely conscious. If you'd asked me my name, I would have had a hard time telling you. So I only managed to take a little pleasure in watching the vampires get their asses handed to them. Soon, only Bats himself was still upright, but he didn't last long against the combined aggression of the fur brigade.

The last thing I remember was watching them walk away, wondering why they went barefoot along the dirty streets of Handole. Then the adrenaline rush subsided and things went dark.

By the time I managed to pick myself off the ground, dawn was nearly there. There was a suggestive orange glow in the east. My original attackers were going to be pretty uncomfortable once it made its appearance, but I wasn't feeling all that charitable towards them anyway. They weren't going to die from the exposure, so I could safely ignore them.

But I didn't make it away. As I reached the end of the alley, a hand took hold of my coat. I looked over to see Bats standing in a shadow. What he was doing there, I'll never know, but he most certainly caught me flat-footed.

"What do you want?" I snapped. He didn't look like he was in any better shape than I was, but even if he'd been fresh from a shower and a massage, I wouldn't have paid any attention. I'd had quite enough of being pushed around for one night.

"A word," he replied.

"If you hadn't been having a word with me earlier, you'd probably still have your diamond."

He actually had the decency to look sheepish, which caught me off guard. "Yeah, I can see that now. I'd like to apologize. To make it up to you, I want to hire you to go after those guys. Name your price – but I can only pay if you get that rock back."

"Five hundred a day, plus expenses."

He whistled. "You sure about that? Sounds a little steep to me."

"You want the best, you pay for it. Besides, I doubt any of the other local eyes would be able to get it back for you." And I had a hunch that I wasn't even lying to the man. The grey-green brigade said off-dimension to me, and I was one of the few people in town who knew how to work that particular angle. The fact that I had no idea where to start or how to go about it was just a detail – and it was also the reason I was charging him a per diem.

"Whatever. I get that rock back; I can afford it."

"Good. And tell your goons to lay off." I walked away, wondering whether the offer was sincere, or if the old bass player was just trying to find out what I'd do with his proposition. He'd probably have me followed wherever I went, so I'd just have to learn to live with that, and lose them when I could. Declining the commission wasn't even in the cards. I'd come to this dimension to lead that life – I certainly wasn't going to walk out on my very first client, even if our relationship hadn't gotten off as well as one would have preferred.

But before I began, I needed two things: rest and ice. I staggered off to find them.

By the time I woke again, it was late afternoon, almost time for the vamps – of whatever kind one preferred – to make their appearance. It clearly wasn't time for Madeleine to be up and about. She stared at me bleary-eyed through a crack in the door. "You look like shit," she said helpfully.

"Have you looked in a mirror today? All I can say is that you clean up really, really well." I knew I was just a programmer from Illinois, but I was starting to feel my role. Those old-time private eyes didn't give the world attitude because they were tough. They did it because they kept getting beaten up in alleys for crimes they had nothing to do with, and then told they looked like shit.

"I run a nightclub. If the sun is out, I'm in bed. Somehow I think that a detective should have been able to figure that one out all by himself."

This wasn't getting me anywhere. "Are you gonna let me in?"

"What for?" There was a look in her eye. Afraid of something?

"I need to ask you some questions."

"Ask them here."

"They're kind of related to the box with the button on it that I have in my pocket. I don't think they're the kind of questions you want your neighbours to overhear." There weren't many neighbours around. From what I could tell, the houses on either side of the club were empty. The one on the left was a burnt-out husk. Like I said, nice neighbourhood.

She sighed, fiddled with a chain or something, and opened the door. "So this is what I get for trying to warn you. I suppose you'll tell me that I did the right thing? Because I'm convinced that I should never have told you who I was."

I shrugged. She had me dead to rights.

The club looked like the circus had gone through it, and smelled like one of the elephants was sick. It must have showed on my face.

"The cleaning crew gets here in an hour. You should see how it looks when there's a bachelor party – or a fight." Madeleine poured a glass of some clear liquid and pushed it across the bar. She poured a more generous measure for herself and looked me over meditatively.

I looked back. Her hair might be a mess, and the bags under her eyes would need some serious work, but I could see all the pieces there. A little polish would have the patrons howling again tonight.

"So, what is it you want to know?"

