 
THE FABULIST

### by

# Andrew Johnston

To Timothy Huang Hanzhe

You will never remember me, I will never forget you.

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## www.findthefabulist.com
CHAPTER 1

~Date Unknown~

There was a corpse lying in the center of the footpath, frozen eyes glaring up through the phantom haze that enveloped the sun, a dead hand pointing to a redeemed sign that read "Madison Encampment" in faltering letters. Even here, at the fringe of stability, this was an unusual sight - the fallen, even those disreputable types who had been slain while committing an act of violence or thievery, were typically buried in haste lest their presence draw scavengers of some sort. This man, though, was allowed to lie exposed in the heat, untouched, without even a handful of dust to conceal his earthly remains. The traveler knelt beside the corpse, studying the remnants of this poor soul at arm's length. His was a brutal death, his emaciated body marred with slashing wounds - struck down either by a true sadist or a terrified amateur. He carried nothing of any particular value, yet he had not been robbed - he still wore his boots, worn nearly through at the heels but still the most useful thing most wanderers would ever possess.

The traveler dared do nothing more than utter a silent elegy for this victim of the wastes as he returned to his feet. Like the dead man, he had a physique shaped by life in the wastes - lean, bony, of average height at best, with a timid and weary gait that made him appear even smaller. He had a youthful face, though with features eroded by the rigors of a life on the road to the point where his true age could not be easily gleaned. The clothing he wore was an odd patchwork - strips of countless garments stitched together, bestowing the appearance of some wasteland harlequin. An old cloth satchel swung freely from one shoulder, the worn strap straining to keep the weight of the traveler's possessions aloft.

Tension gnawed at the traveler as he stepped over the body - an act of disrespect in a more civilized time - and neared the encampment, his newest destination. There had been a community here once, nestled in the standing shadows of the fallen buildings, but now there was nothing save a handful of miserable shanties encircling a communal field of sickly crops. There was no sign of human activity inside, yet the traveler was not convinced that this encampment had been abandoned. The still-smoldering coals in the watchfire, visible even from outside the perimeter, suggested a recent presence. Violence was a safe assumption on sighting such encampments, yet there was no sign of a struggle within - no other bodies, no signs of destructive looting, the crops standing tall and awaiting the harvest blade. This absence felt staged, more like a ruse than genuine flight.

"Hello?" The traveler took a few cautious steps into the ring of shanties. "I can see that you have faced trouble, but I mean you no harm. I bear no weapon, see?" He held his hands aloft, rough palms exposed. "I've no intention to stay long, but I would like to rest for a time and perhaps conduct some trade. Hello?"

Then traveler caught notice of something new, some trinket glinting slyly in the dusty midday sun. He knelt down to examine it - a knife, perhaps a few inches long, more tool than weapon. Resting the knife in a hand held far from his body, the traveler noticed narrow streaks of crimson-black crossing the steel. This was unquestionably the murder weapon, though he was at a loss as to why anyone would casually abandon an item of such obvious utility.

"Yaaargh!" There was a bloodcurdling scream, and before the traveler could react he was struck from the side and pinned to the ground. With the sunlight flashing in his eyes, all he could make out of his attacker was that the man was half again his size, his face locked in an expression halfway between rage and terror. "Who are you? The next forward man? Who is your master? Speak!"

"There's been some mistake. I have no master." The traveler applied a feeble smile. "I am just a humble wanderer, a man of peace. I mean you no harm."

"You went for the knife. The bloody one laying in the dirt." The man seized the traveler by the flesh of his neck. "Why would you do that?"

"I had no notion of what it was," said the traveler. "Mere curiosity, I assure you."

"Watchman!" There was another voice from the ring of shanties. From the corner of his eye, the traveler could spot people peeking from the sheds, most staying in the relative safety of the shadows. Only one person emerged - a slender but strongly-built woman clutching a short-handled shovel. Gripping the tool like a weapon, she approached the two men. "Did you find another one?"

"Not sure, Harvester," said Watchman. "He says he's just a traveler, but he went right for the knife."

Harvester crouched next to the traveler, her shovel held as a blade ready to cut his throat. "What do they call you?"

"Storyteller, ma'am," he said. "May I stand up now? This is actually rather painful."

"Not yet." Harvester snatched Storyteller's satchel, resting a few feet from his head, and rudely shook the contents onto the dirt, swinging it about until only flakes of imitation leather fell free. Most of it was what one would expect from a man on an extended journey - sturdy plastic bottles filled with dusty water, assorted scraps of dried food, odd articles used for clothing repair, an ancient map that was little more than faded shreds of paper. But at the bottom was something unexpected - a a well-used notebook, bound in true leather turned black from the grime of the wastes, and a pen with gold plating just barely shining through years of tarnish. "What's this junk?"

"Personal accessories, from the world before," said Storyteller.

"The world before?" Harvester drew back and studied her guest with skeptical eyes. "Either you're a grifter or the sun cooked your brain. Ain't no one who remembers what it was like before everything burned up."

"I am no deceiver," said Storyteller. "My memories are clear, right up to the very day of the disaster."

"Now I know you're full of shit." Harvester held the pen between middle and forefinger, studying it for some undisclosed secret. "You'd have to be nuts to carry this crap so far."

"There are those who would agree," said Storyteller. "I suppose I am a hopeless sentimentalist. They've been my traveling companions for many years, truly my only friends. The notebook especially - one day, I plan to fill it to the margin on the last page."

Harvester paged through the notebook, squinting at the cramped penmanship. "You're not far off. Tell me, what do you get for filling this thing?"

"Something very good," said Storyteller.

Harvester tossed the notebook aside. "He's got no weapons. I doubt he's a raider, and a thief wouldn't have announced himself like that."

"Fair enough." Watchmen eased his grip on Storyteller. "But you'd better watch your ass. Another settlement, they might have just killed you for reaching for that knife."

"Advice that I will take to heart, believe me." Storyteller brushed the dust from his clothes and crammed his belongings back into the satchel. "Tell me, who was the man lying in the road? I've never seen a victim left to rot in such a way."

"Victim." Watchman grumbled the word as though it were profane. "Asshole raider scout. We left the body there as a warning to his friends. We're not helpless like those other people they've been burning out."

"So that's the state of things," said Storyteller, slinging his satchel back over his shoulder.

"Why are you here, anyway?" said Harvester. "There's no salvage around here and we don't make anything."

"Oh, I'm no trader," said Storyteller. "In truth, I once lived in a place not far from here. I was hoping to return to my home and see what had become of it. Specifically, I'm headed for a place I believe you call 'Westhigh.' From there, I can find my way back."

"Well, Westhigh is about a day or two away from here," said Harvester. "Why go there, though? Nothing worth salvaging, that's for sure."

"As I said, I am a sentimentalist," said Storyteller.

"It's all dead lands, too,"said Harvester. "No food, not much water."

"Well, perhaps I can offer my services here," said Storyteller. "I don't much, merely a crumb or two."

Harvester's eyes flashed with contempt. "Don't be a fool. We don't need stories here, and we don't have anything to spare. Do yourself a favor and head straight north. Maybe you won't die before you reach Nexus."

"I understand," said Storyteller. "May I at least rest here for a while?"

"We can't keep you out. Now, I've got something more important to deal with." Harvester turned on her heel and walked into a nearby shanty. There were maddened and anguished sounds coming from within, the sounds of a luckless man perishing from an intolerable wound.

Storyteller perched himself on a fragment of concrete, treated himself to a sigh of relief and studied the encampment with a more educated eye. The village was only slightly more active than when he had entered - he could hear people milling about within the shanties, yet none were willing to emerge more than a few inches into the daylight. Nevertheless, there were a few brave souls creeping out to catch a glimpse at the stranger in their midst. Storyteller could see them crouching in the doorways - children, perhaps five or six of them. This was a rare sight, as the traveling bands he had accompanied in previous years were solely adults traveling on their own. Children were a feature of the largest outposts, places with well-built walls and regular guards, secure grounds where where their parents had felt comfortable leaving them behind.

Storyteller softened his expression - he hadn't been charged with entertaining children in ages, but the gift was still in his head. "Hello, little ones. Would you like to hear a story?" The children kept their distance, hovering just out of sight. Storyteller smiled and set his satchel on the wall beside him. "That's okay, don't be shy. This one is free, because it looks like you need it."

"Once upon a time, there was a place called Pinnacle, the Vault of the Gods. This was where the powers of their day kept their sacred wealth, safe from the prying eyes and sticky fingers of the mortals who dwelt in the surrounding lands. You see, the wealth stored within the vault was considered so precious that it was never to be touched by unclean hands, not fiends or spirits and certainly not men. Only one man in a million would even have a chance to witness the contents of the vault, and no one had ever taken even a single coin for his own."

"The location of the vault was widely known, but there were none who would dare draw near it. You see, the gods employed a giant to secure their wealth, a true beast who looked as though he was carved from the very mountain he guarded - fists of marble, skin of granite, and a heart of obsidian. Any fool who drew near, he would crush within his mighty grip."

"But in a nearby village, there was a thief known as Valeri who had dreamed since his childhood days of retrieving a coin - merely one coin! - from the vault for his very own. It was a risk to be sure, a terrible trespass to even ponder it, be knew that this would secure his position as the best thief who ever lived - a man who stole from the gods and got away with it. So day after day, he sat in his hut and plotted his escapade."

Storyteller paused to look around the encampment. There were more children now, perhaps ten, with more edging out of the shanties and taking seats on the ground a few yards away from him. Behind them, he could see the parents, poised and ready to snatch their offspring back into the house at the first sign of danger.

Taking a deep breath, Storyteller continued. "Now, Valeri was very clever, but he could devise no plan to distract the giant, and he knew that the brute could not be bribed. It seemed a hopeless cause, and he would have given up were it not for a bit of good fortune. He was walking through the hills around his village one day when he discovered something very strange by the river. It was a strange black goo, unlike anything he had ever seen. When he touched it, it bound fast to his hand and would not let go. Panicking, he thrust his hand into the river, and the goo melted away almost instantly. As he beheld his discovery, a smile crossed his face. He knew how he could use this substance to fool the giant."

"Valeri took an iron bucket, a waterskin, and several pieces of coal and headed back to the river. Wetting his hands and the inside of the bucket, he carefully placed a bit of the goo inside, dusting it over with coal dust. Bucket in hand, he traveled to the vault. When he drew near, the giant bellowed at him, 'Who dares to near this forbidden place?' roared the giant. Valeri was frightened, but he knew that if he hesitated, it would mean his doom. 'So the titan knows not who I am?' said Valeri. 'Sad, for I have come so far to witness his might for myself.'"

"Valeri held out a piece of coal in his open hand. 'I have heard that it is possible to turn one of these into a diamond, but in all my days, I have yet to meet a man with the necessary strength.' The giant laughed. 'There are none stronger than me, little man!' He snatched away the piece of coal and pressed it between his mighty hands. When he opened them, a small, flawed diamond sat in his palm."

By now, most of the encampment was outside, standing or sitting in a circle around Storyteller. Harvester had emerged as well, leaning against the shanty just behind him. The tension had vanished, replaced with a stillness alien to such a place.

"'Not bad,' said Valeri, 'but it was a small fragment. Even a giant could not perform such a feat on a larger piece.' The giant roared. 'There is nothing that is beyond my might!' The giant thrust his hand into the bucket, seizing the mass of goo at the bottom. Without a moment's thought, he squeezed it between his hands, but rather than producing a diamond, he found his hands stuck together. 'What kind of sorcery is this?' howled the giant. Valeri merely gestured to him. 'I am sorry, great one. Allow me to release you.' Valeri poured out some water into his hand and tossed it across the giant's hands, freeing them in a moment. The giant fell to his knees, shaking the ground as he did. 'You must be a god to perform such a feat! Please accept my apologies. The vault is open to you.' 'There is no need for your apologies,' said Valeri, 'and I desire only a single coin, that I may remember this day forever.' The giant turned over that coin, and Valeri tipped his hat to the brute and walked away."

Storyteller stood up and took an exaggerated bow. "Thank you, dear listeners. Now, I must be on my way, but perhaps I shall return one day, if hope still lives."

As he turned to depart, Storyteller saw Harvester, a small bundle in her hands. "There's little we can spare, but this should be enough to get you to Westhigh. You can fill your bottles at the stream in the field, the water's clean."

Storyteller packed the bundle into his satchel. "Your generosity humbles me. I appreciate this greatly."

"One question," said Harvester. "Why did you give Thief that other title?"

"You mean his name?" said Storyteller. "I suppose I'm accustomed to characters with names."

"Then it's true," said Harvester. "You really do remember what the world was like before."

"That's right," said Storyteller. "Memory - my blessing, until it becomes my burden."

"Then you had a name yourself?"

"I have a name now, but it does me no favors. 'Storyteller' fits as well as any."

"There's one more favor we need." Harvester snatched the knife from the ground where it had fallen from Storyteller's hand. "Take this thing with you."

Storyteller held up his hands. "I'm sorry. I am not a man of violence."

"That's what we all thought." Harvester looked down and sighed. "When that raider scout came, Hunter took this knife and went out to kill him. He's killed plenty of animals, and he said killing a man couldn't be so different. He was wrong. Hasn't been the same since." She pressed the grip of the knife into Storyteller's palm. "Throw it away if you want, but we don't want it here. Please, take it away."

The knife was a terrible weight, but Storyteller nodded and tucked it into his satchel where the sight of the gory thing would not trouble him. "As you wish." With that, he walked off into the plains, the cruel sun marching in time behind him.
CHAPTER 2

~T-minus 108:02~

It was the summit of noon, Patmos, Illinois, the rays of the advancing sun glittering magnificently in the lidless eyes of the cameras that lined Icaria Street. The police - a conspicuously potent presence for such a small town - traced their patrol routes with care, scrutinizing the shops and their patrons for signs of dangerous deviance. Behind the distorted tableau, there was an almost melodic electronic hum from the metallic cylinders concealed in the trees, their function an enigma to most. Passersby couldn't help but take notice, but only surreptitiously - no one dared give too much attention to the presence or even acknowledge it save for the odd peek at those digital eyes.

Will Scarborough, if he even noticed anything awry, didn't waste the energy to express any dismay. Life was simply too full - too many plans to parse, too many factors to consider. The machines and the guards ranked highly among those factors, but not so high that they became an undue distraction. His goal of the moment - hardly one that would be hampered by surveillance - find a place to eat and to unload his thoughts. Harper's Last Stop, with its greasy spoon aesthetic and lethally inexpensive food, was convenient for the purpose.

Will's energetic entrance nearly knocked the tiny bell free of its mount. "Ralphie! My man! How's it going today?"

"New day, same crap," said Ralph. "What can I get you today?"

"Oh, today it's a matter of what _I_ can do for _you_. But first, let's get some music going. I'm in a mood for something classic." Will slipped a quarter into the vintage 45 jukebox and jabbed at the buttons. "Come on...come on, you piece of shit, you worked yesterday! D4! Damn it, D4!" He threw a series of body blows at the machine, each meaty punch fueled by the machine's stubborn refusal to obey his commands. "Goddamn it, play!"

Ralph leaned over the counter. "Knock it off, Will. Ixnay! You'll piss him off again!"

"What the hell is going on here?" A new voice entered the fray. It belonged to the owner, drawn into the dining area by the sound of Will's knuckles colliding with his expensive antique, the fire in his glossy marble eyes erupting into a blaze at the sight. "Get away from that thing, you imbecile! It's vintage! Do you have any idea how much that thing costs?"

Will's assault on the jukebox continued unabated as he addressed the owner. "Hey, don't blame me. The servos, or...you know, the moving parts get stuck sometimes, they need a good rap to jar them loose." _Bang._ _Bang._ "That's why they don't make these anymore. If you would've gotten a digital one, this wouldn't happen." _Bang. Bang._ "Felt something give. Just one more-"

The owner grabbed Will and pulled him away from the jukebox. "One more time and you're gone! Banned for life!"

Will stared down at the angry man, his stumpy hands clutching Will by his white t-shirt. There was a significant physical disparity between the two men, one which was all the more pronounced when framed by the threat of a brawl. The owner was a diminutive ball of flesh and hair with a cherry for a face. Will was a good two heads taller, with a frame best described as portly with hints of strength \- a wall of muscle concealed beneath the products of a rich diet. It was not a fair fight, and Will was not about to be the bully. "You wanna let go? All right, I won't hit your precious jukebox, all right? I promise. Cross my heart." No sooner had his words rippled the air did the first notes of an Elvis Costello song filled the room. "Well, it looks like Will Scarborough isn't so dumb after all, huh?"

The owner, his face transitioning to a less intense crimson, turned Will loose. "Hands off the box."

"Yeah, yeah." Will took a seat at the counter, resting his stubbly chin in one hand. "Man, that guy's uptight."

"You gotta watch it, man," said Ralph, leaning in close. "He spent like ten grand on that box. It's like his son."

"No need to replay the song, I got the message the first time," said Will. "Not that it matters. In a couple days, that jukebox, this diner - they'll all be history."

Ralph, who had long since given up any pretense with his best customer, let out an audible groan. "Not this crap again. Will, you gotta lay off the end-of-the-world stuff. It's not healthy to go around obsessing over that."

"Hey, I know I've been wrong about a lot, but this is a sure thing," said Will.

"They were all sure things."

"Yeah, but this time it's different."

"Because you have proof?"

"Yeah."

"That you can't show anyone?"

Will slammed his dense fists against the counter. "Come on, man, forget about that and just use your head. Does any of this make sense? That fortress of a lab just outside of town? The media blackout? And the excuses they're giving us? None of this shit's normal."

"Excuse me." A young woman - petite with cropped straw-colored hair and the intense, stern look of a jaded wanderer - leaned over from a nearby stool. "Don't mean to butt in, but I take it you're talking about Jameson Labs?"

"Oh, don't get him started," said Ralph.

"As a matter of fact, I was," said Will, waving Ralph away. "My friend here doesn't like it when I tell the truth too loudly. It upsets the customers, kills their appetites."

"Well, my appetite's fine." The woman pulled a memo pad and pen out of her bag. "Sara Mills. I'm working on a personal project connected to the lab and its effects on the community."

"Project?" A light sparked to life in Will's eyes. "So, you're what...some kind of journalist?"

"The desperate and unemployed kind. This is just a little thing I'm gonna try to get published while I wait for an opening in one of the last five reporting jobs they have in this country." Sara flipped the memo pad to the desired page as she brushed the cap from her cheap pen. "I'd love to take a few comments, if you have the time, uh..."

"Will Scarborough. And I'd be happy to give some comments, but I should really put in an order first." Will spun back to Ralph, eyes flitting between the counterman and the menu. "All right, give me a double burger with Swiss and a side of onion rings, a basket of Cajun fries, a side of spicy slaw, and a chocolate shake. Oh, and if you've got any of that turkey chili left over, I'll take a little cup of that. And some pie, the rest of that peach thing you've got in the case." He flicked a few bills down on the counter. "Keep the change, man."

Sara gaped at him in numb silence. "Not terribly health conscious, I guess?"

"Well, it's not like I have to worry about my health for much longer," said Will. "That's the great thing about the end - you get to live however you want, and damn the consequences."

"Yes, I gathered that much about your, uh...theory from what you were saying earlier," said Sara. "Could you explain this 'end-of-the-world' scenario for me? You know, I've been following the Rudra story for weeks now and that one's brand new."

"That's because I figured it out first. It all started with this." Will slammed a crumpled flier down on the table:

A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT FROM JAMESON ENTERPRISES

To the residents of Patmos, Illinois:

Over the past few years, you've seen a number of changes - large and small - come to your town as a result of our development. We're very pleased at how well you've tolerated these changes and adjusted to our presence.

Very soon, you will be privileged to see the first fruits of our labor. On Sunday, April 16th at 11:59 P.M., we will be running the first practical test of the RUDRA ENGINE, the prototype for a new energy plant. We believe that this device will form the cornerstone of the American energy policy in the near future and beyond.

More than anything, we want the people who have lived with our work for so long to share in the experience. While the lab itself will remain sealed for the duration of the test, we will be using our telepresence setup to give you a glimpse from the comfort of your own home. The test will be broadcast locally on every Jameson Communications-owned television and radio station; there will also be a stream open through the Jameson Enterprises website for a global audience.

Thank you for your assistance, and let's build a better future together.

"Yeah, I'm familiar with that." Sara pushed the flier back towards Will. "But I don't see anything about the end of the world in there."

"Neither did I, at first," said Will. "Let me start with a question: What are they building at Jameson Labs?"