I would have corrected her, would have told her that I didn't really want to be involved with any of this, that I would have preferred for my first case to be of the old-woman-lost-a-cat variety. That I was only going through the motions, and that when things got hairy, I would simply push the button and get myself whisked back to my nice, neat little life and my nice, neat little office.

But I didn't say it. "I need to know about the other guys who've been popping into the dimension."

Did she pale, just a little? Or was it just the way the dim light made shadows play on her features? "I don't know what you're talking about."

Yes, she did. I knew it then. No one ever says 'I don't know what you're talking about' unless they know exactly what the other person is talking about. It's like the unwritten law of film noir.

I decided to ignore the nagging voices in my head trying to make me realize that this wasn't a film. "Don't give me that. You know exactly who goes where and why. I'm just glad I realized there's more than one dimension using Dernai as a waypoint. Saved me a whole lot of aimless walking around, don't you think?" It was a shot in the dark, but one that I'd become more and more convinced about as the day had worn on. After all, there was no reason that my own particular version of Earth would be the only one connected to this dimension. There might be an infinite number for all I knew, limited only by the technical capacity to actually move from one reality to the next. I wondered, not for the first time, what kind of gadgetry was contained in that little box with the button.

"You're nuts. There are no other dimensions. Just this one and the one we come from."

And then I knew something else. "The one we come from? Strange that you should say that. I don't think you're from my dimension at all." I grabbed her wrist. I wondered whether I would be able to hold on if she decided to tear herself away. Would I have the physical –or even the psychological – strength to keep my grip steady? "Who's the richest man in our reality? Who played James Bond in the first movies? What year did the First World War begin?"

Her eyes dropped, and I knew I had her, but not because of the questions. She'd seemingly reacted to the fact that I was squeezing her as I spoke, which surprised me. She didn't seem like the type to fold so easily.

"Listen. Take my advice. Just stay away from this. Get yourself a client and look into something less likely to get you hurt."

"I have a client," I said with a lot more conviction than I felt. "And besides, I've already had the crap beaten out of me for this case, so now I want to know why."

"A local client?"

"Yeah."

"You're as good as dead." She shook her head. "And so's your client."

I snorted. "I have a box with a button on it. Things look dicey; I pop out for a bit."

"Then do your client a favour and pop out now. Actually, tell him to keep his mouth shut about off-dimension travellers, and then pop out. Maybe he'll manage to die of old age that way."

"Doubt it, vampires seldom do."

Her look turned murderous. "You told a vampire about the waygates? Are you insane?"

Waygates. The term was new to me, but there was little doubt as to what it referred to. "He doesn't know anything yet, but he will, very soon, unless I can find some way to get him what he wants without telling him, so why don't you give me a hand with that. I assume the authorities are going to be very curious about your setup, if it all gets out." I was flying so blind that it wouldn't have surprised me if I hit a mountain, but my luck held.

"Oh, I don't have anything to fear from that. I can get this place emptied out long before the locals can get their act together."

"Ah, then I assume you have nothing to tell me." I released her wrist, surprised but satisfied to see the red welts on it, and turned to leave.

She sighed. "Dammit, Ace, you're going to go through with this one, aren't you?"

"You betcha." I stopped. There was more to come. Cliché city.

"Why shouldn't I just let Central take care of you?"

"Because you have no way to let them know I was here before I can talk to somebody. And because that would be bad for business." The mountain I was going to hit, when I did, would be a pretty big one.

She just sighed, though. "Crap. All right. The hairy boys stayed here just one night. I let them in, the way I would with anyone, but they acted pretty strange, so I called to check up on them. They aren't with us, but by the time the Cleaners arrived," she shuddered a bit, and stuttered over the word 'Cleaners', as if it were something unpleasant, "they'd bugged out. But they can't get away. Central's probably got their waygate shut tighter than a vampire's coffin in a meadow at noon."

The lingo sure was picturesque, I mused, but this wasn't doing me any good. "So where do you think they're holed down?"

"If I knew that, don't you think the Cleaners would have gotten it out of me?"

"I think you wouldn't have called the Cleaners back if you suddenly remembered. Not that I blame you." I wondered what I'd just said.

Another sigh. For a tough nightclub owner, she seemed to be doing a lot of that. "Try the usual dives. Guy like you should know where they are."

I, of course, had no idea what she was talking about.

"C'mon, save me the legwork. I won't hold you to it, but at least tell me where you suspect they are."

"Gut feeling says at old Kneer's place."

"Kneer's, huh."

"You said you wouldn't hold me to it, but can you really think anyone but Kneer would hole up with a bunch of Yetis the Cleaners are after?"

I grunted, thinking about Yetis and wondering just how many dimensions were being kept completely in the dark about a hell of a whole lot of things. We finished our drinks in silence and I made myself scarce. For some reason, I felt she didn't want me there anymore. It hurt, I can tell you.

Kneer's looked just about how I thought it would. Peeling red paint that failed to disguise the fact that the façade was made of concrete and little else. It was in the kind of neighbourhood that made me feel grateful for the fact that my clothes had been pretty badly torn up in the previous night's fight. I fit in like I'd been born there.

I could get a change of clothes later. Right now, I would use any advantage I could get. The locals – a drunk who was singing softly to himself while sitting against a brick wall and three street urchins, barefoot and fleet – seemed to accept my presence like it made no difference, yet another reason I was glad to have come here while the sun was still up. This looked like the kind of neighbourhood in which any new faces that appeared would have been studied closely by people who made it their business to neutralize any wolves that wandered by. And to eat any sheep.

The problem was that my neutrality in their eyes wouldn't last too long if I just stood in front of the building like some kind of interdimensional tourist. Pretty soon, someone would do their numbers and come up with either wolf or sheep, and that would be that – I'd either have time to reach the button and give the game up or I wouldn't and I'd be purée.

The door wasn't exactly inviting. It was painted matte black and had a small opening with a grill made of thick strands of wire. All I could see behind the mesh was darkness.

And I suddenly realized that no matter what had happened earlier, this was the true crisis point. Was I set on this course? Did I really want a life as a detective in a town whose streets made Chicago's South Side in the 1920's looks like a walk in the park? What was I trying to prove, anyway? A single click of the button in my pocket would get me back to my comfortable office in the block, where I could look forward to a couple of promotions per decade for the next thirty years, and a comfortable retirement in Florida.

I could buy all the consumer electronics my heart might desire, maybe get married and have a couple of kids. I was already making enough to buy a Bimmer – a little more graft would get me some even better toys. That was the reason I'd gotten that MBA, wasn't it? Having checked that particular box meant that my company would hesitate just that little bit less to assign me to leadership positions. I had it made. Had it easy. My parents were proud of me.

But if I went near that door, I was risking my 401K and that little condo in Florida.

Would I trade all that for a few more fights in the alley and the freedom to go about my life with no regard for whether the corporate policy didn't officially condemn my actions but only 'frowned upon' them?

I was walking towards the door before that last thought even finished forming.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The lack of an immediate response wasn't surprising, but at least I resisted the panic rising up in my throat.

"What'd'ya want anyway?" a querulous voice inquired from within.

"Do you really want me to shout that out in the middle of the street? There are a few too many witnesses out here for my liking."

"Crap. Get in here."

I got a glimpse of a short, misshapen figure as the door opened enough to let me in. The fact that I dwarfed him in both height and mass made me brave. "I'd like some light."

"Follow me." There was a tug on my arm.

"Not until I can see where I'm going." I just hoped my coat managed to hide the fact that most of my bulk was basically fat.

Some grumbling followed, but the darkness was split by a dagger of light which illuminated the guy's head. "I should have kept my mouth shut. You looked better in the dark." But at least I could tell he was just a regular human, and wouldn't be springing any strange powers on me.

"Hey, you ain't exactly a vampire princess yourself big guy. Are you coming or not?"

I came. He led me through a couple of open areas – but I could only tell they were big by the feeling of emptiness around me – connected by a series of passages. I felt ants on my neck whenever we went through a room. A brigade waiting to mount a cavalry charge could have hidden in the shadows of any of the rooms. The candle certainly didn't cast enough light for me to see more than a couple of feet around us.

Finally, the man – I assumed that this must be the famous Kreel I'd heard such good things about – sat on a stool. "All right. Spill it. No one can hear you now."