"Well, it's some kind of energy source," said Sara. "I mean, I don't really get the science behind it, but it is a model for a power plant."

"...Or so they'd like to have you think." Will clapped his hands together. "Truth is, they're working on something a lot more dangerous in that building. Something a lot more sinister, even."

"Sinister? What, like a weapon?"

"Not quite. You use a weapon against your enemy. This thing, they're using against everyone. Friend and foe."

Sara scratched her head, rolling the words around in her head as she searched for the proper summary. "So you think Jameson Enterprises...you think Joshua Jameson is building a doomsday device?"

"That's a dramatic way of putting it, but...yes, that's accurate."

"In southern Illinois?"

"They had to build it somewhere."

"But why..." Sara shook her head. "...Let's try this another way. What makes you think that Joshua Jameson is building a doomsday device?"

"Well - and I'd prefer you leave this part out of whatever you're doing..." Will glanced over his shoulder and dropped his voice a trace below his typical bellow. "...A while back, I received an anonymous email detailing certain aspects of this little project that aren't public knowledge. You'll keep my name out of this part, right?"

"Sure, you'll be my anonymous source."

"Just anonymous, or will you give me a code name? I could be the 'Prophet of Patmos' or something like that."

"Could you just get on with it?"

"Right." Will threw another glimpse about the room, eyes resting momentarily on each fixture for signs of strange behavior. "Well, the technical details were right over my head, but the gist of it was that there's another aspect to this little project that no one's talking about. Something the Jameson people hid. Something really, really big."

"So...you believe that one of the world's wealthiest men is building a doomsday device in a government-sponsored lab based on an anonymous email."

"I know what you're thinking-"

"I'm sure you do." Sara rubbed her forehead. "Well, go ahead. Finish your thought."

"Thank you for having an open mind. Not many people do." Will straightened his spine as he prepared to deliver his grand pronouncement. "Now, I would have thought it was bullshit, too, except it explains so much. Point one: He's only letting a carefully vetted crowd take tours of the lab. Why do that if they're not hiding something?"

"That's actually pretty common with projects of this size. Especially when the government is involved."

"Maybe, but point two: The stage management. They've been manipulating the press since day one, not letting anyone with a microphone get past their flacks."

"Again, that's standard in this kind of situation."

"I'm not so sure about that, but let's say that I agree, just let it pass. But, point three: Dr. Richter, the mastermind behind the whole project. He has not been seen since construction began. Is that standard? Surely a big-time project with big-time federal money behind it would want their pet genius in front of the cameras on a regular basis, yet it's been weeks since we've heard a word from him."

Sara tapped her pen against the memo pad. "Okay, that I'll grant you. I've been wondering where Richter has been myself. But-"

"Fries up." Ralph dropped a basket of spice-covered fries on the counter in front of Will.

"Thanks man." Will shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. "Help yourself, by the way."

"I'm fine, thanks." Sara pulled out a small digital recorder. "You mind if I record this?"

"Knock yourself out," said Will. "Now, the next thing you're going to ask is - why? Fact is, I don't know. Maybe they're trying to create some utopia by wiping out all the peons. Maybe they're going to try to force world peace onto the table using the biggest goddamn sword ever made. There could be a cult angle \- I don't know. Leave that part to the conspiracy theorists, there are plenty of them. All I know is that the end is coming, and very soon."

"Conspiracy theorists...right. You know, with all due respect..." Sara dropped the memo pad on the counter, barely restraining a smirk. "...guys like you usually have a website or a podcast or something. I mean, you could get yourself quite a following with what you've given me."

Will laughed directly in Sara's face. "...Nah. For one, I'm not big on fame. That's for my brother, he's the talented one. Hell, I wouldn't know what to do with it. Second, it's not going to matter since the world's about to blow up, so why not enjoy myself? I have much better plans."

"That's the other thing, Will. For a guy who expects the world to explode in five days, you seem awfully calm."

"Scared?" The word narrowly escaped Will's mouth through a fistful of French fries. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Seriously?"

Will spun his stool to face Sara, clasping his hands on his knees. "Yeah, yeah, everyone in this country wants to live forever. Everyone's willing to trade their dignity to keep breathing for a few more years. Well, that's not me. The way I see it, everybody goes, and the most important part is not when, but where and how. When I go, I plan to be on Kiyama Hill - that little bulge overlooking the lab, I'm sure you know about it. Front row seats to the end of everything, with a beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other. 'Cause we're not cursed, you know, we're damn lucky. We're going to see the most spectacular thing any human has ever witnessed. It'll be a fireworks display times a million. The sky will turn into a river of flame, flowing into infinity. I'm going to be there, dancing at the brink of the goddamn apocalypse."

Sara clutched on the table for her memo pad, not even taking her eyes off of Will. "I guess that does sound pretty wild."

"You bet." Will snapped his fingers. "Oh, before we go on - any chance that you're a local girl? I mean, Mills Printing, that's your folks, right? You guys do posters and banners and stuff like that?"

"Until that all-in-one place on Amos undercuts us and we go out of business, yeah."

"Perfect. I've got some fliers of my own I want to print up. Ads for my big party. I'm willing to pay more for the rush job, but I will need them quickly. Tomorrow, if you can."

"That won't be cheap."

Will pushed aside the empty basket. "Well, no point in keeping my money, right? Can't take it with me."

Sara applied a smile. "I guess not. All right, let's start from the beginning. And don't spare any details, I think this is just what I'm looking for."

"From the beginning?" said Will. "All right. It all started in the most boring place in these United States..."

CHAPTER 3

~Date Unknown~

In the aftermath of the fall, the American Midwest became the sprawling desert that the early explorers had described. The ground, scorched by the fire that had swallowed the sky, had left the exposed soil dead save for jagged patches of low, pallid plants and the rare tree that had defied its own nature and survived. There was little to guide a traveler, and yet travelers were hardly rare across these parts, and those with wisdom were seldom lost. The secret was in the Wayfinder guidestones placed by the trail scouts who had charted the new landscape in the years following the reemergence. The stones were unremarkable things, but rich in information to a trained eye. Beyond marking safe routes, the subtle coded markings across their surfaces pointed to hidden sources of fresh water or safe places to bed down for the night.

Storyteller had learned early how to follow the trails, how to decode the secrets of the stones and use them to evade trouble. In some cases, though, the state of the trail itself that told a far richer story than the markers. Nature sought to reclaim this particular patch of ground, sending dense red-brown brambles and vines to snare the very sands. No boot had trammeled the grass here, and no blade had cleared the growth, not in many a day. The end of this road was a place ignored by traders, redeemers and raiders alike - an ignored backwater, a purposeless ruin.

It wasn't until he reached the end of the trail that Storyteller truly understood why this place had been forgotten. "Westhigh" was a brick thorn, an austere and institutional building jutting out from a field of splintered and decaying blacktop. No one remembered exactly what purpose it had served - most likely a government building, but this was but a guess. There was little interest in delving further to solve that mystery, as traders had no time for places without tangible value. The crumbling brick of the structure was no good for building, and the interior contained only annihilated books and machines so damaged that their original function was beyond reckoning. The redeemers and merchants swiftly abandoned Westhigh, and the whole area fell into a state of repair and obscurity. For Storyteller, though, this was merely a different kind of guidestone, one bonded to his own memories. He had visited this place once in the age before and understood what passed for its secrets. It was no more impressive then, but it was still a part of his past. Something drew him to this place, something deep inside that he ill understood. He only needed to find the building to reach his destination, but curiosity demanded that he investigate further.

Storyteller squeezed through the doors and into a wide hallway, surfaced in tile. The interior was in remarkably good shape - save the dust and a few exceptionally bold weeds, it looked as though it could have been in use just a few months prior. The metal storage lockers that lined the halls had seen better days, though - those which still stood upright had either lost their doors or been forever sealed by rust. There were intact door frames here and there, gates to rooms that had vanished beneath tons of rubble and debris. Storyteller stepped with deliberate care as he advanced, keeping watch for any spots that seemed in danger of collapsing. Every so often he heard what sounded like footsteps, but they stopped almost immediately - the sound of an overactive imagination, he assumed.

At the end of the hallway, Storyteller found a staircase concealed behind old scraps of plywood. These had not fallen on their own - they were brought here, arranged to leave a gap large enough to accommodate a child. Someone had resided here at some point. Overwhelmed by curiosity, Storyteller reached for one of the wooden planks.

"Hold it right there! Move and you're dead, got it?"

Storyteller spun to the sound of the voice and then immediately came to a halt. There was a girl standing in the shadow of a rubble pile, clutching a toy bow drawn with an ugly-looking metal arrow. She was tiny, scarcely more than five feet in height and certainly no more than ninety pounds on her best day. Her ratty brown hair was a tangled cape that brushed the floor around her. She was only a child, half lost in clothing at least two sizes too small for her spindly frame and massive spectacles that concealed much of her face.

She inched closer to Storyteller, the string on her bow pulled back as far as it would go. "You'll stay put if you know what's good for you. I can kill you with this thing, you know."

"I have no doubt," said Storyteller, raising his hands over his head.

The drawstring slipped off the girl's bow, the weapon clattering to the floor in front of her. She hastily snatched the arrow from the floor, twisting it towards Storyteller like a knife. "Don't get clever, I can still kill you if you try anything."

"That's not my intent," said Storyteller. "I mean you no harm."

The girl lowered the arrow. "You're not a redeemer, are you?" She tensed up, jabbing the arrow in Storyteller's direction. "Then who are you? Why are you here?"

"I'm but a wanderer." Storyteller slowly lowered his arms. "I remember this place from the world before, and I hoped to use it to find my destination."

"The world before?" The girl stepped closer. "How old are you?"

Storyteller stroked his chin. "Well, I've not had the opportunity to keep close track, and the years have lost their meaning, but...I am perhaps eighteen, or a bit older."

The girl's eyes sparkled in the weak light. "And you've been here?"

"In ages past."

The girl cast aside the arrow and flung her arms around Storyteller. "Then you remember!" She stepped back as her composure returned. "Sorry about that, it's just that I've never actually met anyone from before the disaster. First thing I remembered was the inside of a bomb shelter, can you believe it?" She bowed to the ground. "Archivist is what they call me. Well, it's what I call myself. There's no one else here, so there's no 'we,' really."

"Charmed. I am called Storyteller." He returned the gesture. "You live here by yourself, I take it?"

"Well, sometimes someone gets lost and ends up here, but the rest of the time it's just me," said Archivist. "Do you know what this place is?"

"It's a ruin, is it not? I was under the impression that no one had any use for this place."

"Oh, that's not what I meant at all! I mean, what was it before? You know, in your day? What did they do here? Research? Was it research? There are all these great books here so I just figured."

"Well-"

"Hold that thought!" Archivist ran to the staircase. "Let me show you my place. I've been building it up for a long, long time now. Come on down, I want your opinion!"

Archivist slipped through a gap in the boards and vanished into the darkness of the basement. Storyteller pulled back the boards enough to give himself access and followed her eager footsteps down. Aside from being dark and narrow, the stairwell had an odor all its own - musky and damp, with hints of some strange growth that had newly spawned in the annihilated ecosystem. At the bottom was what had once been some manner of storage space, remade into a odd little workshop. There were at least a dozen metal tables, some covered in bulging sheets, others holding an assortment of well-worn hand tools. Past the tables was a metal storage cabinet which had been repurposed into a bookcase, holding an eclectic assortment of books and pamphlets, many of which appeared to have been stitched or stapled back into their bindings. The walls were plastered with old laminated educational posters and shattered chalkboards. The whole room was illuminated by blown-out windows near the ceiling, some of which were affixed with mirrors to reflect light onto certain parts of the room.

"Tell me what you think," said Archivist, a big grin on her face. "Does it look familiar? Did I do a good job?"

"Perhaps..." Storyteller studied the surrounding, which were familiar in a way. "Yes. It vaguely resembles a classroom."

"You mean like a school? Oh, wow. I mean, I wouldn't know. Only education I got were some crummy tutorials in the shelter." Archivist walked over to one of the work tables and tugged at the sheet that concealed it. "So was there any truth to what I've read about schools, where the big, strong kids and the good-looking girls and the smart kids and the weirdos were always fighting for control? And everyone was always getting stabbed in the back? Was it that exciting?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but much of that was just cultural mythology," said Storyteller. "Exaggerated for dramatic flavor. We were always prone to lying for the sake of the story."

"Well, I guess you'd know about that. Hey, you hungry? I'm low on supplies, so I've been trying some new food sources. There were these mushrooms down here I tried to cultivate, but they didn't look good for eating, so I burned them. But then I found this pamphlet on preserving meat so I decided to make jerky." Archivist pointed to an open locker facing one of the windows. "First batch is ready. Tell me what you think."

"Thanks for your hospitality." Storyteller walked over to the locker, which had several dozen small strips of dried meat suspended from coat hangers laid across a makeshift drying rack. He popped one of the morsels into his mouth, releasing a salty, smoky flavor. "This is not bad at all. What manner of meat is this?"

"Not a hundred percent sure," said Archivist, moving to the next sheet. "It died outside the door and the buzzards had gotten at it a little bit before I found it."

Storyteller eyeballed the meat. "Well, it died a noble death." Looking at a nearby work bench, he noted an unusual apparatus - a boxy control panel with wires leading to a number of smaller boxes, each featureless save a single red button.

Archivist looked up from her work. "Oh, that thing. There's a bunch down here. I broke one open, and there's not much to it. All that happens when you hit those buttons is that it breaks the circuit so no one else can hit the button. I can't think of anything to do with them. They must have used those for some silly thing or another."

"You're more correct than you know," said Storyteller.

"You know what they did with that? Wow. Why don't you tell me..." Archivist waved her hand in Storyteller's face. "No, later. First things first, and this is first."

Storyteller walked over to Archivist, who was still scampering around the room, examining various gadgets. "These are projects of yours?"

"It's what I wanted to show you. I'm hoping you can give me some insight." Archivist ran over to the bookcase. "So I've been collecting all these books, right? Most of them are burned up, destroyed, but I've been poking around and I found some that are pretty intact, others I've been able to put back together. But I also keep finding these." She handed Storyteller a small silver disc with a hole in the center. "We had some of these in the shelter. I think they go in a computation machine, but ours were all fried and useless."

Storyteller took the disc by its edges and scrutinized it, studying its reflective side and the assortment of tiny scuffs that marked it. "A bit out of fashion in my time, but...yes, we used these as a storage medium. Pictures, documents, video, things of that nature. I'd not expected to see anything like this, at least not in such good shape." He returned the disc to Archivist. "I can't vouch for the functionality, these sometimes bear invisible decay. And of course, one would need a machine to use them."

"Perfect!" Archivist returned the disc to the bookcase. "I've found dozens of them. Most of the books I have on computation are very incomplete, but from what I've been able to gather, these things could be a gold mine. A whole library's worth of information, or maybe records of the past, the people who lived here. Exciting, right?"

"Indeed," said Storyteller. "I take it you haven't had a chance to study the contents on an actual computer?"

Archivist sighed and walked over to a table which held a number of gray and black boxes, all of which had been pulled apart and reassembled. "No. None of the computation devices I've found worked. So I've been trying to piece a working one together from the pieces." She rested her hand on a computer with a stripped case. "I had really high hopes for this one, you know. Not only did it not work, but it somehow managed to blow out my solar battery. I only had the one that worked, too." She delivered a swift kick to the computer, knocking it over on its side. A moment later, she snatched a pair of forceps off the table and rooted around in the dark interior of the machine. "You see? All of the parts look like they're intact, but there's something else wrong in here."

"That could well be the case," said Storyteller. "I have heard that an electromagnetic pulse can ruin electronics. Perhaps the disaster generated one."

"Maybe." Archivist pulled out a component - a small cube ending in a series of connecting pins. "I think this is the problem. Looks intact, right? But every one here is fried."

"Have you ever considered searching for a new one?" said Storyteller.

"Are you kidding? This building is my world. I don't even think I could survive out there. And it's not like I can ask anyone to do it for me. The redeemers don't..." Archivist's eyes lit up. "What about you? You could...oh, it's too big to ask."

"No need to even make the request," said Storyteller. "I can make no promises, but I will certainly keep an eye open for one like it."

"Fantastic!" Archivist shoved the damaged component into Storyteller's hands. "It looks like this. Be careful how you carry it, because you can't bend those little pins if you want it to work."

"Of course." Storyteller tucked the component into his satchel, placing it gingerly atop his other possessions. "Now, I must warn you against awaiting my return - as they said in my time, don't hold your breath. My journey is long, and I don't know where it will lead me."

"Oh, that's okay. I have time. Yes, sir, all the time in the world." Archivist rose up on tiptoes, leaning towards Storyteller. "Where are you headed, anyway? Give me all the details."

"It's not terribly exciting, I'm afraid," said Storyteller. "My hometown was southeast of the town that once stood here. There was nothing there when I emerged from our shelter, and after wandering for so many years I would like to see what became of the place."

"Southeast? Oh, no." Archivist stepped back, chewing compulsively at her cuticles. "You don't want to so southeast. That's where _he_ lives."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. He-"

"Don't speak his title!" said Archivist, pointing at Storyteller. "...Just don't go there, okay? It's not worth it. Go north, it's much safer. You can get anything you want up north. Don't go south."

Storyteller drew back his comment with a smile and a nod. "Very well, I will take your advice to heart. Now, until we meet again-"

"Oh, do you have to leave so soon?" Archivist had the forlorn stare of an abandoned child. "I was hoping to hear more about the world that once was."

"It's early yet," said Storyteller. "I'd like to reach the next encampment before nightfall. Besides, there is still so much to learn about the world that is, and so much to glean about the world that will be."

"Wow," said Archivist. "Well, I'll get back to work. Good luck."

Storyteller left Archivist's workshop and worked his way through the ruined halls. There were memories here, vague ones but no less powerful. The ghosts of the old world still lurked here, hiding in those buried rooms and those sealed lockers. And yet, as familiar as it all was, it seemed less like a memory than a fable - like a story he'd read ages ago and committed to memory, the details fraying at the edges but the heart of it still true.

CHAPTER 4

~T-minus 106:41~

"...All this 'existential fear' crap is just because our lives are so easy and we have no concept...Sara, you still with me?"

"Yeah, I'm listening."

Whatever doubts Will harbored about her sincerity were lost beneath the momentum of his words. They were on a post-lunch stroll down Icaria Street, enjoying the gracious weather as they rambled beneath Jameson's watchful eye. Sara had already absorbed an hour of Will's personal philosophy, but there was always more ground to cover. Everything Sara said led to another tangent; everything they saw recalled another point in Will's grand concept of being.

And thus Will barreled on. "So we have no concept of real fear, so we make things up to scare us. It's like we need to be scared, like we're still so bound to the jungle that we wouldn't know what to do if we were too safe."

"Yeah, I see that." Sara ran her pen listlessly across her memo pad \- perhaps taking notes, perhaps doodling.

"And then we try to make ourselves safe, but that only scares us more. I mean, look at all these cameras!" Will swept his arms across the exposed camera pods, that recent feature of the streets that none had bothered to conceal. "They're supposed to make you feel safe, right? But when you see them everywhere it just reminds you of what a scary world it is."

"Yep. Big, scary world."

"That's right." Will drew in a deep breath, releasing it with a satisfied sigh. "Gotta love that fresh air, right? Those out-of-town drones just can't appreciate the little things. That's why they're always in their cushy hidey-holes in their own part of town. The rich part of town. The new, fancy..." He pointed at a young woman on the other side of the street, sporting the emerald jacket of Jameson Labs. "Hey, there's one. Think she's lost?"

Sara looked up from her scribblings. "Holy shit...Hey, Zoe!" She waved at the woman, who tamely raised a hand in response. "I've been wanting to talk to her, but she never has time. Well, no time like the present."

"You want me to come with?" said Will. "I got a little time."

"That's really not necessary."

"But I'm good at getting people to open up. I can help!"

"I'm sure you're too busy to..." Sara shook loose whatever ploy she had in mind. "Whatever you want, okay? I gotta hurry here."

Sara took a cursory glance up and down the street before sprinting across to the other side, skipping narrowly ahead of the passing cars. A moment later, Will jogged across himself with somewhat less caution, meeting the sound of brakes as a truck came to an abrupt halt just inches from him. There wasn't time to sample the driver's mastery of the profane, so Will shrugged off the insults and ran to follow Sara and her mysterious friend.

"Wow, that was close. I really need to pay better attention." He extended his hand to the woman. "Will Scarborough, pleased to meet you."