I had some misgivings about that, but I'd come too far to let that stop me. "I've got no interest in you. I need to talk to the Yetis."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I felt like I'd been through this scene already. It wasn't necessarily the kind of thing one wanted to do twice. I took a step towards him, using the fact that he was sitting down to loom over him as much as possible. I didn't like the fact that he didn't seem worried – I supposed that, in his line of work, he was exposed to some professional-grade loomers. I didn't care. My bruises were acting up. "Look, we can do this one of two ways. Either you can take me to the Yetis and we can all have a friendly little chat or you can explain the whole thing to the local authorities."

"Or you can disappear and never be heard from again."

I chuckled – though I admit I only managed to force it out through the greatest of efforts. "Do you really think I would have walked in here if I wasn't covered for that possibility? I don't get back to where I need to be in a couple of hours, and you'll have the entire place swarming with vampire cops wondering a whole bunch of things. They'll ask where I am at first, but I think their questions will get more and more interesting as they find stuff, don't you? And the Yetis won't be happy when the Cleaners show up in the middle of the fun, will they?"

He blanched noticeably – even in the yellow glow from the flame – as soon as I mentioned the Cleaners. It only served to reinforce my impression that running into those fellows in particular would be a very, very bad idea.

"You're bluffing."

"You willing to bet the house on that?"

"Damn." He stood with an effort and picked up the candle. "You off-worlders are gonna get me killed one of these days."

How the hell could he have known where I was from? I wondered if someone had tattooed it on my head when I was asleep. I'd look in a mirror and find out – but for some reason, this dimension seemed never to have developed a mirror industry.

He led me through a rat's warren of tunnels and chambers, some small enough that I had to duck in order to avoid getting brained. Then he led me up two or three flights of stairs, and grinned at me in a sickly sort of way when he noticed I was huffing and puffing like a steam locomotive when we reached the top of the last one. "You thinkin' of going a few rounds with the yetis, you'd better get into the weight room," he said.

I remembered the way the hairy fellows had tossed old Bats and his crew around and decided against any sort of frontal attack.

The room old Kreel led me into might have been used for gala dances if there had ever been a time when that part of town was a little less run down. Dirty windows let in a weak grey light, and it had a scuffed wooden floor and the skeleton of a massive chandelier hung precariously from the roof. In one corner, a huge ball of grey fur lurked. My first thought was that it was a couch or a crumpled carpet until individual shapes started to detach themselves from it. Soon, I was facing the wrecking crew that had made my life a misery hours before.

The closest yeti to me wrinkled his nose – or was it a snout? He seemed to smell the air, and spoke. "I really would have thought you'd already had all the pain you could take. Humans are pretty fragile after all. We were careful not to break you, but now there are no witnesses."

"That probably wouldn't be such a good idea."

"Walking in here wasn't a good idea."

"I meant that it probably wouldn't be a good idea for you." I was beginning to get the impression that the yetis might not be the brightest of this dimension's creatures. "I don't report back, and you guys are in a whole shitload of trouble."

This stopped them. "What do you want then?"

"You know what I want. There's a pretty rock you took from a friend of mine yesterday."

"A friend? He looked like he was about to have you for lunch when we took them out. I actually thought we were doing you a favour."

I shrugged. "Things change. You have to go with the flow. Now, just give me the rock and I'll be on my way."

I don't know where he had it hidden – they didn't seem to be wearing any clothes – but Bat's diamond appeared in his hand as if by magic. I stretched out my hand to take it, and he pulled it back. "You must be joking. We went to a lot of trouble to get this thing. Do you really think I would just give it to a runt like you?"

"I did and you will, because I'm the only one who can get you off Dernei. Central isn't interdicting my waygate. In fact, I doubt they even know I'm here."

That got his attention. Despite the fact that I had no idea what I'd just said and in spite of the fact that I wasn't actually sure what half of my words meant, I had gotten his attention. "What do you mean?"

"I come from a nice little place where there is no Central, no Cleaners – and from what I hear, we've had yetis pop in from time to time. Not formal visits, but I would guess that you can get back to wherever you come from from my dimension." I paused. "And all you need to get there is to give me the diamond, and I'll take you over myself."

The yeti thought about this for a while. I was sure he'd start spewing steam from his ears at any moment, but it didn't happen. So much for my clichés. Finally, he looked my way again.

"Or we can beat you to a pulp and take your link box away. That way we get to keep the diamond."

"I don't have it here..." I began, but the yetis were already advancing. I ran towards the door, knowing that my head start would serve only to give me a second. They would have been faster than any human even if I'd been in good shape, which I definitely wasn't.