"Uh..." Zoe stared at his hand, baffled as to how she should react to this boisterous presence. Perhaps it was merely his size that intimidated her as she was a tiny creature, more than a foot beneath him and sporting dowdy spectacles that scarcely befit a woman of her youth. There was an odd, twitchy nature to her movements, the tension of a tightly stretched wire run through with stress lines. One more good shock and there would be nothing but a lingering vapor trail where she once stood.

Sara stepped between the two of them. "Never mind him, Zoe, he's just some guy I was talking to earlier. Now, can I get your remarks? It'll only take a few minutes and I won't ask about anything sensitive."

"Yes, nothing sensitive..." Zoe stood rigidly, moving little apart from her eyes which darted about the street. "...Um, I'm actually in a hurry. I have to buy..." She pointed blindly to the building behind her - The Weighty Shelf, a used book store. "...a book. Then I have to get back to the lab. I'm sorry." She turned and shuffled into the store, not even waiting for a response.

"Is she a friend of yours?" said Will. "And to think that people call me a weirdo."

"Would you shut up? She's skittish enough without you getting in her face." Sara spun to the Weighty Shelf. "We're done, okay Will? You can leave now."

"Wait! What about the fliers?"

"Send me an email. And don't make me regret giving you that address, by the way."

The door to the Weighty Shelf gently shut behind Sara, resonating with a rusty creak as it found its resting place. Will found himself drawn to that door, pushed on by idle curiosity, driven to learn more - anything more - about this entity that had affected his life. Instinct compelled him to crash through the front door of the Weighty Shelf the second Sara was out of sight, and he had to dip into his reserves of willpower to restrain himself. Those reserves lasted about twelve agonizing ticks of the second hand, enough to enter calmly and with some discretion.

Will was familiar with every little shop along Icaria Street, but the Weighty Shelf was one that he seldom visited except to obtain gifts for his more intellectually inclined brother. It was a tiny place, barely a hollow in the brick facade and with room for only a few people at most. Despite its size, it was a treasure trove for the bibliophile, with shelves packed with old books of every description \- everything from well-worn science fiction and romance paperbacks to a tiny collection of antique classic editions. There were more books piled onto the checkout desk, recent arrivals and unplaced articles spilling out onto the thready green carpet. At that time of day, it was empty save the owner and the two women, hidden in one of the tiny alcoves formed by the shelves. Will took a seat in an old wingback chair on the other side of the shelf, slouching down to peer through a gap in the books. He could just make out the whispers from the other side.

"...You talk to me like that out on the street? On the street? Are you crazy?" Zoe pointed her eyes straight ahead, sifting through books in a strained effort to appear casual. "Tell me, were any of the cameras acting funny? Tracking your movements? There's a little blue light that comes on when they take manual control."

"No, the cameras were no more creepy than they normally are, I assure you."

"Okay," said Zoe. "What about that guy who followed you? Who was he?"

"Just some nut I was talking to for the piece," said Sara. "Believe me, there's no way he's working for Jameson. Not this guy, he's not that smart."

"You're sure now? You're an expert?" Zoe caught a few shallow breaths before continuing. "These Opp-Leak guys are great at playing pretend. That guy could be one of them. Anyone could be one of them. The woman at the counter could be one of them."

Sara chuckled dryly. "Geez, Zoe, since when have you been so paranoid?"

"They're the ones who are paranoid." Zoe's eyes darted around the shop. "Come on, look through the shelves with me. Make it look real."

"I will not," said Sara. "No one's watching us, I assure you."

Suddenly, Will felt very conspicuous. Reaching around blindly, he grabbed an ancient-looking manuscript from a nearby stack and sank deeper into the chair, hoping that the owner wouldn't give away his game.

"What are you even afraid of, exactly?" said Sara. "Jameson doesn't own this place. How exactly do they track us in here?"

"However they want. Directional mics, optical mics, wireless cameras, bugs...bugs that look like damn near anything. Work them into the wiring and they'll run for years on their own. Maybe they put a keylogger on your computer, hack in, and then watch you through your own webcam. Maybe they hijack your cell frequency." Zoe pitched her voice down. "They have other ways. Machines that can look into your brain, read your eyes, the way you walk..."

"Mind reading?" said Sara. "Jameson Enterprises can read your thoughts?"

"As good as," said Zoe. "They track us in town, Sara. They know everything. I leave my badge somewhere? They know it. They know I'm here."

"Zoe..."

"Know how I know all of this? Because Aaron Bellamy called me in to talk about it. You remember him."

Sara cocked her head. "You mean the kid from the trivia thing? The one Eddie Page wrote about?"

"Yeah. Same one."

"You're telling me that they put that little psychopath in charge of security?

That name had a certain resonance for Will. They'd met once, at a statewide academic event - or was he thinking of someone else? Not a chance, it was hard to forget someone like Aaron Bellamy, hard to mislay that arrogance and pettiness. And connected, by the sound of it - how else could someone so young win a position of such importance?

"Oh, that's not even the worst of it," said Zoe, turning back to the shelf. "I'm getting a crash course in what Jameson is willing to do to keep his lab secure."

"A nice, Christian businessman with a dark side? Who'd have figured." Smug affect dripped from each syllable as Sara spoke. "I could have told you that. No one gets that rich being nice."

"Don't joke." Zoe pulled a random paperback out of the shelf. "Have you read the special zoning provisions for the lab? The new additions to the town charter? Jameson all but runs this town. How else do you think they could they have done all of this so quickly? A quarter-billion dollar lab? A whole new section of town to accommodate people from around the country? Expedited visas for hundreds of people?"

"Money makes things happen, Zoe."

"Not just money, Sara. The Chinese guy who's always with him..." Zoe lowered her voice to a whisper, to the point that Will could snare no more than a few syllables. "...and his people. They're not all techs."

"Jesus, Zoe, you're buying into that garbage?" said Sara with decidedly less restraint. "He's not a Triad boss, that's a load of xenophobic crap."

"Maybe...maybe, but think of the facts here. You've got tens, maybe hundreds of billions in state and federal money pouring into this facility - you think they're gonna let the law get in the way? That's why I can't talk to you anymore. Now leave me alone."

"Sara, come on. I'm not asking for secret documents. All I want-"

"What you want will get me in trouble. I've probably screwed myself already." Zoe hustled to the counter and quietly purchased the book, not waiting to receive change. She came to an abrupt stop by Will, still hunched down and hiding. "You heard me, right? I didn't say a word, did I? Nothing about Jameson, nothing about the lab, nothing. I'm a good girl."

"Uh..." Will squirmed in his seat and shrugged. "...That's right. You didn't say a thing."

"Thank you." Zoe bolted through the doors, scampering down the street in a fearful haste.

Sara stepped around the shelf, staring intently at Will. "Get an earful, did you?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." Will sat up in his chair, resting the book in his lap and crossing his legs. "Maybe I don't seem so crazy anymore, huh?"

"Don't get so cocky," said Sara. "It's weird, but big money is always weird. They have plenty of reasons to keep a lid on this thing. Spies, for one."

"Afraid of spies, huh? So they invite a bunch of foreign researchers to the lab?"

"Look, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to admit that maybe, I'm right."

"No." Sara's spine stiffened. "But I don't like this, not one bit."

"That's okay," said Will. "Just five more days, and it'll all be over. Just you watch."

"Yeah, yeah." Sara placed a hand against the front door. "You know, I'm figuring out why no one likes it when you talk like that."

"Excuse me, sir?" The owner approached Will, watching him through a pair of tastefully out-of-date frames. "You seem to really enjoy that book. It's a very rare article, and very delicate. Would you like to purchase it?"

"Um..." The book was merely a part of Will's own ruse - he'd not even taken note of the cover. "...How much?"

"$108."

"Really?" Will glanced down at the book. "This?"

"It's a very rare edition. It would be worth more, but the condition is rather poor. You are a fan of Ms. Shelley, I take it?"

"Not really..." Will's hand drifted away from the book - it seemed wrong to soil it with his filthy touch. "...but what the hell. You only go around once, right?"

"Excellent, sir."

"Hey, not to bash you guys or anything, but how did you get hold of something this rare?" Will leafed through his newest acquisition. "Never seen anything this special in here."

"It was part of a special donation," said the owner.

Will ran his fingers along an odd patch on the inside cover. "Special how?"

"It was part of an offering from Mr. Joshua Jameson."

Will's hand slipped at the sound of the name, partially tearing the patch away. Beneath it was a wafer of some odd material that had been crudely stitched into the cover. It vaguely resembled a computer chip, though Will had never seen one quite like it.

"How will you be paying?" said the owner.

"Better make it cash," said Will.
CHAPTER 5

~Date Unknown~

The blank page spitefully returned Storyteller's gaze. There were few like it remaining in the notebook, just enough left for a conclusion that stubbornly eluded him. Ideas had come and gone, but he dared not ruin a page with poorly considered words, not when clean pages were so hard to come by. Thus the final story remained unfinished, one more goal lying in some distant land.

Of course, a wanderer had little time to think about future goals when more immediate necessities were ahead. At least potable water was abundant - many were the watering holes along the road, even if some had gained notoriety as traps stalked by wasteland brutes. Food was a greater challenge. A skilled trapper might snare a small rodent here, but the big game had left long ago and the vegetation was hardly enough to support even a single man. Survival required knowledge and preparation, and the line between endurance and death was easily crossed.

All of these things weighed on Storyteller's mind as he pondered his destination. Fate was steering him north, to the safety of well-trafficked lands, but his destination had always been in the south. The risk of wandering heedlessly was too great here. And so he sat on a flat stone at some long-forgotten crossroad, gazing north up the path, then back to the south, then northward again as he planned his path.

He was so focused on his plans and his notebook that he failed to notice a new arrival drawing near. The snap of a dry twig pulled him back to reality.

"Oh!" Storyteller bolted upright and spun in the direction of the sound. Here was a short, scraggly-looking man carrying an overstuffed duffel bag and brandishing a stout oak branch. "Pardon me, sir. I didn't see you there."

The man eyeballed Storyteller for several long, silent seconds. "S'all right," he muttered.

"Thank you," said Storyteller, returning to his seat on the stone. "You're the first soul I've seen come up this path, you know."

"Huh."

"Perhaps you can help me make a decision," said Storyteller. "I'd like to head south, but every soul I meet points me north. Tell me, where were you before now?"

The man shrugged, not breaking his stare. "Dunno. Just followed the trail."

"I see. Well, thank you anyway." Storyteller returned to the pages of his notebook.

The man sat down across from Storyteller, clutching his belongings tightly against his body. "What you got there?"

"Just a personal project of mine. Something I've been working on for many years. Whenever I have nothing to do, I like to review what I've already done."

"Personal...project?" The man spoke the phrase as though it had been pulled from some lost language.

"Yes, something I work on when I have a moment alone. I know that some people might think it foolish, but it gives me a sense of purpose." Storyteller closed the notebook. "Well, I suppose it's time to make a decision as to my next destination. I wish you well on your journey."

As he returned the notebook to his satchel, Storyteller felt something grab hold of his arm. It was the scraggly man, straining to wrench the notebook free from Storyteller's hand. "What are you doing? Stop!" Storyteller seized the notebook with both hands, fighting off the would-be thief with both hands. The man swung at Storyteller with the oak branch, narrowly missing his head. Storyteller fell back onto the rock and his attacker ran off into the scrub.

"Wait! Stop!" A moment later, Storyteller was on his feet, satchel slung over one arm, pursuing the thief. The man was fast, far quicker than his diminutive stature would suggest. Nevertheless, Storyteller kept pace, shrugging off the brambles that tore at his clothing and skin. The thief sprinted up a hill, taking one glimpse back at Storyteller before charging down the other side. Storyteller's lungs burned from the exertion, but he ran through the pain and scrambled up the side of the hill. As he reached the crest, his foot caught on an unseen rock and he fell hard, tumbling down through a mess of anemic bushes and stones before coming to an jarring halt at the base of a large fragment of concrete. The air rushed from his lungs in a single agonizing burst, sending dark spots dancing across the sky.

Mustering as much strength as he could, Storyteller pulled himself into a sitting position. The thief was long gone, leaving not even a trace of his flight. Storyteller reached for his satchel, checking to see that none of his other belongings had been lost or destroyed in the fall. As his hand found the strap, a wave of pain raced through his left arm and up his shoulder. Storyteller pulled back his sleeve to reveal a large purple bruise, a reminder of his rough landing.

Regaining his orientation, Storyteller found that fate had at least seen fit to deposit him at the threshold of an encampment. It was an impressive one, at that - far larger than those he had encountered in the previous months, surrounded by a sturdy wooden fence with a watch platform overlooking the gate. It was a crossroads, a minor trading village linking several other nearby settlements. Even from Storyteller's distant vantage point, he could spot ample activity, the constant motion of travelers moving in and out, petty traders carrying bags or dragging sleds loaded down with redeemed goods.

Rubbing his sore arm, Storyteller gathered his belongings and set off for the settlement. As he neared the gate, the man on the watch platform called out to him. "What's your intention here, traveler? Are you here for treatment?"

"Treatment?" said Storyteller. "I am in no need of treatment."

"Are you positive, traveler? It's a rare opportunity."

"Merely passing through, friend."

"All right," said the man. "You may come in. Just don't disturb any of the patients."

Storyteller pondered that word "patients" as he crossed through the gate, when his eyes found an unexpected sight. The center of town was filled with people, not traders nor redeemers nor explorers. Most of them had the look of ordinary wasteland survivors, drawn from reaches far and wide. All of them were in grim shape, either nursing injuries or suffering the pains of disease. A small group of able-bodied people moved through the crowd, stopping to give aid to the others.

Storyteller noticed a woman watching the activity. "Excuse me, what's going on here?" he said.

"Lifebringer is here," said the woman.

"Lifebringer?"

"Had a different name for people like him once, but Lifebringer is the only proper thing to call him now."

"Then I take it this man is a healer of some sort?"

"Don't act daft," said the woman. "It won't get you to the front of the line any faster. You'd better find a place if you want his help. He's getting busier all the time, you know."

A crimson-haired woman took notice of Storyteller. "Excuse me, sir, are you in need of help?"

"Oh no, you needn't bother with me," said Storyteller, cradling his arm. "I'm quite all right."

"Please sir." The woman jogged through the crowd to Storyteller's side. "You are rubbing your arm. Are you sure you're fine?"

"Just a bruise," said Storyteller. "I had a bit of a fall earlier, but I'm sure it's not serious."

"Let me take a quick look anyway, all right?" She led Storyteller over to a log and gestured for him to sit down.

"If you insist." Storyteller rolled up his sleeve. "You're not Lifebringer, I take it? Sorry for my ignorance, I've been away for many years."

"No, merely an attendant. You can call me that if you like. We all share the title."

"Isn't that confusing?" said Storyteller.

"Not when it comes to Lifebringer. When he calls for one of us, any will do." Attendant studied the bruise, lightly brushing her calloused fingertips over the skin. "You're right, it's not too serious. Even so, I have a treatment that might help it heal faster."

"I've had far worse," said Storyteller. "The price of a life on the trail. There's no need to waste medicine on me."

"Well, would you be interested in helping us test something?" Attendant reached into a nearby bag and pulled out a bandage, heavy and dripping with some sort of pungent-smelling fluid. "There's this poultice we use for traumatic wounds, but the herb is rather rare. So we're testing this new compound, made from ingredients that are easy to find."

"Very well," said Storyteller. "I'm always interested in advancing the cause of medicine."

Attendant loosely bound the bandage around Storyteller's injured arm. "The medicine will absorb through your skin. You should be feeling the effects very soon."

Storyteller studied his hand. "Is it supposed to make my arm numb?"

"Uh oh. One second, please." Attendant stood up and scanned the clearing. "Lifebringer? May I see you for a moment?"

Somewhere in the crowd, a man rose and glanced in Attendant's direction. He was young, scarcely twenty years of age if that, yet he had the presence and the world-weary look of a man twice as old. His frame was concealed by a long coat, colorless save for the dust at the hem and rust-colored streaks at the sleeves. A decaying leather bag, bulging until it threatened to spill forth at the seams, swung heavily from his shoulder. His drained visage was brightened by a single glimmer at his collar - a lapel pin of well-tarnished silver in the shape of the Rod of Asclepius.

"What's the issue, Attendant?" he said, striding over to the two of them. "This patient doesn't appear to be in very bad shape. We've discussed triage, remember?"

"It's not the patient," said Attendant. "I just tried out Compound B-08 on this man, and he had an unexpected reaction. His arm's gone numb."

"Truly?" Lifebringer knelt down beside Storyteller, taking hold of his wrist. "Describe what you're feeling exactly, and please tell me in detail. What parts of your body have lost feeling?"

"Everything from my hand up through my shoulder," said Storyteller.

Lifebringer removed a small metal probe from his pocket and pressed it firmly into Storyteller's palm. "Can you feel this at all?"

"I feel a little bit of pressure. Actually..." Storyteller straightened out his arm and wiggled his fingers. "I can feel it once more."

"Too bad. I guess this won't work as a replacement," said Attendant.

"No, but it may have other applications." Lifebringer removed a ragged notebook and a stump of a pencil from his bag. "If we can find a way to prolong the effect, then we have the makings of a topical anesthetic. We can certainly make use of that." He made a brief notation on one of the pages, then tucked the notebook back into his bag. "What was the original complaint?"

"Just a fall," said Storyteller. "A mere bruise."

Lifebringer studied the mark. "It will heal on its own. It's unlikely that you'll experience any lasting effects."

"How did it happen, anyway?" said Attendant. "I guess I was so eager to try the new compound that I forgot to ask."

Storyteller rolled his sleeve down. "It was a chance encounter with a thief. He took something very precious to me, and I fell down a hill while I was chasing him. I don't suppose you saw anyone run past the settlement recently?"

"I've been far too busy to look," said Lifebringer, eyes locked on his bag as he sorted the contents. "I will say that if what he stole was rare at all, then he's probably headed to Nexus. The Baron's Market is about the only place where one can find a buyer for things of that nature."

"Nexus..." Storyteller stroked his chin. "Yes, I've heard that name mentioned. Perhaps I'll head there in the morning."

"Not a wise decision," said Lifebringer. "Raiders have been active on those roads. Going north alone is nothing short of suicide."

"I don't suppose you are headed in that direction?" said Storyteller.

"We never go into Nexus, but we will stop at the nearest settlement. You can come with us..." Attendant's eyes drifted hesitantly to Lifebringer "...Sorry, sir, I shouldn't have presumed."

"Hmm." Lifebringer picked up his bag and climbed to his feet. "We do occasionally bring people with us, if they can give us aid. What do they call you?"

"I did forget to introduce myself. I am known as Storyteller."

Lifebringer furrowed his brow. "I don't suppose you have any experience treating injuries?"

"Unfortunately, my experience is minimal," said Storyteller. "But I have learned a few things from the trail medics I've known over the years."

Lifebringer stifled a sigh, though the frustration was clear in his gaze. "We may have some limited use for you. I can't make you an attendant, but you can still take care of certain duties. You will gather and store medicinal plants, prepare them for use in compounds, deliver messages, and assist the attendants should they need you. You will do exactly and only as I direct you to do. In return, we will ensure that you reach Nexus alive. Do we have a deal?"

Storyteller extended his hand. "We have a deal."

Lifebringer stared quizzically at Storyteller's outstretched hand. "We will be moving among the encampments in the area, so it will take longer than normal. Two weeks, most likely." He extended his hand, imitating Storyteller's gesture. "Welcome to our family."

Storyteller grasped Lifebringer's hand. "I will do anything that I can."

"The attendants will tell you what's needed," said Lifebringer. "Understand, this is not a typical arrangement for us. I trust that you'll live up to your end." With that, he turned and headed to his next patient.

"He's a bit short with strangers," said Attendant. "Don't mind him. He's really an exceptional man."

"I have no doubt," said Storyteller. "It is the privilege of exceptional minds to carry eccentricities, after all."

CHAPTER 6

~T-minus 104:33~

The Scarborough residence was a nondescript ranch house on a forgettable street in a beige-tinged neighborhood - a tranquil kind of place free of the threat of potentially terrifying excitement that haunts other, busier quarters. Days and nights, weekdays and weekends were equally sedate and predictable, one flowing drably to the next. The march of progress and the mutation of the town had not changed this character, for the people liked things as they were. It was the kind of place where a man might greet his neighbor with a gentle nod on the sidewalk, and she would reply in kind, but he would otherwise keep to himself and enjoy the quiet that came with neighbors that did the same.

By contrast, William Scarborough was a colorful presence, one that added more spice than his neighbors appreciated. On those occasions when he drifted away, a careful listener might hear a gentle rustling - the sound of dozens of people sighing in unified relief at his departure. It would not last, as he would soon return with a brand new scheme or theory to test. Perhaps, as with that afternoon, he would return with arms laden with dull paper bags, perhaps containing something banal, perhaps concealing some fresh madness.

"Anyone home?" shouted Will as he nudged open the door. "Hello?" The faint echo told him that the house was empty. Will dropped the bags on the overstuffed couch \- the one with those lumps and grooves that nicely accepted his frame \- and stared at the scuffed screen of their off-brand TV. "All right, you silly bastard, get it right this time, okay? TV on." The screen refused to awaken. "TV on. TV - oh, the hell with this." He snatched the remote and flicked the TV on in one practiced motion.

The screen greeted Will with a years-old replay of a local high school trivia competition, one graced with a wholly unexpected degree of national fame. This was an idiosyncrasy of Jameson Communications-owned stations - they broadcast a variety of provincial content, all drawn from an impressive library of videos available on-demand for people from coast to coast. They were of little interest to most, but such local loyalty was the privilege of wealth and influence, and Will appreciated the touch even if everyone else had forgotten the story.

Will was half-lost in the broadcast when the front door banged open and a boy sprang into the room. He was eleven years old by the calendar, though cursed with a light build and soft features that gave him the look of a boy of less. His drab clothing and unkempt hair spoke to a young man with little concern over his appearance.

"I'm home!" He glanced over at the couch. "You're home early, Will."

"Sam, Samuel..." Will leaned over the arm of the couch. "Is that any way to greet your brother? I'll have you know I finished my errands early just so I could welcome you home."

Sam dropped his backpack into an empty chair. "Is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right." Will pointed at the pile of bags. "Even picked you up a present. It's not in those, you'll have to dig for it."

Tracing Will's finger, Sam reached into the mound of bags and returned with a ragged book. " _The Last Man_. Wow, this looks really old. Was it expensive?"

"Never mind the cost. It's yours."

"I wouldn't know where to keep this." Sam examined the cover. "Huh, it's a little torn here."

"Yeah, that was me...you know how clumsy I am."

"There's an impression here...was there something here? Something hidden?"

"Never you mind. Look, if you don't want it, leave it on the counter, I'll put it in my preservation chamber."

"Right," said Sam, gingerly laying the book on the counter. "Got a project. I'll be out for dinner."

"Hold on," said Will. "Don't just cut out on me. How was it?"

"Just a normal day."

"Nothing weird happened?"

"No. Nothing."

"Come on. You had to do something."

Sam put up his hands. "We talked about current events."

"I see," said Will. "Current events...now that's good. We should have done that when I was in high school. We had plenty to talk about then."

"It was just about the lab. Nothing that interesting."

"Hey, you kids should pay attention to that." Will waved his finger at Sam. "That's the kind of thing that will change your life. Believe me, I know about these things."

"Yeah, I suppose." Sam peered at the television. "You're watching trivia?"

"What of it?"

"It's old."

"Now didn't I teach you to appreciate intellectual shit?" Will clicked his tongue. "This right here is the famous Northwest High finals, featuring future champion Apollo 'Paul' Liston. Trivia gods, my friend. Remember when Patmos sent a team to state and I took you to watch? These guys were there! You met them!"

"I was just a kid," said Sam. "My memory's not so good."

"Don't give me that, your memory is fantastic," said Will.

Sam giggled a bit, an embarrassing reaction he was constantly trying to shed. "Yeah, all right. I remember the other kid. The weird one. Aaron."

Will snapped his fingers. "You know what? His name came up. It turns out-"

The picture abruptly vanished, replaced by a simple title card reading AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM JAMESON COMMUNICATIONS.

Will scrutinized the remote at arm's length. "What is this shit?"

"Oh yeah, someone at school said something about this." Sam leaned forward over the couch. "They've been doing this since Monday."

A moment later, the card disappeared, replaced by an image of a magnificent personal study decorated in another generation's idea of high class - true mahogany paneling, oversized ornate globes, custom bookshelves stuffed with hefty old tomes on history and science, hand-tooled leather club chairs, all the trappings of the elite inner sanctum. In the center, behind an oversized executive's desk and framed by a reproduction of _Adoration of the Magi_ behind him, sat a stately silver-haired man in a light gray suit, hands folded in front of him. At length he began to speak, intoning each word in a gentle yet authoritative timbre:

_"Good evening, friends. We live in a world in which the only true constant is change. Every day, the things on which we have always relied shift in ways we could never have foreseen, and tragically these changes are not always for the better. When I was a child, this was truly a land of plenty. Everyone who was motivated, who had the spirit of industry, could have a career, a family, a home of his own. Through innovations in manufacturing and chemistry, we made the country mobile. Through our mastery of the atom, we turned the night into day. Through the manipulation of sound and_ light _, we democratized information. It was an age of wonder and growth, and to us anything was possible."_

_"_ T _he only true constant being change, this would not last. We were as the foolish man building his house upon the sand: The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it. In the decades since, we have weathered many assaults upon our land of plenty. We have faced shortages, recession, economic warfare, criminality,_ foreign intrigue, _the scourge of narcotics, the mindless cruelty of terrorism_ , the madness of rank bigotry _. Each blow exposed a crack in our perfect society through which many good men fell."_

"But I'm not here to deliver a message of pessimism, but one of hope. We Americans faced each crisis with the courage and grace we have always exhibited. We responded with innovation and industry and became stronger for it. It is in the spirit of this industry and this innovation that Jameson Enterprises launched Project Rudra."

_"Picture now the power plant of the future. Through a_ next-generation smart _grid, it delivers power to millions of homes and businesses, from great cities to tiny villages. Once constructed, it requires only a small team of skilled technicians to monitor and maintain its processes. It consumes no fossil fuels, nor any hazardous fissile materials. It outputs no environmental pollutants and produces no byproducts which are toxic to man, animal or plant life. And over its lifespan, it generates energy at almost_ a quarter of _the price of coal. Perhaps this sounds like fantasy, but through the diligent work of Dr. Otto Richter and his team, it may soon be reality. What's more, it is the fine people of this community who will be its first witnesses."_

_"There are those in the business community who wondered why I would choose to begin such an important project in a small town like Patmos. The idea was not wholly my own. The very night the proposal crossed my desk, I prayed for guidance, and_ the Father _led me back to the one place where life was always peaceful. It was here, in Patmos, that I was comforted after the death of my_ earthly _father. It was here, in Patmos, that_ my own son was born _. It was here, in Patmos, that I heard of the birth of my granddaughter. It is here, in Patmos, that I plan to one day retire. This community has shown me nothing but generosity and good wishes, and the Lord was telling me that I owed it to share my success with that community."_

_"Not that this has been easy. I know that change has not always been kind to this town. You have had to endure increased scrutiny in your daily affairs. You have watched as new neighbors moved in, neighbors from places like Chicago and New York_ and San Francisco _and_ even _beyond the borders of this nation, whose ways and beliefs may not have always been compatible with your own. But soon, these trees we have planted and nursed will bear fruit_ , and all of you will _be first in the orchard."_

_"Shortly, I will return you to your normal programming, but I hope that you will follow our progress in the days leading up to the test. Over the coming week you may see some new faces in town, including Zhang Yanli, who has championed my projects since the beginning and has been invaluable in filling out our staff, and of course my dear old friend Dr. Johnathan Bellamy, who has ably managed all of the supporting roles in Jameson Laboratory._ Interviews _with these individuals will be freely available through our website as well as the on-demand section of your local provider. And I invite you to tune in on Sunday at 11:00 PM to watch live as the prototype Rudra Engine is tested for the very first time."_

"Thank you all, and God bless."

"Hell of a stunt," said Will as Mr. Jameson's face faded from the screen. "Guy tries to pull an LBJ."

"I think you mean FDR," said Sam. "I don't know, he doesn't seem so bad."

"One piece of advice for you, little brother," said Will. "Never trust a powerful man who acts that friendly. They're always up to something."

"All right." Sam stepped back from the couch. "Oh, wait, there's something I want to show you."

Will hopped to his feet. "Is it that smart-writer thing? You got that working?"

"It works...okay. I'm still getting the bugs out."

"Then you get a new story for me?"

"Sure. Stay there, I'll get it for you." Sam disappeared down the hall for a few seconds, returning a few seconds later with several loose sheets of paper. "I sent it to the computer, but it's got a whole bunch of typos. I don't think the smart-writer likes my handwriting very much."

"The hell with the gizmo, let's see the story."

Sam passed over a few wrinkled sheets of notebook paper. "This one's a little different. It's kind of a fable, I guess, but I don't know how well it came out."

"I'll be the judge of that." Will scanned the first page. "Good start. Print me off a copy, I'll read it at work. I don't mind typos."

Sam concealed a snicker. "Come on, Will, I always give you the rough draft."

"But this could be worth a ton someday," said Will.

"Don't say that. It's just for fun." Sam tried not to blush, failing as always. "It's a gift. Seriously, it's okay."

"Cool." Will folded up the pages and stuck them into his back pocket. "Oh, I'm supposed to be at the restaurant early, so tell Mom I can't stay for dinner."

"Really?" Sam features drooped, his eyes sinking to the ground. "You have to go earlier tonight?"

"Yeah, the boss figures there's gonna be a big rush, so I have to go early for a while. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's just...you've been running around all the time. We never see you."

"I know, I've been gone a lot." Will smiled and cocked his head. "Look, I've got to get ready now, but I will make time tomorrow. Promise."

"All right," said Sam. "Thanks."

"Nothing to it." Will picked up his bags and headed to his tiny room in the back. "Remember what I told you about guys with power! Don't trust 'em!"

CHAPTER 7

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

The savage summer heat rolled into a preview of autumn as Lifebringer and his retinue made their rounds, accompanied by their new arrival and his strange fascination. For his part, Storyteller had ample opportunities to make himself useful. Though lacking for medical knowledge, he proved capable at harvesting and cataloging plant specimens, an act that appealed to his nature. When there was no harvesting to be done, he found himself assigned a collection of other tasks by Lifebringer - toting equipment, ferrying messages around camp, disposing of unsuitable supplies, standing watch, or helping in the preparation of food. At times it seemed to Storyteller as if the healer was finding tasks merely to burden him, but it hardly bothered him as long as they continued northward.

When night fell, Storyteller moved on to a special task he had assigned to himself - reciting stories by the watchfire for the entertainment of the attendants and patients. This remained his true gift, and one appreciated by those who came to the firelight even if they had to drag themselves through the dust. For his growing reputation, though, the master healer never appeared at the nightly recitation. Lifebringer led a hermit's life even at rest, sitting in isolation as he checked his notes or took inventory. In time, Storyteller would learn that this was typical behavior - Lifebringer was simply not a man for frivolity.

Lifebringer only came to the fireside on one occasion - the final night Storyteller was with the retinue. It was an evening like any other, with a small group of attendants and patients gathered for the evening's tale. Storyteller had run low on stories that his usual audience had not yet heard, so he was speaking extemporaneously, taking assorted events from his own life, filling in the gaps with drama and threading the whole thing together with flourishes of fiction.

Storyteller was so lost in his duty that he didn't notice the healer approaching the firelight. "What is this?" said Lifebringer, the curiosity in his words tinged with suspicion.

All eyes turned to Lifebringer, some of the attendants slipping silently away from the fire. "Apologies, did I wake you?" said Storyteller.

"I couldn't sleep," said Lifebringer. "I'll ask again - what is this?"

"I was entertaining your group," said Storyteller, drawing to his feet. "My nightly ritual. I consider that as much a part of my job as my more practical duties."

"Do you?" Lifebringer approached the edge of the fire. As he did, his attendants stood up and stepped aside to give him room. "I'd like a word with Storyteller. Could you give us some time alone?" The remaining attendants and patients quietly fell back into the shadows, while Lifebringer took a seat on the ground next to Storyteller. "Sit down."

"Of course." Storyteller sat down next to Lifebringer. Though he was by no means a large man, his was an intimidating presence in many ways, and the dancing shadows formed by the firelight only magnified that. "I'm sorry if I woke you. You see, one day I told a story to one of your attendants, and I think she must have spread the word."

Lifebringer gazed into the heart of the fire. "Tell me, why did you choose to adopt this skill? Why not dedicate your life to something practical?"

"Does any man truly choose his own skill?"

"He chooses what skill he refines. You have chosen to refine a strange one." Lifebringer cast a sideways glance at Storyteller. "Where did the Storyteller come from?"

"Well, I suppose...yes, I became Storyteller when we were in the shelter. There were many of small children with us, terrified, and with good cause. Their parents were gone, they lacked the maturity to grasp what was happening to the world. So I started telling them stories, to calm their fears. Simple tales, of little interest to a sophisticated mind perhaps, but just what they needed." Storyteller turned to face Lifebringer. "So I guess that I don't consider it such an impractical skill. Must something bear directly on the physical world to have merit?"

"I fail to see your logic. But that fear...that is something I know all too well." Lifebringer stroked the pin on his collar. "I was only a child when it happened \- seven, maybe eight. I can't really remember anymore. But I do remember books, books on the trades of the world before. I found an old guide on field medicine - must have been close to fifty years out of date, but there was plenty of valuable information inside." He hid his eyes beneath his hand. "I remember hearing that there was a tradition of medicine in my family. That and the pages of that guide are about the only things I can remember."

Storyteller tipped his head slightly. "There's never anything you miss quite as much, is there? My family certainly encouraged me to cultivate my talents, first my mother-"

"Please," said Lifebringer, waving his hand in Storyteller's face. "Don't act as though we're kindred spirits. Weeks on the road with you, and I still can't understand what makes you tick. And I don't think I could if I had a hundred years more."

"What's to understand?" said Storyteller.

Lifebringer stood up and began to pace around the fire. "I don't understand your demeanor. I don't understand how you can prance around, telling your little stories as though everything was fine. The world is a graveyard, and you treat it like a garden."

"I can understand your confusion," said Storyteller. "Perhaps I just have an eye for beauty."

"Beauty?" Lifebringer spoke the word as though it were going to choke him. "What beauty? You think this desolation is beautiful?"

"Beauty isn't where you are," said Storyteller. "It's all a matter of perspective. I think it's beautiful that people have survived thus far, and I think it's my duty to keep their spirits up while they rebuild. That beauty has to come from inside."

Lifebringer paused as he chewed on the notion. "That's not me anymore. Hasn't been since my first case out here."

"Tell me about it," said Storyteller, patting the ground next to him. "Tell me your story."

Lifebringer hesitated for a moment before answering with a clipped "Fine." He took a seat across from Storyteller, kneading his face as he began his account. "I hadn't been on the surface for too long, and I was in a settlement well southeast from here. I showed up just after Conqueror had passed through."

"Conqueror?" said Storyteller. "I'm not familiar with that individual."

Lifebringer laughed, the first time Storyteller had heard the sound - loud and brash, not fitting the healer. "How have you survived for this long?"

"I'm sorry," said Storyteller. "I have been gone for many years, and much has changed."

"In that case, this could well save your life," said Lifebringer. "His full title is Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, the undisputed ruler of the lower part of this territory. That desert used to swarm with brutal, murderous gangs, until Conqueror found a way to make it worse. He gathered those gangs into an army, killing the ones who wouldn't submit. Now he spends his days sitting in his fortified city, staring down at us all, sending the occasional force out to pillage and enslave. We're no more than cattle for him."

"Strange that I've never heard of him at all," said Storyteller. "I came from a shelter in the south. Why haven't I encountered this man?"

"You must have been lucky enough to leave before he took power. If you had not, you wouldn't have been allowed to leave. No one leaves." Lifebringer stared off into the wastes. "Anyone who enters his territory becomes his property. Anything he wants, he takes. Human beings not excepted."

"Then, you came to a settlement he had ruined?"

"Not quite." Lifebringer gritted his teeth, clearly struggling the pain of bad memories. "He was building his city at the time \- he was ambitious, eager to prove that he could redeem the wasteland. For that he needed craftsman and his men were fetching them, through any means available. That day, he was seeking a stonecutter - just a boy, but he'd learned well from his mason father before the disaster. When the soldiers arrived, the boy's brother and some of the other people there didn't want to let him go. So the soldiers..." He hesitated for a moment. "...By the time I arrived, there wasn't much I could do for any of them. So don't talk to me about beauty, Storyteller. There's only suffering to be found here."

"I see. You've clearly witnessed more hardship and I." Storyteller shut his eyes, dipping back into his memories for a serene moment. "Oh, that I could grant you a glimpse of what I see."

"We see the same thing," said Lifebringer.

"That's where you're wrong," said Storyteller. "Another world entirely lurks behind these eyes."

Suddenly, one of the attendants ran up the path towards the two of them. "Lifebringer! I have news from our evening guard. Someone's watching the camp."

"Really? Someone's tailing us?" Lifebringer scanned the horizon, searching frantically for any trace of movement in the darkness. "How many did you see?"

"Four, maybe five," said the attendant. "They didn't try anything, they're just sitting at the edge of camp, staring in."

"Probably just outcasts or runaways, looking to steal food," said Lifebringer. "We can deal with this. Gather everyone in the center of camp, we'll scare them off with a show of strength."

Lifebringer and the attendant ran back towards the cluster of tents, Storyteller closely in tow. "I take it you've dealt with these types before?" said Storyteller.

"The smaller gangs are usually just petty thieves. Disorganized, inexperienced..." Lifebringer darted his head about as he ran, still looking for any sign of the raiders. "You treat them just like a wild animal - make yourself look big and they'll usually back off. The real risk this far north is the more organized groups."

"Is there any chance that these men are merely the scouts for a bigger group?" said Storyteller.

"Don't talk like that," said Lifebringer. "Just do as you're told."

The retinue was massed in the center of camp, forming an unbroken ring around the watchfire. They were hardly a lethal force, these slender medics waving whatever implements they could plausibly present as deadly weapons. Yet they were an intimidating sight all the same, what with the fire twisting their forms into weird and exaggerated shapes. Their presence surpassed their strength, granting an air of menace that must have been doubly potent to some group of desperate youths looking for easy victims.

"Storyteller, do you have a weapon?" yelled Lifebringer.

Storyteller look into his satchel. "I have a knife, but I'm not sure that I'm comfortable-"

"What did I tell you? Do as you're told." Lifebringer produced a utility knife which he normally used for surgery. Though it was small in size, the dried blood made it an effective tool of intimidation. " We're probably not going to need to fight, just wave whatever you have in that air. I told you, this is about a show of strength."

"...Probably?" Ignoring his trepidation, Storyteller drew the knife. He hadn't bothered to look at it since finding it in the embattled settlement weeks before. It was actually a fine piece - lacquered oaken grip, animal horn hand guard, ornate symbols etched into the high-grade steel of the blade. Once upon a time, such a knife would have fetched a handsome price, valued for its artistic value as much as its practical use. In the new world it was little more than a shard of metal with a keen edge, no better or worse than any blade of similar size.

Gripping the knife, Storyteller peered up into the darkness. For the first time, he could see the aggressors, standing just at the edge of the firelight. There were four of them, not one of whom was more than seventeen. Each one was standing in what he took for an intimidating pose, showing off a sharpened gardening tool or a club made from the leg of a desk. Storyteller could recognize the absurdity in asking about organized violence. They were less a gang of seasoned killers than some sorry pack of boys looking to prove their worth through blind destruction.

"This is the deciding point," said Lifebringer, his knife pointed at one of the thugs. "They're trying to get us to break. Once they see that it won't happen, they'll run off and look for easier prey."

Time slowed to a crawl as the two groups stared each other down. Activity came in fits \- one of the raiders drawing near the camp with an aggressive gesture, an attendant backing off as he struggled to keep his nerves intact \- and only after drawn-out minutes of tortured silence. At length, though, the raiders wavered. One by one they withdrew from the edge of the camp just as Lifebringer had predicted, waving their armaments at the camp in a sorry attempt to save face before making a hasty retreat into the night.

Then there was a surge of movement, a kinetic flash that was at once fast and slow. The last of the raiders \- bolder than the rest, or perhaps just more desperate - charged out of the darkness, swinging his crude blade with wild abandon. Storyteller dived out of the way, barely avoiding the attack, but Lifebringer was not so lucky. The blade sliced through Lifebringer's bicep, painting the sandy soil beneath him with a fine crimson coat. A moment later, the two men collided, falling to the ground in a pile. The raider quickly scrambled to his feet, one foot on Lifebringer's back, brandishing his bloody knife.