The sound of breaking glass to my right almost stopped me, but I thought better of it at the last moment. I was almost at the door.

I turned to look back at my pursuers, and something hit me in the stomach very hard. I went ass over appetite like I'd been tackled by a sumo wrestler.

It took me a couple of seconds to get my bearings, and I immediately noticed two things. The first was Kreel – who'd been knocked unconscious by the impact and who I'd forgotten about completely right until the moment I ran into him – lying in a heap beside me. The second was a noticeable absence of yetis tearing me apart.

The reason for this soon became apparent. There was a massive fight going on behind me. What looked like a platoon of vampire heavies wearing sunglasses was fighting a pitched battle with my shaggy friends the yetis. I felt a moments resentment: it seemed that Bats hadn't trusted me to keep my side of the bargain and had sent the mob to follow me. I was just bait – and as such, I was expendable.

Despite being outnumbered four to one; the yetis were putting up a credible fight. Most of them were still standing, including the leader, and the odds were getting thinner every second. I realized that if I wanted to make the door, there was no time like the present.

But something kept me rooted to the spot, fascinated with the fight. And that was my mistake. Like a chill from the grave, a shadow separated itself from one wall and joined the fray, followed by another and another. Black forms that moved too quickly to see sliced into the fight and began throwing people around. Vampires, yetis.

This wasn't like the fight in the alley. There, what had been used was sheer brute strength. This was something else. A yeti who'd been holding off three vampires suddenly accelerated for no visible reason to a speed I'd only seen on a highway. He shattered against a concrete wall, and knocked a large hole in it. Another yeti fell to the floor cut clean in two. The vampires weren't doing any better. Blood sprayed in a fine mist as the one nearest me simply disintegrated. I wasn't sure whether something like that was fatal to the local vampires, but it sure had to sting a little.

The lead yeti screamed a very short yell as he flew straight into the wall beside me. He crumpled on impact and something rolled to my feet.

The diamond.

I didn't stay around to watch the end of the fight. I just picked the rock up and ran.

The Metaphor was jumping, and Bats looked like he couldn't believe his eyes. As I sat down in front of him, his already pale complexion seemed to turn blue. "Ace," he said, managing to stutter the single syllable. "Glad to see you."

"Yeah, I can imagine." I gave him a stony look, letting him sweat it out. I'd been too chicken to find out what the Cleaners would have done to me had I stayed in the room with the fight inside – and I use the term fight in the loosest possible sense – but I'd recovered a little once I was back out in the sunlight.

I'd stuck around until the sun began to disappear behind the buildings – maybe another hour – and no one had come out after me.

I could see a hundred questions on the tip of Bats' tongue, but held up a hand. "You got my money?"

His eyes bugged. "You mean..."

I held the rock up. "I took a big beating getting this thing. I think a bonus is in order."

He sputtered. "How...? I mean, my people..."

"Oh, they were yours? I think they may have been damaged in the recovery. My bad. But you should have told me that you were planning to send backup. That way I could have tried to defend them." It seemed that being turned into mist was fatal to vampires after all – or at least it had kept them from reporting back so far. "Let me know when you get the money together, and we'll make the exchange for the diamond. Always glad to give my customer's their money's worth."

I stood, turned and left. He knew where to find me, and I doubted he would send any goons after me, even if he had any left. And besides, if worse came to worst, I had a box with a button on it.

END NOTE:

In the close of this anthology you would have noted oddities in layout and some story layouts are different to the general settings. This collection of stories is created as cheaply as possible in order to make it available to readers for FREE. Extensive layout work would have incurred an extra cost above what has been paid to artists and writers that could not be afforded by me, the publisher. I use the sales of my own works to make this venture possible. Some years are better than others. So please understand the reason behind these editing oddities.

If you have a print copy of this book, which might indeed be one of only a handful, you would have purchased it as close to cost as possible. Like 'From Out of the Dark' published in 2015 by Altair Australia Pty Ltd (Robert N Stephenson's writing business) this book is a not for profit production. All authors have been paid for their stories, their work was not obtained free of charge. The electronic-versions can be shared with all who want to read good fiction, just so long as each work is viewed inside this collection only and does not violate the author's copyright. Thank you for reading Volume 1 of this yearly collection.