"Whatever you're carrying, assholes!" screamed the raider, waving his blade at Lifebringer. "Bring it here where I can see it, or I kill your friend and then start in on the rest of you!"

"We don't have anything," said Lifebringer. "We're healers, not traders."

"Don't lie!" The raider's eyes darted around the camp, noting the attendants and their meager belongings. He pressed his hands to his forehead. "Oh, man, you're telling the truth?" He quickly raised his knife, cutting narrow arcs in the air. "Well, I don't care. I still have this guy, and I'll kill him if you try anything. Clear?"

Storyteller tried to size up the raider, if such a grandiose term could even apply. The boy had obviously not yet seen his sixteenth birthday. He was morbidly thin, bones and veins standing out against his sallow flesh. This was no cutthroat but an outcast ill-treated by the wastes.

Storyteller stood up, taking a single cautious step towards the two of them. "Young man, there's no need to kill anyone today."

The raider pointed his blade at Storyteller, a terrified gleam in his eye. "The hell do you know?"

"More than you think." Storyteller set his knife on the ground. "See? I am no threat to you."

"What are you doing?" grunted Lifebringer from underneath the raider's boot.

"Both of you shut up! I can't hear myself think!" The raider rubbed his temples with his free hand. "You don't know anything. You don't know what I've seen."

"True, but I do know that you are new to this world," said Storyteller. "You're only a boy."

"Boy?" The raider gestured with his knife towards Lifebringer. "Why don't I just kill him, huh? Could a boy do that, huh?"

"It doesn't take a man to kill." Storyteller took another step towards the raider, hands raised and palms open. "You came from a settlement near here, didn't you?"

"What if I did?" There was a slight trembling in the raider's hand, a relaxing of his posture.

"Please." Storyteller slowly lowered his hands to his waist. "Why did you leave?"

"Respect." The raider lowered his knife an inch. "You think I got any from those assholes in the settlement? Those people worked me like a damn slave. I had to do whatever they told me. Not anymore."

"What did they want you to do?" said Storyteller.

The raider gnawed at his fingernails. "They wanted me to carry things around. Take things to the craftsman. No one cared what I did. It didn't matter."

"You wanted to feel important. I can understand that." Storyteller edged closer. "But your pride can hurt you, too. Didn't anyone ever tell you the fable of the Rooster and the Eagle? The boastful rooster was killed and eaten by the eagle. His pride led to his destruction. Where has your pride led you?" He pointed at the raider. "Look at you. You're dying."

"I'm doing fine!" There was mist in the raider's eyes. "I don't need them!"

"Look at yourself," said Storyteller. "Look at your friends. You have to see that you need someone's help, you won't survive on your own. What future lies ahead of you?"

"What future? I don't have one anymore, no one does. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters." The raider was on the verge of tears. "I might as well kill him. It doesn't matter."

"You're not a killer," said Storyteller. "An evil man will always find a pretext for his deeds, but a decent man needs only his conscience. Now won't you put away your weapon?"

The raider lowered his knife to his waist. "What am I supposed to do? Go back? Beg them to take me in? I won't do it! I'll die first!"

"There are many things you can do," said Storyteller, walking towards the raider. "You can live here, or even work with the group. But you always, always have a choice. You can always-"

Storyteller hadn't the time to finish his sentiment before the raider fled into the darkness, leaving his knife in the settling dust in his wake. The attendants wasted no time, sprinting to the aid of their leader without as much as a furtive glance to check for some fresh ambush. Lifebringer waved them away, though, scrutinizing his own wound as though it had been delivered to another. If he felt the pain, he did not acknowledge it.

"It's not that bad." said Lifebringer, eyeing the laceration. "Bring a bandage, I can bind it myself."

An attendant fetched Lifebringer's bag and set it down next to him. "That was really clever," she said to Storyteller. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"It's not the first dangerous situation I've escaped with words," said Storyteller. "They're the only weapon I possess."

Lifebringer deftly bound the wound with his one free hand. "It was a silly risk. How could you have known what that man was going to do?" He sighed in resignation. "That was ungrateful of me. Whatever I think, what you did worked. Thank you."

Storyteller smiled and nodded in boyish fashion. "Not necessary. I was just paying you back for being my guide. I'm sure that your group has saved my life many times over."

Lifebringer climbed to his feet. "Speaking of which, your time with us is coming to an end. Nexus is a half-day's travel north of here. I hope you find what you lost."

"Thank you for your good wishes," said Storyteller. "I don't know what I would do if I lost that notebook for good."

The whisper of a smile on Lifebringer's face swiftly changed to a scowl. "Excuse me? What was it that you lost?"

"My notebook," said Storyteller. "I've had it since I went into the bomb shelter. For years, I've been spinning a tale of the old world. It's-"

Lifebringer's hand flew through the air, striking Storyteller across his left cheek. "Imbecile! You would risk your life for such a worthless trinket?"

"It's hardly worthless," said Storyteller, rubbing his face. "I have been working in that book for years, its contents are as valuable as the very air. It's irreplaceable."

"And that's worth getting killed?" said Lifebringer, wagging his finger at Storyteller. "What if you'd been wrong about that raider? What if he'd panicked and lunged for you? You'd be lying there dead over a bunch of paper and wire!"

"But it's not-"

"No more excuses," said Lifebringer. "It's time for you to wake up to reality. This isn't the old world. It isn't a civilized world. There's no place for sentimentality anymore."

"I'm...sorry." Storyteller swallowed hard. "The sun will soon be up...I'll just be going."

Storyteller quietly turned and marched down the road, all eyes tracing him as he departed. Lifebringer stared as well - Storyteller could almost feel the healer's contemptuous glare at his back, following him into the horizon longer than the eyes of the others. The sun was breaking to his side, throwing purple-tinted light onto the guidestones leading him toward his destination, but for a while his wounded ego directed his thoughts back to the camp. There was much to do, but the endless time on the trail always led his thoughts back to the trivial and personal. With luck, he would receive a respite with the recovery of his most valuable possession.
CHAPTER 8

~T-minus 102:55~

Few small towns offer much in the way of nightlife beyond the odd alcohol-fueled incident, and Patmos was certainly consistent with the norm. With the closure of the movie theater - a predictable casualty of the shift away from old-fashioned projectors - the only options were stargazing on Kiyama Hill and a little place called the Orientale. The Orientale was a bit of an institution, having sat on Icaria Street for decades without ever missing a day of service, offering a convenient dating location for those young couples who hadn't yet departed for other cities. The extravagant gilded decor and artfully dim lighting struck more sophisticated patrons as cheesy, but for people raised in a place otherwise dominated by fast food it was a welcome bit of class - one for which the owner charged a healthy premium.

The Orientale was Will's latest workplace, and the only one at which he'd maintained a position for more than a few consecutive weeks. It wasn't irresponsibility but Will's demeanor that caused problems, particularly when he was absorbed by a new project. The owner found Will's unqualified exuberance charming enough to keep him on, and this was not a problem for Will. This was hardly a dream job, but it was a step up, and it gave him a captive audience.

When Will arrived at the restaurant shortly after 5:00, it was in the usual state for that time - a scattered handful of older patrons in the dining area and the usual cast of characters propping up the bar. The bartender, a short, rough-looking woman about Will's age, pointed at Will as he entered. "You're late. Again."

"Cut me some slack, Sadie," said Will. "The boss called me in an hour early, and I'm an hour early. Can't imagine why that's necessary, look at the place."

"It's going to be a big week. With all the important people in town, she figures there will be a lot more business." Sadie slid a notepad and pen across to Will. "So get to it, all right?"

Will snatched the notepad off the counter. "Hey, I'll do it, but that's crazy. These fancy types aren't coming here. They're gonna be in some pricey bistro on Amos Street, same as all the other people who are too good for this town."

"Maybe so, but we have seen more customers the last few days. Plus, what the boss says, goes. So get on it, all right?" Sadie pointed at a booth. "You've got a customer already."

"I'm on it," said Will, grabbing a menu.

Sadie took Will by the wrist. "Oh, and remember what we discussed yesterday. None of that doomsday talk, right?"

"All right, Sadie."

"Because we've been getting complaints."

"I'll be a good boy, I promise." Will pressed a finger to his lips. "Not a word."

"I'm not defending you next time," said Sadie. "You hear me, Will? This is it."

Will didn't acknowledge Sadie's threat, one that he'd heard on an almost daily basis since beginning his work. He was off to his customer, eager to keep up his one accolade as the quickest waiter in the business. She was in one of the corner booths, an isolated spot with an extra fixture providing just enough light for her to read. She flipped the pages with such speed that Will couldn't even catch the subject matter, but it obviously offered her no difficulty. Between the dim light and the book concealing her face he could scarcely make out her appearance, save an impressive cascade of shoulder-length black hair and delicate almond eyes.

"Good evening, I'm Will and I'll be taking care of you tonight." Will placed the menu next to her. "Would you like to start with a beverage?"

The woman barely glimpsed Will, not giving him even a spare moment of reading time. "Just water for now. I'll get something else when I order."

"Very good," said Will. "And would you like to start with some bread and butter? It's complimentary. There is no charge."

"Sure. Bring out a loaf."

"Will you need much time?"

"My father's coming soon. I'll order when he does."

"Of course." Will applied a broad grin. "Your English is very good."

The woman peered up at Will with incredulity. "Excuse me?"

"You're very well-spoken."

The woman rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're not very smart, are you?"

"What do you mean?" said Will. "I was just-"

"Go away."

Will began to respond, but the words simply wouldn't come. He merely receded from the booth, hoping he wouldn't trip over anything and embarrass himself further. As he wove through the tables, a man waved for him. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, you're ready to order." Will pulled out his notepad. "All right, I'm Will and I'll take care of you. What would you like?"

"That's Will Scarborough, right?"

"...Yeah."

"The Will Scarborough that lives on Karpathos Street?"

Will lowered the notepad. "How - "

"I'll have the chicken parmigiana. And bring me a bottle of beer and a glass. Something domestic, don't care what." He smiled and handed Will his menu. "Thank you."

Will studied the menu for a moment before reluctantly taking it. "...I'll get right on it." Will stepped back to the bar, staring back over his shoulder. "Hey Sadie, you're not going to believe this. This guy- "

"What the hell did you say to Lidia?" said Sadie, thumping her fist on the counter.

"Who?"

"The woman in the corner. What did you say?"

Will threw up his hands. "I didn't say anything! And how would you even know if I had? It's not like she had time to lodge a complaint."

"I have eyes, Will. I know what it looks like when a customer is mad." Sadie leaned over the bar. "Now what did you say?"

"I don't know. She told me she was going to wait on her father and then I complimented on her English."

"Is your skull solid all the way down?" Sadie crossed her arms and threw her head back. "Do you even know who that is? That's Lidia Zhang. Zhang Yanli's daughter?"

Will snapped his fingers. "Oh! Old man Jameson's friend, right?"

"Yes, his connected friend. Well-connected, if you can grasp that."

"Hell, Sadie, you're buying into that Triad crap too?" Will stopped short of laughing. "That's a load of shit. He's a businessman."

"Sure," said Sadie. "A businessman who's been under investigation by the FBI for years."

Will's grin froze into a morbid expression. "...That doesn't mean he's guilty of anything. The Feds are assholes."

"So are you." Sadie jabbed her fist into Will's shoulder. "That women was born all of thirty miles from here and I'm guessing that she doesn't appreciate your dumb little remarks."

"Oh." Will gazed down at the bar. "Should I apologize?"

"Just try not to screw things up even more," said Sadie. "I know you don't follow the news, so let me clue you in. All these foreign technicians we have in town now? They're here because Zhang's been greasing the skids, and not always in fully legal ways. He brought all of them, all the way up to that Dr. Yang guy who's basically building the damn thing. Whether or not the other stuff is true, he gets the VIP treatment and so does his family."

"I got it."

"Do you, Will?" Sadie shook her head. "You know, I've stuck my neck out for you because I know it's been rough for you this last few years. I don't hold that against you. But it does mean that when you mess up, it's on me. You understand?"

Will flicked at the corner of a napkin holder. "Does that mean you don't want to hear about the guy who knew my name and where I live?"

"No, I don't."

Will nodded sheepishly. "...I'm gonna need a glass and a bottle of beer. Domestic."

Sadie deftly opened a bottle and set it onto a try along with a clean pint glass. "Get moving."

Will left the contents of the tray at the man's table, trying not to make eye contact with this suspiciously well-informed individual. He then proceeded to Lidia's booth, head hung low. "Sorry to interrupt, I just came to apologize. I said something stupid, and...well, I'm sorry."

Lidia stared intently at her book. "Fine."

"I'd be happy to get you something on me, just to apologize." Will pointed at the menu. "Maybe an appetizer?"

"No thanks."

"Something from the bar?"

"That probably wouldn't be a good idea." Lidia leaned back in her seat. "What I would like is some quiet time without any idiotic comments."

"I can give you that, no problem. I'm gone, I'll stay away until your dad shows up, and then I'll only listen. It's all good." Will spun and jogged back to the bar, throwing himself onto one of the stools. "I think that went well."

"You know what? I'm just going to take care of their order myself. If you go over again, there might be an incident." Sadie crossed her arms. "Will, I have a question."

Will leaned over the bar, resting casually on one elbow. "Shoot. I'm an open book."

"Yes you are," said Sadie. "Do you honestly think the world is going to end, or do you just hope it will? It would solve so many of your problems if everything went away, wouldn't it? No more getting fired, no more dead-end schemes, no more people calling you names to your face."

"Give me a little credit, Sadie."

"I wouldn't dare, Will. I've known a lot of guys like you, and the best thing for you is to hear that you have a problem."

"You say that like I'm a drunk or something."

"That might be an easier fix. Get your life together, Will. Stop playing these little games of yours and just...get things together." Sadie returned to her customers at the end of the bar. "Just think about it."

Will sighed and slouched over the bar, silently hoping to vanish into the faux-mahogany surface. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the story Sam had written for him. It was a crumpled mess, and he hadn't given himself enough time to read more than a line or two. At that moment, it may well have been the most important thing to him - but there wasn't time. There was never time, and time was fast becoming a precious commodity.

"Did I hear right? Zhang Yanli's coming by?"

Will looked over at the man sitting next to him. Even from a few feet away, Will could see nothing of this man's face. His jacket - unseasonable in such warm weather - was pulled tight around his neck and face and he rested his head on one arm, blocking Will's view. A half-finished rum and coke sat just within his reach.

"Yeah, his kid's here. She said he was coming by." Will tried to get a better look at the man, to no avail. "Wait, who are you? You know him?"

"No, I just don't want to run into anyone who might recognize me." He downed his drink in one mighty swallow and stood to leave. "The man behind us, the one who knew your name?"

Will picked up in an instant, listening with childlike fascination. "You know about that guy? Who is he?"

"I don't have a name, but I can tell you that he works for Jameson Enterprises. His job is to stop information leaks. If he's being that obvious, it means he doesn't care what you know."

"I knew it! Do you work for Jameson, too? Is that how you know?" Will lowered his voice. "Are you the one who sent the email?"

"No. And no more questions, please. Just take this much: I know Joshua. He won't do anything to you, but I can't say the same for the people who work for him." The man stood up, tugging at the collar of his jacket. "I'm trying to keep a low profile. Don't tell anyone I was here."

"Wait! I have more questions!" Will reached out for the stranger, but he twisted away and was out the door in a second. Will looked around for anyone else who could confirm what had happened, but Sadie was occupied with the regulars and the other patrons were lost in their own diversions. The man who had questioned Will earlier was gazing out the window, tracking Will in the bent reflection.

Will chuckled under his breath. "What a trip." He leaned over the bar, muttering as surreptitiously as he could while still being heard over the music. "Sadie! Over here!"

Sadie dragged herself to the edge of the bar with no small share of frustration. "What?"

"The guy who was here?"

"Yeah."

"Who was he?"

"Why? You wanna start stalking him?"

"No, it's..." Will halted as he pondered the man's words. "...Never mind, it's not important."

"Shocking." Sadie tipped her head toward the front door. "You have another customer."

"No rest for the wicked." Pushing the flurry of events into the recesses of his mind, Will turned back to the door. "Welcome to the Ori...oh."

There was a presence in the doorway that engulfed the slender figure standing there. He was no taller than Will, but he could still feel this man's shadow upon him, rooting him to the spot. The reedy beard - a good six inches in length, though composed of not more than thirty gray hairs - would have appeared comical in other circumstances, but in the artistic gloom of the Orientale it merely made him look like the dragon he surely was inside.

"Good evening," he said in a steady, staccato timber. "You are our waiter?"

Will fidgeted as he scratched around for a sentence. "You would be Mr. Yan...uh..."

"Zhang, please." He smiled in a curious way that hardly put Will's mind at ease. "I believe that my daughter is waiting for me."

"Oh...Someone else is going to take your order, actually."

"Why? You are capable, are you not?"

"Yeah...yeah, sure. This way." Will led Zhang Yanli through the room, not daring to speak lest he again invoke the family's wrath.

Lidia glanced up from her book. "What do you w...oh, father." Her expression softened at once, the book tumbling from her hands. "He's not supposed to take our order."

"Such a mystery," said Zhang Yanli. "What is the problem, xiaofeng?"

"Because he..."

The rest of Lidia's remarks vanished into a haze of unfamiliar sounds and syllables, and Zhang Yanli's remarks followed suit. Will had long since learned that it was impolite (though at times useful) to listen in, and even here, with his inability to comprehend the conversation, he still felt compelled to stand at a distance and look away, carefully avoiding looking at the Jameson agent. If he could not understand the words, he certainly gleaned the thrust of the conversation, and the daughter was on the losing side.

"You will have to excuse my daughter," said Zhang Yanli once the conversation had quieted. "She is a brilliant child, but most sensitive."

"No, it was totally my fault," said Will. "Look, I can be a real knucklehead sometimes, I say the wrong thing-"

Zhang Yanli waved him away. "Say nothing. We will require a few minutes before we place our order. I will appreciate a bit of solitude, my daughter has a close friend who is an employee of mine, and the discussion may be sensitive."

"Well, it's not like I could..." Will caught himself mid-gaffe. "...Will do. Just wave me on over when you're ready."

Will retreated from the table, covertly surveying the darkened room. "Bad trip," he muttered to himself. "Man, tonight can't end quick enough."
CHAPTER 9

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

It was at the bare edge of dawn that Nexus, the greatest trade city known in the wastes, came into view, the structures silhouetted against the maroon haze that covered the sky. Storyteller had heard of this place - what soul who had crossed within a thousand miles had not? - but he had not visited it, at least not in his present lifetime. He had seen the version in the world before, back when it was a mid-sized city of some historical and regional import, but in the new world it had the look of a true metropolis with few rivals. Large settlements had grown more common as the scouts had brought the message of humanity's endurance to the distant reaches of the wastes, but cities - true cities, like those that had once been so critical to the culture and economy of the world - were still a rarity.

There was a barricade at the outer edge of the settlement just visible in the soft morning light, pinpricks of light swarming before of it. This represented the first moment of relief Storyteller had allowed himself to enjoy since departing from Lifebringer's retinue. Raiders rarely carried lights - the darkness was itself a weapon against their targets, one that no skilled thief would abandon. These surely belonged to redeemers or traders, or perhaps even the city guard if Nexus was truly developed enough to have such a thing. Light was a sign of trust, of comfort, of civilization.

Then there came the sound of heavy boots along the path, moving toward Storyteller with remarkable speed. He caught the flash of metal - a spear point, aimed directly at his head. There was more movement from the corner of his eye, more lanterns, more spears - three at least, though Storyteller was too intimidated to count them. He raised his hands by instinct and reflex, his breath growing slower.

The man before Storyteller took a half-step forward, the better to intimidate the new arrival. "On your knees," he barked. "No quick moves, or you'll be dead before you touch dirt."

Storyteller meekly complied, his hands well clear of his body as he lowered himself to the ground. He had this man figured for the leader, though this was merely a guess and he had no earthly clue as to their identities or allegiance. From his new vantage point on the ground, he had a clearer picture of his assailants. These men were older, stronger and more controlled than the sorry group of raiders he had seen back in the wastes. Each was wielding a short-handled spear - most likely a converted farm implement of some sort - and wearing what appeared to be metal-reinforced body armor. Each carried a small lantern in his free hand. None of their equipment bore a mark that Storyteller could recognize.

"Identify yourself," said the lead guard.

"My name is Storyteller. Please, I assure you that I have nothing of interest to you."

"We'll be the judge of that." The lead guard pressed the point of his spear beneath Storyteller's chin. "Why are you traveling to Nexus?"

Storyteller could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. "...Something was stolen from me. I was told that the thief would have traveled to Nexus to trade it."

One of the other men leaned in for a closer look. "He doesn't look like a raider, does he? Too small. A real weakling."

"He's the perfect size to be a thief." Setting his lantern down, the lead guard grabbed Storyteller by the front of his garment and pulled him to his feet. "You're coming with us until we can figure this out."

The men moved into position around Storyteller - one on either side, just a stride ahead, with the leader walking with the end of his spear in Storyteller's back. The four of them marched through the stout gates of Nexus, watched the entire way by more armed men in positions of advantage. These men were clearly trained - escape was a fantasy, though Storyteller's fear was overwhelmed by his puzzlement at their behavior.

Storyteller was led into a small building just on the other side of the gate, a crude holding cell - bars made of salvaged rebar rods, secured with a simple redeemed padlock. A real thief could easily escape from the cell, though only to meet a ghastly end at the spears of his captors. In any case, the jailer took no risks and offered no mercy to his new captive. He snatched the satchel from Storyteller and shoved him into the cell, making a point of slamming the door.

Storyteller leaned against the makeshift bars. "Excuse me, how long am I to wait here?"

"Until you've been cleared." The guard pulled open the satchel and dug through Storyteller's possessions. "What is all this junk?"

"It's mine, sir," said Storyteller. "You can see that I don't have the trappings of a thief. Doesn't this clear me?"

"I see a nice big bag with just enough crap in it to fool a merchant into turning his back," said the guard. "Just what a thief would have to move his bounty."

"Then my guilt is proven by the absence of evidence?" Storyteller dabbed at his forehead. "How do I prove that I'm not a thief? Tell me what I must do."

"You'll do nothing. If you're guilty, you'll regret ever walking that path. But if you're innocent, we'll clear you. We have ways." The guard pulled out the knife. "Interesting. A traveler's tool or an assassin's weapon? You wouldn't be the first killer we've caught."

"Excuse me, how long will it take to establish my innocence?" Storyteller stepped back from the bars. "...Never mind. I'll take what comforts I can."

For the moment, Storyteller could do little but count his blessings. It was not his first time in captivity, and this particular cell was certainly better than some. He was alone, for one - settlements with a more despotic or fearful bent were known to have lockups that groaned with captives, so many that it was an effort to breathe, and some of whom were genuinely dangerous men. Here, there was ample space to relax after his long trek, even if there was little else to do without his notebook. Sleep was a possibility, though a remote one given the noise of the road just outside the cell. There was only time, and only waiting.

The wait would not be a long one, though - not even an hour passed before a new person entered the holding area. She was slender but wiry and strongly-built, the appearance of someone who had been well-forged by time in the untamed wastes. By Storyteller's estimate, she was scarcely more than fifteen or sixteen - still just a child in the old world, but experienced by the standards of the new. Her dirty blonde hair was cut short, most likely by her own hand or that of a fellow traveler with a work knife. She wore a well-used duster over a denim outfit \- no part of which quite fit her right - and carried a stout walking stick.

"Turnkey, a moment?" The woman gestured to the guard, and the two stepped aside, speaking in hushed tones. Storyteller pressed his face against the bars, though he could hear nothing but the occasional stray syllable. A minute later, the woman approached the cell and looked at Storyteller. "Your name?"

"Storyteller."

"Did you come here to recover something you lost?"

"Yes."

"And what was it?"

"A notebook."

The woman nodded and glanced toward the guard. "This one is wanted elsewhere. I'll take him."

"Very well," grumbled the guard. "If a trader of Baroness's caliber has him cleared then I guess I'm obliged, but I'd just as soon he leave that cell with a spear in his back." He unlocked the cell door and tossed the satchel at Storyteller's feet. "You've been freed. Go on."

"Of course." Storyteller was stunned, though not paralyzed enough to let a perfectly good opportunity for liberty slip away. Hesitantly, he stepped out of the cell, the door slamming shut behind him. "And you are?"

"Pathfinder."

"The name of a trail scout," said Storyteller. "But why have you come for me?"

"All part of my duty," said Pathfinder. "You called it. I usually scout out safe trails for the redemption companies, but from time to time I'm sent out to find people. I was ready to spend several seasons running you down, but lucky me, you had the courtesy to stroll right into my domain."

"Someone wanted to find me?" said Storyteller, cramming his belongings back into the satchel.

"Someone with clout."

"A trader, then? It seems I have a reputation, after all."

"That you do." Pathfinder sized him up. "You're not quite how I imagined. I pictured a real magic man. Figured you'd be wearing robes and charms."

"Alas, I am nothing more than a wanderer," said Storyteller. "Yet you've heard of me as well? I've never so much as set foot in Nexus."

"It's a trade center. Everything ends up here eventually, information included." Pathfinder hoisted her walking stick over one shoulder. "I'm guessing you've never been here, right? Come on. I'll give you a quick tour."

Pathfinder led Storyteller down the broad main avenue that led into Nexus proper. The path had been carved through what had once been neighborhoods, the rubble cleared away and salvaged for the building material and the few surviving structures abandoned to the squatters who flooded the city. It led to a second, smaller barrier, marking what appeared to be a marketplace. Towering over the area was a partially collapsed dome, the remnant supported by a network of scaffolds.

"Here it is, the trading heart of the region," said Pathfinder, a certain weariness behind her words. "This used to be a city called Springfield, but no one calls it that anymore. I don't think most people even remember."

"And yet you do," said Storyteller. "Did you visit Springfield in the old age?"

"...Maybe? I was just a little kid, I don't remember much, no one does. But rumor has it that you remember a lot of things."

"Such is my curse, it seems."

"I'd ask you more, but we'll have to make this quick. My client isn't used to waiting." She pointed up at a nearby ruins, the bombed-out walls buzzing with activity.

"That's the Black Quarter. It's home to all the redemption groups that collect the stuff that gets traded here. It's also where I stay when I'm not on the trail. Do you know much about the scouts?"

Storyteller scratched his head. "I know of Wayfinder, but beyond that I'm in the dark."

"Really?" Pathfinder rested on her walking stick. "I thought only traders knew that one."

"I suppose I feel a sort of kinship with the man," said Storyteller. "We both sought to redeem the wastes with knowledge. Wayfinder did it with maps and expeditions, and I...well, I shouldn't compare myself to him, but I at least aspire to accomplish the same through culture, through art."

"I can see some similarities," said Pathfinder.

"Whatever happened to Wayfinder, exactly?" said Storyteller.

"Died in the northern wastes. He kept pushing and pushing, all the way into Scrapland and beyond, and one day he didn't come back." Pathfinder bowed her head and sighed. "Fact of life if you do this. The most successful scouts end up as famous corpses."

"A grim thought." Storyteller gazed up at the structure, reaching for a way to change the subject. "Amazing how they've recovered all of these buildings."

"The area up ahead is the Common Market," said Pathfinder, nodding towards an open patch of cracked concrete dotted with tents. "It's the open part of the Nexus market district. Anyone can come here, set up shop, and start trading. Scrap, food, services - anything within reason. There aren't many rules on what you're allowed to sell. Of course, it does attract thieves."

"I gather that your city has little mercy for thieves," said Storyteller with a grin.

Pathfinder didn't return his smile. "Now's a good time to understand how justice works in Nexus. The system is effective \- not always fair, but effective - but it's not exactly formal. If a thief or some other criminal gets caught in the Common Market, his punishment is left to the person who caught him. Most people aren't too rough, but it's rare for a thief to leave without a few bruises."

"And, if a thief is caught somewhere else?" asked Storyteller, thinking back to his earlier encounter on the road.

Pathfinder ignored the question, pointing towards the domed building. "That's the Baron's Market. That's where they trade rare items or goods in large quantities. It's not open to just anyone - you want it, you have to either prove that you have something worth trading, or get permission from someone who's been inside before." She nodded to a group of men passing through the gates toting hefty crates, all of them sporting short capes in unusually bright colors and marked with distinct patterns. "Those are the redeemers. The symbols they're sporting are for their trading companies."

"I've crossed paths with the redemption teams before, yes." Storyteller looked at a group of armed men standing near the entrance. "And who are they?"

"Mercenaries, another part of our system. You've already dealt with them. Some of them work for the redemption companies, some are hired by traders. Those ones for the people who run Baron's Market. If you can feed and house one of them, he'll do pretty much anything you want. Same goes for most people here, actually." Pathfinder pointed to another ruined structure just left of the Baron's Market. "And over there is the Red Quarter. That's the entertainment district."

"Entertainment?" Storyteller perked up, his eyes fastened to the new building. "Then they're preserved the arts here? Music, or drama perhaps?"

Pathfinder cast her eyes down. "The entertainment that appeals to the people here is more brutal than that."

Storyteller's bemused smile vanished in an instant. "You speak of bloodsports? Fighting?"

"The people who come to Nexus are pretty jaded," said Pathfinder. "Happens when you've been wandering around the wastes for long enough. The big-time traders are too civilized for that, but the rest? Violence is about all that excites them. The ones who've never been victims themselves are the greatest fans."

"I gather from your tone that you have no love for Nexus?"

"I hate this place." Pathfinder crossed her arms and stared off into the distance. "This isn't civilization, just a bunch of people acting like they're rebuilding the world while they try to recapture old-fashioned greed."

Storyteller put on a thin smile. "You're more of a wanderer, I can tell. Any excuse to stay on the road, in the wilds, anywhere but here. I can certainly understand that."

"I wish I could be like you," said Pathfinder. "Unfortunately, there aren't that many places where my skills are worth much, so I guess I'm stuck with it. And I'm definitely stuck here until I conclude my business."

"Meaning me?" said Storyteller. "I've been meaning to ask about that, actually. When you saw me at the cell, you seemed to know a lot about me. How did you figure it all out? Have you been tracking me?"

"All that information was from the woman who was looking for you," said Pathfinder. "Speaking of which, I should take you to her. Not to repeat myself, but she's really not the patient type."

Pathfinder guided Storyteller away from the markets and towards another cluster of ruined buildings set apart from the crowds. These resembled the squatter's buildings at first glance, but were considerably cleaner and showed signs of recent maintenance and even expansion. Pathfinder walked to the door of the first building and held it open, gesturing for Storyteller to enter.

"Baroness is waiting," said Pathfinder. "She'll explain everything you need to know."

"Baroness?" said Storyteller, glancing hesitantly into the building. "An unusual moniker."

"She chose it herself. Gives her an opportunity to show off her wealth every time her name is spoken." Pathfinder tilted her head towards the entrance. "Go on."

"And my understanding is that this concerns my notebook?"

"She can help you, but she's going to ask..." Pathfinder trailed off with a wince. "...Just be careful, traders are known to ask for more than what you'd want to give up."

The space inside was positively opulent, at least by the standards of the wasteland. The center of the room was dominated by an odd collection of what had, before the fires and looting, been expensive furniture - a ripped leather couch, a well-worn Queen Anne chair, a mahogany table with a broken leg - all arranged on a scorched area rug. The walls were lined with shelves, each one bearing a collection of random bric-a-brac, mingling the tacky with the precious with little distinction between them. The room had clearly been designed to imitate a rich man's parlor from some distant era by a person with a dim recollection of the trappings. It was a reasonable approximation - the only thing that ruined the illusion was the damage to every item in the room.

Storyteller studied a shelf of clay figurines. "Someone went to a great deal of trouble to rebuild this place."

"Don't be too impressed," said Pathfinder, running a finger along one of the shelves. "This building used to belong to the head of a very rich family - his apartment and office for when he was in town. During the catastrophe, Baroness's family squatted in the apartment. They parents were eventually killed by raiders while out scavenging, but Baroness managed to hang on to the building." Pathfinder walked over to an inner door and rapped on the frame. "She's a storyteller in her own right, though, too proud to give the honest story."

"I can understand that," said Storyteller, taking a seat on the couch. "One does whatever it takes to ease the pain."

Pathfinder waved a finger at Storyteller. "That's not...well, you'll understand soon enough." She knocked on the door again. "Ma'am? I've brought him."

"Well, why didn't you mention that sooner?" The door flew open, and a young woman swept out into the parlor. She was clad in a mismatched collection of what had been designer clothes in the old world, assembled from an eclectic assortment of designers and styles. Her hands were covered in rings, ranging in value from fine antiques to worthless pieces of prop jewelry. Every move she made was wonderfully exaggerated, every step calculated to draw attention, every gesture transforming into a grand flourish. She gasped loudly as her eyes fell on Storyteller. "Is this the man we have sought?"

"It's him," said Pathfinder. "He checks out."

"Marvelous!" Baroness glided into the center of the room. "Oh, I've heard so very much about you, dear. Your genius is well known in my circles, you know. It's nothing short of an honor to have you in my presence."

"Thank you," said Storyteller. "I had no idea that I enjoyed such a reputation. I am still a stranger wherever I roam."

Baroness rolled her eyes. "Yes, there are so few these days who really appreciate the finer things in life. Of course, you can see that I am different." She waved her hands across the room. "My parents inducted me into to a world of culture and taste. Even with the end of days looming before them, they had the foresight to preserve just a slice of the refined world for future generations to enjoy. One day, I shall regale you with tales of my own concerning their wisdom and refinement."

Storyteller gave Pathfinder a swift look, which she answered with a smirk. "That's fantastic, ma'am, and I hope you will share your tales with me someday. Still, and I don't mean to be rude, but I don't quite understand why you asked for me."

"I've been thinking of you ever since I saw the notebook," said Baroness.

Storyteller leaped to his feet. "Then you possess my notebook?"

Baroness smiled and walked over to a low bookshelf, filled with an odd assortment of fire-damaged books and notebooks. "Examine, dear Storyteller, the very soul of my collection. Books, an especially rare treasure. These are my pride and joy - the collected literature of this world and that which came before." She plucked a familiar leather-bound notebook from the shelf, holding it gently in her spectral fingers. "Such a fascinating record, simply fascinating, at least from the tiny morsel of text that I've allowed myself to savor. When this most precious item appeared in Baron's Market, I knew I had to own it. They read just a bit at the auction, just the smallest fraction, a dribble of syllables, and when I heard them? My world positively grew, dear. A true struggle to claim it, but well worth the battle, I think."

"How did it come to be in the market?" said Storyteller.

Pathfinder stepped forward, resting her hand on Storyteller's shoulder. "I forgot that part. When a thief is caught, the settlement returns all stolen property. But if the thief was carrying things that don't belong to anyone in town, they go up for auction."

"That exotic tigress from Great Lotus made an impressive play, but she wasn't quick enough. Perhaps next time she'll deign to leave her perch in Middle Market and come in person, hm?" Baroness threw back her head and laughed. "The other traders are positively green that they missed the opportunity, especially Collector - you know how he is, Pathfinder dear, he simply can't stand to lose. But then, he would have kept it to himself, that covetous man, and I have no intention of doing the same."

Storyteller extended his hands, willing away the anticipatory trembles. "Well, I am forever in your debt for finding this."

"Yes, you are." Baroness tucked the notebook under her arm. "But we'll discuss that later. For now, I have a small gift - a token of my dearest admiration. Come, Pathfinder. We head for Red Quarter."

"No thanks, ma'am" said Storyteller. "Pathfinder has told me of this place. I have no interest in partaking in that kind of event."

Baroness winched her smile tighter. "Nor did I. This is not a place for cultured men to tread, and certainly no place for a proper, refined lady. But there is something I feel you should see, something that may set your mind at ease."

Storyteller pondered the offer, his eyes fixed on the notebook. "Perhaps...you will return my notebook at the conclusion?"

"Why, of course!" crowed Baroness. "And then you'll have to do something for me. A reasonable favor, dear, nothing beyond your powers."

"How can I say no to such generosity?" said Storyteller.

"Splendid!" Baroness clapped her hands, her rings sending a metallic echo through the room. "Pathfinder? Lead the way."

"Yes, ma'am." Pathfinder leaned over to Storyteller. "You're not going to like this," she whispered. "Not one bit."
CHAPTER 10

_~_ T-minus _82:23~_

Thursday the 13th was an unseasonably cool day with skies of uniform steel gray that groaned and buckled with the weight of a looming storm. The Jameson camera arrays swept back and forth over barren streets, safeguarding the community from packs of squirrels and the occasional food wrapper carried by the cutting wind. Whatever negative effect this threat of rain may have had on the community, whatever dampening of the usual commercial activity, there was at least one person uncowed by nature's threat. Walking boldly through the weather was Will Scarborough, messenger bag stuffed with fliers, marching from shop to shop in an attempt to recruit anyone - owner or passerby - into his campaign. There were few takers - Will's thoroughly established status as a "colorful" local character certainly didn't make it easy to take him seriously - but each rejection only filled him with vigor for the next attempt.

Will's campaign had taken him halfway down Icaria Street when he arrived at "The House," a local independent coffee shop. The House had always sidestepped the more gratuitous hipster cliches, shunning the usual eclectic minimalism for a more rustic décor, but it still had the expected trappings - indie music, a surfeit of power outlets, and an oversized corkboard hung just where everyone could see it. There were a few people around at that time of day - a young couple on a day-after date, a cluster of foreign workers from somewhere in Asia (Will didn't dare speculate, not after the night before), a pair of young women idly chatting about this and that, a frustrated writer banking on his latte being enough to buy a day's worth of internet access, and a scowling, diminutive man in the emerald blazer of a Jameson Lab VIP.

"Tommy!" Will neared the counter with a wad of bills already in hand. "Chai latte in a to-go cup. And throw in a big cookie. Something with more than one type of chocolate."

"You got it, Will." Tommy flashed a boyish smile as he turned to prepare the beverage. "Gosh, does this mean you're off the diet?"

Will flipped a ten dollar bill onto the counter. "Diets, who needs em?" He nimbly flicked a five into the tip jar. "For your troubles. And keep the change."

"Wow, thanks!" said Tommy. "If it was anyone else being so nice, I'd think they wanted a favor."

"You're psychic, Tom," said Will, sliding a flier onto the counter. "I've got a little promotion in mind, something big. You mind if I add it to the board?"

"The board's for everyone, you know that."

"And if I wanted to leave a stack of these on the counter? Maybe you could send a little attention my way?"

"That's a maybe, Will," said Tommy. "The owner's a little touchy about what we keep up here. Mostly stuff for his friends, their projects."

"But you'll give it a think, right? I won't blame you if you say no."

"All right, Will. I'll have a look."

"Cool." Will edged away from the counter with a handful of fliers crumpling in his grip. The corkboard was in terrible need of ablating. It had the expected collection of job ads, sales pitches and inside jokes, but the board was layers deep and some of the fliers were old - an ad for a New Year's Eve show, guitar lessons from someone who'd moved out of town. Will discarded the most obsolete ones and shuffled the rest around until his own flier had its own special perch, dead-center in the board amid a swirl of paper:

DANCING AT THE BRINK OF THE APOCALYPSE.

The end of the world is coming. The place? Patmos. Don't miss the world's last party or opportunity to witness the biggest event in human history! Barbecue, liquor, and soft drinks will be provided. Live it up beneath the ultimate light show!

Sunday, April 16th, starting at 8:00 P.M.

Kiyama Hill, overlooking Jameson Labs

No cover, all admittance

Miss it at your own peril!

"Uh...Will?" Tommy rapped on the counter, drawing Will's attention away from his task. "Is this for real?"

"Which part?"

"Well...all of it. I don't want to be rude here, but golly, the end of the world is a strange gimmick."

"Oh, it's no gimmick. And it's very real. Just you watch." Will threw out a thumb's up, the gesture rising before a mischievous grin. "So? You have room for a few on the counter?"

"Geez, Will, I don't think the owner would like that. It's a little dark."

"I don't think it's dark at all. Man, when did everyone lose that spirit of grandeur?"

"I couldn't tell you that." Tommy placed Will's order before him. "But I hope you have a good day anyway."

Will slapped his forehead. "Man, this is not my day."

"Excuse me." The man in the green Jameson blazer delivered Will a firm nudge. "I hate to eavesdrop-"

"Hey, don't be ashamed, we all do it." Will leaned in closer to the man - his was a familiar face, though not from town. "You want to know what I'm up to, right?"

"I want to know what the fliers are for. Is this a party?"

"It's _the_ party, friend. Biggest one there'll ever be."

"Can I take a closer look?"

"Sure, take one. I've got plenty." Will slid a flier over to his new confidant. "Say, you look really familiar. Have I seen you interviewed? Are you someone important?"

"More so than you can comprehend," he muttered as he scanned the flier with a joyless brow. Once he was finished, he glared back at Will for a moment, grabbed his phone and headed for the door. "Excuse me."

"Go ahead and tell your friends, everyone's welcome! We're happy to have Jameson guys, believe me. I don't hold anything against you."

Granting himself a brief respite from his grand project, Will sank into a lumpy chair in the corner with his snack. He considered his beverage first, inhaling deeply of the aroma before quaffing half of it in a single shot, letting out an exaggerated sigh as he swallowed it. As he unwrapped his cookie, he glanced at the women sitting a few feet away. Contrary to his first thought, they weren't having a casual chat - this was formal, more like an interview. Will listened closely, a pair of fliers clutched in one hand, waiting for a moment of air to make his introduction.

"Your father doesn't actually have a formal position in the company, but I notice Jameson mentions him a lot. Could you clarify what exactly it is he does? If you're free to talk about it, I mean."

"Everyone asks me that question. My father hasn't exactly been open with me these last few years. I know he helped some engineers from Shanghai get work visas, but beyond that you know exactly what I do."

"Those two are friends from way back, right?"

"Ever since father snuck out of the old country and went to San Francisco."

"So have you met his son? He's been absent for a long time, and everyone wants to know what he thinks about all of this. I think we were in high school together, but I never met him."

"Yes, we...I've met him. I don't know any gossip, if that's what you're digging for."

"...Right. As long as we're talking about people, I'm wondering if you knew a man named Roderick-" The woman stood up, staring straight at Will. "What are you doing here?"

"The girl from the diner...Sara, right? Hey!" Will smiled broadly and pulled out a flier. "These things came out great! Oh, didn't mean to interrupt. This is...?"

Sara did her best to conceal a grimace. "This is Lidia Zhang. I'm interviewing her for-"

Lidia's expression hardened immediately. "You again?"

"Well isn't it a small world!" said Will. "I meet two new people yesterday, and they're both in the same place."

Sara pointed at Will. "He's the guy who was bothering you at the Orientale?"

"I still have to make that up to you," said Will. "How about a cup of tea on me?"

"My nausea is coming back," said Lidia, pressing her face into both hands.

"They got herbal. You know, a good peppermint tea can really settle your stomach. Best thing." Will reached for his wallet. "I will be right back."

"Excuse me for a second." Sara grabbed Will by the arm and dragged him to the door. "Is this a joke, Scarborough? Are you following me now?"

"Oh, it's coincidence," said Will. "It's a small town. There aren't that many places to be, and everyone has to be somewhere, right?"

"I can't believe this. It was bad enough when you eavesdropped on me and Zoe, but now you're about to ruin another interview. If I lose one more subject because of you, I swear I'll burn you alive." Sara took a deep breath, preparing for the kill. "I was going to let this slide, Will, but enough's enough. Last night, I called up a few old friends, asked about you, and boy did they tell me some stories about Will Scarborough."

"I don't know what they told you-"

"Oh, I'll tell you, Will, I'll tell you everything," Sara spoke in an angry whisper, barking at the perfect volume to draw attention from even the most polite of onlookers. "They told me that you were a screw-up. That you barely squeaked through high school with a 1.4 GPA. That you got fired from your first job after ten days. From your second job after two weeks. That you had a nice chunk of change from your survivors benefits and you blew it all in less than six months on scam investments and doomed personal projects. You're a loser, Will, and you're not going to make me a loser too."

Will dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment before answering. "If that's how you feel-"

"It is." Sara jabbed her finger at the door. "Get out."

"I wasn't going to do anything."

"Well, don't do it outside." Sara pushed open the door. "Don't you have fliers to hang?"

"Yes, I most certainly do." Will shoved a flier into Sara's hand. "Take one. Maybe one of your subjects would be interested in some free beer and barbecue."

"Fine." Sara waved at the door with the flier. "Now move."

Will crammed the entire cookie into his mouth and traipsed through the door, his chai latte leading the way. There wasn't time to nurse a wounded ego - plus, hadn't Sara done him a favor? There was no time to chat, not with a bag full of fliers and a strategy in mind. Downtown was only the start - there were the residential neighborhoods to cover, the apartment buildings, the ritzy salons in the new part of town. The town was on pause as it waited for the rain to come, and there was no better time to take care of needed business.

A pair of police officers were waiting outside as Will emerged, one of whom approached with a granite expression. "Excuse me, sir, can we have a moment?"

"Uh...okay." Will stepped out to the sidewalk, silently cursing the delay that was to come. "What do you need?"

"Are you William Scarborough?"

"Yes. Did I do something wrong?"

"Can we see some ID?"

"ID? I'm on foot. You need a license to walk now, or something?" Will laughed, but swiftly clamped his jaw shut when the officer didn't reply in turn. "...Seriously, what's the issue?"

The officer extended his hand. "Don't make this difficult, sir."

"Okay." Will handed over his wallet. "You'll excuse me if I don't get it. You know, because of the beverage."

The officer opened the wallet, eyeballed Will's driver's license and handed it back. "We've received some complaints. It seems you've been harassing employees and patrons at some of these businesses."

"Harassing? I'm handing out fliers." Will dug into his bag and withdrew the remaining fliers. "See? Just advertising a little get-together." Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of the Jameson Labs employee leaning against the side of the building. "Look, he knows. He took one, isn't that right?"

"Calm down, sir," said the officer. "We've received complaints. If I wanted to, I could arrest you for disturbing the peace-"

"Are you kidding?" said Will. "That's like if I send in a bomb threat, isn't it? Or start a fight or something like that?"

"...and confiscate those fliers as a public nuisance," continued the officer, ignoring Will's protests. "However, if you dispose of those fliers and promise to stop your harassment, we'll be willing to let it slide with a warning this time."

"What are you talking about?" Will threw up his arms. "Did they get rid of the First Amendment when I wasn't looking?"

Both officers stepped back and reached for their belts. "Put your hands on your head. Now."

"What are you doing?" said Will. "I don't have a weapon. All I have is this tea drink."

The first officer lifted the flap on his holster. "I won't ask you again. Hands on your head."

"All right, Officer Finn, that's enough." The lab employee stepped away from the building and approached the officers. "Don't shoot him, that's a mess we don't need. Besides, this one's clearly a little soft in the head."

"Yes, Mr. Bellamy." The officer slid his hand away from the holster, keeping it on his belt should he need to make a move.

"Thanks for that." Will looked at his savior. He was short man - easily two heads below Will, if not more - with pale skin and a head of thick black hair. His eyes were hauntingly intense, with the kind of piercing gaze one might feel carving through the skin on the back of the neck. "Holy shit, that's where I saw you! Aaron Bellamy, I should have known. Didn't recognize you with the jacket and all. Remember me? I was in the audience watching you at-"

"Shut it," snapped Aaron. " Don't get chummy. The sole reason you're still breathing is because it would be too much of a headache for me if you were dead."

"Hey, that's fine by me," said Will. "Any day I end alive is a good one."

"Your cute and stupid act isn't going to fly with me." Aaron pulled out the crumpled remains of the flier and waved it in the air in the general area of Will's face. "Now what is this shit?"

"A...flier?" Will scratched his head. "I don't get what you mean."

"This end of the world bullshit," said Aaron. "Where did that come from? Huh? You're clearly not bright enough to dream this up on your own, so someone gave you this idea. So who was it? Some media fearmonger? A disgruntled lab worker?"

"I don't know," said Will. "I mean, it was an anonymous email."

"An anonymous email."

"Yeah. It had a bunch of technical stuff with it, too, but I didn't get any of it."

"An anonymous email." Aaron grit his teeth, clearly trying his hardest not to scream. "All right. I'll deal with this. But first things first." He swung out his open hand. "Give me the fliers."

"No way!" Will leaned forward, looking down at Aaron. "I spent a lot of money on these, and I don't have time to get another order printed up!"

Aaron removed a stun gun from inside his blazer. "Back off, fat boy, this isn't a fight you can win. Now, if I wanted to, I could have these officers arrest you for resisting. They'd have all the proof they'd need." Aaron pointed the stun gun at one of the cameras, which was aimed directly at Will and flashing a small blue light. "Four high-ranking Jameson Lab employees - the three manning those cameras plus the one standing in front of you - will swear that you were acting erratic and the police had to restrain you by force. The recording we send to the station will back that up. You might beat the charge, but some unfortunate computer glitches will assure that you stay in lock-up until after Sunday night. So, you can hand me the fliers, or we can take them from you." He extended his hand. "Well?"

Will glared back at the coffee shop as best as he could without visibly turning his head. Several of the patrons were gathered, their gadgets leveled at the fracas. "I've got witnesses, too. And video."

"You sure?" said Aaron with a hint of malicious whimsy. "Check your phone. Go on."

Images of bullets flying through the air flickered through Will's mind as he reached into his pocket. The phone awoke exactly as normal, but he was greeted with an odd sight when he turned on the camera. There was no picture to be seen - no police, no Aaron Bellamy, no coffee shop - just a black screen with the Jameson Enterprises logo and the words THIS AREA OFF LIMITS TO AUDIO/VIDEO RECORDING in garish green system font.

"The world sees what I want them to see," said Aaron. "Got it?"

"You can do that too, huh?" Will glared down at Aaron for several seconds before sullenly reaching into his bag, removing the rest of the fliers and handing them over. "Fine. You win."

"Right." Aaron waved the stack of fliers at Will. "You people. You depend on the work of the scientist every day of your life, and you still act like a bunch of frightened witch-burners." He nodded to the officers. "All right, we're done here."

Will stood motionless as Aaron and the officers departed, counting each breath like they were in limited supply. Moments later, the door to the house opened and Sara and Lidia stepped out onto the sidewalk. "What was that about?" said Sara.

"Oh, the head of Jameson Lab security shook me down for my fliers" Will flashed an okay sign. "Joke's on him, though. I only brought half of them with me."

"That narcissistic thug." Lidia took out her phone. "I'll make some calls. The last thing we need is that freak ruining things with these power games of his."

"Are you okay?" Sara shook her head in dismay. "I knew Bellamy was disturbed ever since Ed Page and that Trivia Master shit, but this is entirely too much."

"Hey, I'm cool," said Will. "I didn't get shot, I still have a big stack of fliers, and very soon I'm going to pick up my historical preservation chamber."

"Your what?" said Sara.

"Just a little personal project of my own," said Will. "You'll see."

"How are you not more shaken up by this?" said Sara.

Will tipped his head to one side and the other. "...I guess I don't want to miss the party."

"I'm..." Sara rubbed her face. "...I'm sorry I called you a loser."

"It's okay," said Will. "There's plenty that can happen to someone that's worse than a little name-calling. Lots worse."
CHAPTER 11

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

The Red Quarter of Nexus was a particularly grotesque thing, a festering scar running through the ruin, a tumescent mass magnifying the ugliness of the surrounding land. Whatever building had once stood there was gone save a semicircular outer wall separating the Quarter from the rest of the settlement, granting the rest of the settlement the gift of merciful ignorance. Few seemed to take advantage of this mercy, though, as the narrow footpaths running through the malignance were choked with a steady stream of people passing each way. Scarcely less awful than the sight was the sound, which gave no doubt to what was going on behind the dividing wall. Even from a distance, the screams of pain and the visceral sounds of combat could be heard with perfect clarity.

Pathfinder - a faint, scarcely suppressed look of disgust on her face - led Baroness and Storyteller down one of the Quarter footpaths. Storyteller could barely tear his eyes from his notebook, held tightly in Baroness's spindly gilt fingers. From time to time, he would steal a glimpse at the Quarter wall, his stomach turning over at the thought of the grim spectacle transpiring within.

As they neared the wall, Storyteller hesitated. "Ma'am, I must again protest. I have no interest in seeing this."

"I can scarcely blame you. It's a truly ugly thing. But ugliness is part and parcel of beauty, is it not? And this beastly affair serves a vital purpose." Baroness took a moment to gaze out over the knot of people crowded around the entrance. "An impressive turnout today. It seems the even the savagery of a late summer day can't discourage the people of this town from their duty."

"I fail to see why this pleases you," said Storyteller. "Why would someone with a passion for culture want to encourage such a barbarous kind of entertainment?"

"Entertainment?" Baroness laughed, a dainty yet throaty noise that felt more than a little affected. "Pathfinder's given you the tour, I see, and her commentary to boot. She is an exceptional tracker, but I'm afraid she has little regard for our system of justice."

"Justice?" said Storyteller. "How does this violence serve justice?"

"Isn't violence a part of justice?" Baroness turned her head back to the city. "You know, Storyteller, ours is not a perfect place. As wondrous as Nexus is, we lack many of the features needed for a true system of order, such as those we once enjoyed. There are no penitentiaries, no places of rehabilitation. Our discipline must be meted out on the spot. It must be true, it must be fair, and it must be free of remorse."

"Please," said Storyteller, eyes still fastened to the notebook. "I thank you for all you've done, but I must be on my way."

Baroness held up the notebook. "This is the world to you, isn't it?"

"It is more valuable than you can possibly know, like a fragment of my very soul," said Storyteller. "I have little to offer a woman of means, but if you name your price, I shall deliver it to you."

Baroness grinned as she took in the pathetic visage before her. "Oh, I've a proposition for you, one that concerns this rarest of items. But not until after your surprise."

"Proposition?" said Storyteller. "But-"

"Not yet, wanderer." Baroness tucked the notebook under her arm and gestured to a small corridor guarded by mercenaries. "The exhibition first. Come, let's not waste time with the proles. We have our own route."

Storyteller planted his feet, but Pathfinder grabbed him by the arm, urging him onward. "I don't want to go any more than you do, but she's running the game," she said.

"What does she mean when she speaks of justice," said Storyteller. "What have you not told me?"

"Come on, let's keep moving." Pathfinder followed Baroness, holding Storyteller's arm. "This is what happens when the mercenaries catch a criminal. They get a choice - death on the spot, or what's going on in there. The people who run this place think the spectacle has a corrective effect."

"Because it does, dear. It does." The mercenaries stepped aside as Baroness approached the corridor. "Can you hear? That is the sound of moral education, of men and women learning to disdain evil in all its forms. The sound of wasteland children turning into upstanding citizens. Pathfinder may sneer at this system, and it is hardly an ideal system, but it is a highly effective one, I think you'll find." She waved for Storyteller. "I believe that our surprise is about ready. Shall we?"

One of the mercenaries opened an unseen door and led the group inside. The door opened onto a dark, partially collapsed passage, lit solely by what sickly beams of sunlight were bold enough to seep through the masonry cracks. The mercenary lit a small lantern and led through the passage. "You might be a little late, ma'am. It sounds like the exhibition is coming to an end."

"That's perfectly fine," said Baroness. "The full process is hardly important. It was the conclusion that I wanted my guest to see."

A minute later, they emerged into the inner Quarter - an arena of sorts, Romanesque in its design but far more primitive. There was a battleground built around the foundation of a long-since salvaged building, ringed by low wooden barricades. A ring of people surrounded the barricades, blood roiling behind their eyes, screaming epithets at the men within. The passage had led to a platform raised several feet above the surrounding land, giving Storyteller a perfect view into the arena. From the fresh blood decorating the dirt, it seemed as though the latest round had concluded and justice - or some brutal simulation of it - had been done..

"Impeccable timing." Baroness pointed into the arena. "Take a look at that man, Storyteller. Look at his face, or what remains of it. Is it familiar? Does he summon any memories?"

Storyteller knelt and leaned over the lip of the platform. A mercenary was dragging a man out of the arena by his ankles - from the way he twitched it was a struggle to determine if he was alive or dead, but he was certainly far closer to the latter. He had a scraggly beard and dirty hair, but aside from that he was barely even recognizable as a human being. His face was dotted with shallow gouges and bruises, spots where a blunt spear had struck his flesh over and over again. One of his wrists was shattered and hung limply at an unnatural angle, the jagged bone standing in relief against his skin. His legs, too, were scored with lacerations so deep that his starved muscles were visible beneath. As Storyteller studied the poor soul, using all his vigor to push out the images of this man's brutalization, he realized why Baroness had brought him to the Red Quarter.

"Dear God," said Storyteller, fighting off a wave of nausea. "It's him. The man that robbed me on the road."

A satisfied smile graced Baroness's face. "Indeed. We caught him in the city with your notebook in his possession."

Storyteller recoiled from the sight. "You would do such a vile thing in my name? No...You will not make me party to such barbarity."

"Shed no tears for this man, Storyteller," said Baroness. "He's a greater monster than you know. As a matter of fact, his tenure in the pit had nothing to do with you. He attempted to rob a young woman in the Common Market and when she resisted, he beat her viciously. Most likely, she'll never walk normally again. If he survives this, he'll never walk normally again, either. You see? Justice."

"Yes, I see," said Storyteller. "But I, too, see the truth that's beneath these tales of pragmatic justice that you've spun for me. You despise criminals, but none of you have it in you to take a life. That's what this place gives you. It lets you vent your lust for vengeance while keeping your hands clean."

"Perhaps you're right," said Baroness. "You are perceptive as well as talented, Storyteller. We will enjoy your company greatly."

"You have no intention of returning my property, do you?" said Storyteller.

"Of course I will, but there are certain considerations first." Baroness flipped open the notebook. "Interesting. An account of the world perched on the precipice of disaster, a world now naught but ash and rubble. Oh, the insights we can glean from you and your memories."

"What do you mean?" Storyteller looked at Pathfinder, who averted her eyes. "What does she mean?"

"As you've most astutely observed, this is a city without culture," said Baroness. "It is a city with a taste for wealth and violence and little else. But we are going to change that. Oh, Storyteller, what I am preparing! You'll have an office of your own, private and well-appointed. At first, we will hold readings, but in time we can recruit an entire troupe of actors to bring your accounts and fables to life. Doesn't this excite you?"

"No thanks," said Storyteller.

"No?" Baroness's mouth fell open. "Is this not what you want? A chance to share your craft?"

"The price is far too steep," said Storyteller. "I've no desire to be kept as a pet, and I do not wish to stay here. Now please, return my notebook and let me go."

"This?" Baroness held up the notebook. "I'm sorry, but I simply cannot allow both the artist and the masterpiece to slip through my fingers." She held out the notebook, flat on the palms of her hands. "Perhaps you would like to hold it for yourself and consider if such a precious thing is worth leaving behind?"

There was the slightest of tremors in Storyteller's hands as he reached for the notebook. He ran his fingers across its surface, hesitating at every nick and imperfection. Its pages were ragged and yellowed, and yet they stubbornly refused to fall out. It was no longer an artifact of the old world, it had life as surely as he did, flesh and blood and a heard somewhere within the pages. It was an icon imbued with history. This was not a disposable thing, no more than the hand that clutched it.

"Now, before you entertain that naughty little thought that I know is in your head, you may wish to consider the consequences." Baroness smiled, her eyes drifting to the bloodied soil in the arena. "After what you've seen, is it really worth it?"

Pathfinder shook her head. "Don't," she mouthed.

Storyteller's breath came in ragged bursts as he surveyed the situation. The notebook was a remarkably heavy weight in his hands and all eyes were upon it, most notably those of the mercenaries already inching into position all around him. The path was narrow and growing smaller; there was time for thought or action, but not enough for both. Drawing in one final deep breath, he clutched the notebook against his body and sprinted for the platform, sidestepping the mercenaries who tried to block him and leaping for dear life. The air parted beneath and gave way to earth as he hit the dirt, landing hard on his face. With the mercenaries converging upon him, there was hardly time for pain. Scrambling to his feet, Storyteller snatched the notebook and ran for the crowd at the arena's edge. All eyes were on him, the imbecilic criminal who dared to steal in the presence of the crowd.

Suddenly, Storyteller flipped open the notebook and grabbed a handful of pages, ready to tear them to shreds. "I choose death!" he screamed.

One of the mercenaries gestured for the others to keep their distance. "Traveler, your punishment has not yet been decided. But the more you resist, the more likely-"

"Don't take me for a fool," said Storyteller. "I know of your ways. This is my work that I hold, the product of my labor, yet you are prepared to condemn me as a thief for taking it. I understand the consequences, and I will accept them. I will accept death because I will not be a sacrifice to your notion of justice. But before you put me to the sword, I'll do the same to this book!"

Now there was a moment of total silence, or perhaps it only seemed that way to Storyteller. His senses came into a new clarity as he considered the situation, the nature of the threat that had tumbled out of his throat with barely any conscious thought. There were the words upon the page, the ink absorbed by the fibers; and there were those letters blurring under his sweaty grip, those fibers growing soft, ready to split in his hands. He hoped that they could not see the tears welling in his eyes, that treacherous emotion that could yet betray him.

"Have you lost your sense?" shouted Baroness from the platform. "You can't destroy what you've created! It's much too precious!"

"And my life is not?" said Storyteller. "Spare me your lies about culture, Baroness. To you, I am nothing more than this notebook, a thing to be traded and admired, to be acquired even over a man's corpse. If you ask me, you are naught but a thief yourself. All of you who trade in lives are thieves or benefactors of thievery!"

"You could never do it," said Baroness. "You could never destroy that which you love so dear."

Storyteller shut his eyes for a moment as he pictured it - the notebook destroyed by his own hands, his legacy rent and left in the dirt beneath his own corpse. He could hear the pages tearing, and with it the pain passing through his hands and arms and then on into his heart. Baroness was right - he couldn't do it. It was a knife pressed to his own throat, and all he could do was pray that none would call his bluff.

Storyteller held the notebook aloft. "Then order your men closer. Witness for yourself how I act."

"You are digging your own grave," said the lead mercenary, inching closer.

"Stop where you are!" said Baroness with a faintly defeated tone. "There's no need for violence. This man authored that notebook, I am sure of that."

The mercenaries moved to positions before Baroness. "Then you are relinquishing this item?"

Baroness emitted an agonized sigh as she struggled to assemble the words. "...Yes. I hereby return the notebook to his possession."

"Bless you, Baroness," said Storyteller, relaxing his grip on the notebook. "It is a worthy thing you've done today."

"It is a lost opportunity, but I won't be a party to the destruction of art," said Baroness. "I only hope that you can one day return and share your craft with we benefactors of thievery."

"That may be a problem," said the lead mercenary. "Her forgiveness spares your life, but by your actions you have still committed an offense against Nexus. That can't be so easily forgotten. We can no longer trust you, and we can't have someone we don't trust staying in the city."

"Then I am banished?" said Storyteller.

"That's right," said the mercenary. "Be out of the city by nightfall. If you ever return, your punishment is ours to choose."

Pathfinder leaped from the platform, landing nimbly a few feet from Storyteller. "I'll escort him out now. There's no need to waste your own time."

"Very well," said the mercenary. "Goodbye, traveler."

Pathfinder escorted Storyteller out of Red Quarter, through streets stained orange by the oily cast of the sun and to a checkpoint leading out to the wastes. There was an odd tranquility that hardly fit with the violence of the day, and there were moments in which Storyteller felt like he was strolling through town in the age before. He had the notebook cradled beneath his arm and his hand drifted to it by reflex, just for the sake of security.

"You're one lucky bastard," said Pathfinder. "You got out with your life, and you never have to come back here."

Storyteller laughed and ran a thumb along the flaking leather of his prize. "Well, I found what I sought, or at least most of it."

"So where are you headed from here?" said Pathfinder.

"I had a destination, but circumstances have conspired against me," said Storyteller. "I wished to return to my hometown to see what had become of the place, but everyone I meet warns me away."

"Where is it?"

"In the far south."

Pathfinder winced at the sound. "You mean _his_ territory. Yeah, that's hardly a safe destination."

"So I've heard," said Storyteller. "This leaves me rather adrift. I suppose I do have one quest, to find an old world object of particular rarity. Where might I find such a thing besides Nexus?"

"You could try Scrapland, to the northeast. It's not exactly a safe place either, though, especially by yourself." Pathfinder leaned on her walking stick. "Then again, I'll be traveling with a redemption group that's headed there. You could come along with us. It's not for a few days, though."

"Not a problem," said Storyteller. "I'll set up camp nearby. It will give me a chance to study my own notes."

"Meaning you want to be sure that they didn't harm your book?"

Storyteller took the notebook in both hands. "So little time, and yet you already know me so well."

"Doesn't take a mind reader to figure that one out," said Pathfinder. "I'm sure you need a little time to yourself. Good night, Storyteller. I'll see you soon."

"And to you as well," said Storyteller. "Don't trouble yourself. I shall keep out of trouble until the morn."

CHAPTER 12

_~_ T-minus _73:50~_

Headstrong and bold as he was, Will still had a trace of practicality within him, enough to keep him out of further entanglements with authority figures. He went about his special errands and usual duties with a low profile, giving the police and the people from the lab a wide berth. Paranoia gave him reason to keep his head down, though the furtive glances at his surroundings were somewhat suspicious even for him. By nightfall, as he attended to his final errand of the day, his fears had quieted somewhat and his enthusiasm for the project returned in force.

Will's old rattletrap of a car made the usual noises of distress as he cruised down Leros Street toward his destination - a two-story house, old but well-kept, nestled among more neglected homes sporting FOR SALE signs. Parking just outside the driveway, he slipped up toward the garage, this time looking for his evening contact.

"Aya?" whispered Will at a volume scarcely lower than speech. "Aya, you here?"

A figure emerged from the deeper shadows at the edge of the garage. She was tall - nearly as tall as Will - with the sporty build of a sprinter and an irregular grace gleaned from time on the dance floor. She grinned as Will approached, tapping her watch with one artistically attended fingernail.

"No need to say anything, Aya," said Will as he walked toward the garage. "I know I'm very late."

Aya checked her watch. "Technically, you're very early. Why couldn't you come by in the afternoon like we planned?"

Will shrugged and shook his head. "I was almost shot by the police and I didn't want to make a scene."

"For real?"

"Oh yeah. They're not messing around, now that the lab's about to open." Will studied Aya's fingernails, each bearing a novel design. "Wow, you work with metal with your hands like that?"

"I had these done later," said Aya. "I had plans with my friends. My life doesn't revolve around your projects, you know."

"Again, I'm really sorry." Will nodded towards the garage. "Is it in there?"

"Sure is. Let's get to it." Aya led Will to a door in the side of the garage and turned on the lights. The owner had converted it into a home workshop - wood and metal lathes, welding torches, jigsaw, and a wide variety of hand tools. Aya wheeled out a small handcart covered in a tarp. "Take a look."

Will pulled the tarp away to reveal a small iron capsule, thirty inches across, forty-eight inches around, with a small hinged lid with the date etched into the surface. "It's perfect." He opened the lid and examined the interior. "Hey, you got the engraving too, huh?"

"I did everything you paid me to do. I put a sealant on it, but ground water's gonna seep in there eventually so I'd suggest wrapping up anything that might get damaged by moisture. Oh, and I can't say how well electronics are gonna last in there. It's not exactly a safe." Aya knelt by the capsule. "You know, I'm happy to take your money, but I can't tell you how long this thing will last once it's buried. Most time capsules are made by pros, and they bury them in cement or under a building or something."

"Oh, I have faith that this one will last." Will crouched at the front of the capsule, running his fingers along the hatch. "You have any unexpected expenses or anything? Because I have more cash."

"Didn't take that long. It's all right."

"Cool. Oh, I've got this for you, too." Will handed Aya a folded-up flier "Watch out who sees that. The cops don't seem to like them."

Aya unfolded the flier. "Yeah, I heard about this. Do you really believe all this stuff? People tell me you're crazy, but this is really out there."

Will stood up, cradling the capsule in his arms. "I'm very serious. You should come by. It'll be fun. Bring your friends, it's all free."

"Don't count on me, I've been spending nights in lately." Aya held open the door. "We've been trying to deal with my brother. His stupid friends talked him into going out with them, breaking shit in the new neighborhoods, so now we gotta watch him on the weekends."

"You watch him?"

"You know the type, leave him alone and he'll find a way out. No good keeping him locked up, we've got to try and talk him out of it before he gets arrested or worse."

"Probably smart, those lab guys are wound real tight. But if they want something productive to do, they should go to Icaria and do something about those cameras. That would show 'em."

"Breaking security cameras? Sounds like a good way to get shot."

"Well, I guess I'd know." Will squeezed through the door. "Good luck with your brother."

"Good luck with your apocalypse," said Aya.

Will hauled the capsule back to his car and dumped it into the trunk, taking a moment to admire it before slamming the trunk. He put the key in the ignition, and was immediately greeted by the static-clogged yet soothing voice of Joshua Jameson - a repeat of an earlier broadcast:

_"...proclaiming an end to the wretched blight of war. I am not arrogant enough to believe that our project could bring about world peace - Some things will always remain in God's domain. It is His to break the bow, to sunder the spear, to burn the chariot in the fire. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that many of the wars waged by men_ , both those in the shadows of history and those of our modern world, _are over control of resources. It was this realization that guided our team from the first inception to the realization of their grand idea."_

"Over the next few days, I'll be talking about some of the people who've made this miracle a reality, for my involvement in this project entailed little more than gathering them together. There is of course Dr. John Bellamy, my dear old friend whose praises I sing at every opportunity. Dr. Yang Yizhen, one of our global emissaries who is doing very fine work in our engineering department. Of course, I must mention the great. Dr. Jedediah DuFresne who, though he is not formally involved in the project, was the one who provided that initial divine spark. But I must begin by taking just a moment to talk about the project head, Dr. Otto Richter, who truly deserves all of the credit that I can give him and far more besides."

"Dr. Richter was, like me, born into an age in which the harnessing of the power of the atom meant both promise and terror. He was the youngest member of the Atomic Energy Viability Council, the governmental panel formed in the wake of the Three Mile Island incident to determine what role, if any, nuclear fission would have in our nation's energy policy. As you may know, the AEV panel concluded that nuclear plants could be part of our future, but that it was not viable in the long-term. Of course, not long after the nightmare at Chernobyl proved their conclusions accurate."

"Dr. Richter traveled extensively during this period. A true Renaissance man, his body of interest included not just science, but politics, culture, and economics. He even gained access to several states of the former Soviet Union at a time in which the Cold War made this rare and fraught with peril. In these places, he saw firsthand the deprivation and tyranny of the Stalinist regime. He saw how their belief in the oppressive nature of the wealthy and powerful had turned them into an empire of thieves, stealing from their own people and using the threat of force to halt all change. Socialism was simply not a solution to the problems of need."

"It was then that Dr. Richter decided that, if no solution to this most urgent problem existed, it fell to him to create one. Displaying the ingenuity that has always characterized the free peoples of the world, he discovered a new means of manipulating the atom - more technically complex than fission, but also far safer. Dr. Richter's machine would take the miraculous and move it into the realm of the temporal. This machine-"

"...Would make a big, fiery explosion." Will quieted the radio and pulled into the driveway of his mother's home. As he stepped out of the car, he spotted a figure on the porch, thankfully a familiar one. She was a housewife from another time - middle-aged but with the charm of a young girl, petite, with a head of blonde curls. She had a familiar haggard expression on her face and a worn-out dishrag twisted tightly in her hands.

"Mom, I didn't know you were gonna be up," said Will. "You're not on call, are you?"

"No, Will, I'm not."

"So you're waiting up for me now?"

"After what happened today? You're damn right!" Mrs. Scarborough tossed the dishrag aside. "Why were you out so late?"

Will was halfway into a shrug before he caught sight of his mother's expression and withdrew his casual demeanor. "I was picking something up. A little late-night errand. Come on, it's not like I'm in high school anymore." He cleared his throat. "So, what happened today...that you heard?"

"Don't play dumb," said Mrs. Scarborough. "Will, what did you do?"

"Nothing!" snapped Will. Catching himself again, he lowered his tone, dropping his volume to a true whisper. "Look, I'm sorry. There was just a little misunderstanding-"

"With the police!" Mrs. Scarborough began to pace around the porch. "I don't know what's going on with you. All these errands of yours that you never talk about, some 'project' I'm not privy to know about. Look, I know you're not a kid anymore, but what am I supposed to think?"

"I know that." Will bit his lip and sighed \- it wasn't an argument he could win and he knew it. "Okay, do you want to know what I've been doing? I'll tell you everything, just say the word."

"Forget it, you don't have to do that. It's just..." Mrs. Scarborough's fingers reached for an invisible cigarette, an artifact of an old habit. "Will, the town isn't like it was when we first moved here."

"I know that, believe me."

"I don't want to come home one day and learn that my son has been locked up or killed!"

"Okay, mom. I'll play it cool, I'll stay away from trouble. I promise."

"You promise, huh?"

"I know what my promises are worth, but it's all I got."

"Okay, I'll take you at your word." Mrs. Scarborough stooped to pick up the old dishrag. "Sorry, it was a bad day all around. I was down at the school this morning."

"The school? For-" Will's jaw locked as the realization hit him. "They are not trying to sell you on that 'Sam needs help' shit again, are they?"

"Well..."

"Mom! Those kids are...what did they do this time?" Will waved his hands. "You know, I don't even need to know. What I know is that he's dealing with this bullying shit every day from those monsters, and HE'S the one who needs help? Get those other assholes help!"

"Maybe they have a point," said Mrs. Scarborough. "It would be easier if he had some friends."

"He has friends!" said Will. "Hey, you said he was making friends, right?"

"When was the last time you saw any of them here?" Mrs. Scarborough grimaced. "He's just so lost in his own head, I don't think he can deal with reality."

"I can't...I'm sorry, I can not believe that you're letting them put this garbage into your head," said Will. "If you're the least bit different...That's how it was when I was a kid, dealing with this crap. I thought things were changing! How are they getting worse?"

"When you were little, your father dealt with things like this."

Will fell silent for a moment. "Yeah, I know."

"I know that this isn't a responsibility you chose, Will, but he really looks up to you."

"Don't I know it. He's the only person around here who doesn't think I'm crazy." Will leaned against the wall of the house. "Is it really that big a deal?"

"I think it is."

"All right, I've got some free time coming up. You know, none of my crazy projects or anything. We'll go out and do something and I'll talk to him. Fair?"

"That's not a promise you should make to me. Good night, Will." Mrs. Scarborough turned to enter the house, but hesitated. "Oh, and as long as we're talking about friends, I wish you wouldn't just send people to the house. Let me know in advance, all right?"

"...I sent people to the house?" said Will quizzically. "Who showed up?"

"I didn't take names. A few of them were...I don't know, Japanese or Chinese. Not that I don't appreciate you making nice with people from the lab, but please don't give out our address. Good night."

"Yeah, you too."

"You coming in?"

Will's feet were locked to the spot as he scanned the desolate streets and the patio for some hint of the visitors. There was none to be found. These men, whoever they truly were, had fully eluded him.

"Yeah..." he said. "Yeah, I'm coming."
CHAPTER 13

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

"Scrapland," the name given by traders to the husk of what was once a metropolis found in the northern part of the known wastes, was a bounty for the brave and not without reason. The disaster had caught the world entirely off guard, both in the grand scheme and in the details, and thus there was little preserved for the aftermath. Priority one was simple survival but rebuilding came soon after, and it was this very human impulse to create that gave birth to the trading companies. These were the first post-disaster societies - confederations of scouts, laborers, engineers, mercenaries and leaders who struck out to strip the old world for parts. Once they had exhausted those smaller towns in their immediate purview, they set their sights farther afield. Scrapland, with its wealth of materials, was hard to overlook.

In the years since the fall, the redemption teams had carved out a route leading to Scrapland - a well-trod road dotted at intervals with small settlements, guard posts and camps ending at the great ruin. Here, the teams dug for anything of value - not just raw materials, but old world tools, rare scientific relics, even baubles that could have some value to the traders themselves. The road was seldom idle, traveled by both the teams and those raiders who preyed upon them. The gift of the trail scout was to ferret out traps and ambushes and discover new paths that might sidestep areas of known raider activity. This was Pathfinder's role, and she did it skillfully.

Storyteller had his own role to play, in the camps at day's end. Nights in the camps were always filled with revelry as the redeemers celebrated another successful claim or had one last hurrah before another risky expedition. Entertainment was valued but very rare, and while the redeemers needed and appreciated Pathfinder, they truly welcomes Storyteller. The people in the camps were a surprisingly generous lot, and they appreciated Storyteller's presence enough to share their supplies and beyond that to offer portions of their claims. Storyteller had little interest in the latter, though, he simply appreciated having friendly ears. Having finished the night's entertainment, he would excuse himself to study his notebook in silence, searching for that perfect conclusion to the grand tale.

One evening, as Storyteller pored over the pages, Pathfinder took a seat by his side. "I hope you don't mind, but I took a peek in that thing. Back when it was with Baroness, I mean."

"Oh?" Storyteller gently closed the notebook, his finger resting on the page. "Truly just a peek?"

"Well, I'd heard of you from some of the other scouts, and we all figured that you kept your stories in there, or notes for new ones."

"No, those I keep up here," said Storyteller, tapping on his temple. "And truth be told, most of those are tales I heard in my own childhood. No, this is an account, a story of the old world. It's not a masterpiece, I know, but I do hope that someday, someone will find it valuable - for reasons beyond its rarity, I mean."

"Maybe so," said Pathfinder. "Then these are true stories?"

"Embellished for literary effect, but yes, they are fundamentally true," said Storyteller.

"Strange to read things like that. I'd just about forgotten that people used to have names that weren't just their titles." Pathfinder hid a chuckle behind her hand. "And I'm glad to see that you didn't invent these people. I mean, this Will guy doesn't seem like much of a hero."

"He's an unconventional hero." Storyteller ran his fingers along the notebook's surface, brushing away a few loose flakes of ruined leather. "In any case, the story is not yet complete."

"Maybe once you're finished, I'll get a chance to read it myself..." Pathfinder leaned in closer. "...Unless it's too private."

"Hardly. Art is meant to be shared with the world, but I'm afraid that this piece is not yet finished. The ending yet eludes me." Storyteller tucked the notebook back into his satchel. "But I predict that one day, you'll get a chance to page through it yourself."

"I'll look forward to that." Pathfinder reclined, staring up at the stars. "You're an unusual man, you know that?

"I've heard this," said Storyteller. "It's a compliment, I presume."

"Of course." Pathfinder closed her eyes and smiled. "It must be nice to have such vivid memories of the old world."

"Don't you?" said Storyteller. "Surely you must remember something?"

"Not a lot," said Pathfinder. "Just my family."

"That's more than many people," said Storyteller. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me about them? Start a story of your own?"

"Well-" Pathfinder paused for a moment, then climbed to her feet, staring into the heart of the camp. "Something's wrong."

Storyteller surveyed the area. "What? I hear nothing out of the ordinary."

"No, this doesn't feel right. I should have a word with the head of the expedition. Keep an eye out, all right?" Pathfinder jogged over to the watchfire. "Hey, are the patrols back yet?"

"What's wrong?" said the crew leader. "You see something?"

"Just tell me. Are they back?"

"One is, the other's not, but the area is clear. Why are you freaking out? You told us there was no trace."

"These raiders have been way too clever lately. It's like they know every move we're going to make before-"

Storyteller didn't hear the rest of the conversation. A multitude of grimy hands reached out of the darkness, grabbing him by the arms and neck. He tried to scream, but the sound was stifled by a wad of fabric crammed into his mouth. He tried to wrench his way free of the hands, but they quickly fetched short length of rope that secured his wrists and ankles. He could do nothing but struggle impotently as his assailants took his helpless form and retreated into the night. The watchfire grew small and dim until it was only a pinprick of light and then vanished, but he could still hear the voices, still faintly hear Pathfinder screaming his name in despair, still hear the troupe calling out for "Storyteller!" until that too faded out.

For the following hour, Storyteller ceased to be a man and was merely a thing, one that was deftly stolen from its rightful owners. He could hear the voices of the thieves, mere whispers above the haunted voice of the wind, bragging about their wonderful fortune. He could hear other things as well, the metallic clatter of their armaments being the most ominous by far.

In time, the footsteps came to a halt and Storyteller was rudely dropped on the ground in the unredeemed ruins of an old house. His eyes adjusted slowly to his new surroundings - first he could make out a collapsed wall, the moon glowing through the gaps in a half-fallen ceiling, and then a ring of shadowy figures encircling him. There were at least seven or eight of them, perched in a dense knot around Storyteller's prone form. As he squinted into the shadows and took stock of his assailants, their nature became clear to him. They were a bestial lot, less human than beast, all of them hideously armed and hunched over him with base cruelty glistening in their ravenous eyes.

One of the group leaned in for a closer look, drawing to breathing range of Storyteller, letting him feel each raspy exhalation. His skin was tanned a deep bronze, crowned with long brown hair that fell in greasy skeins around his face. His bare chest was an ugly mess of scars in greatly varying ages, some of which had the look of willful branding. From his belt hung a number of blades in varying sizes, all of which were clearly well used. Storyteller figured him for the leader of the group, at least insofar as this band could have leadership. His toothy grin twisted into a snarl as he studied Storyteller's face. Snapping upright, he backhanded another raider. "Asshole! You grabbed the wrong one!"

The other raider recoiled, rubbing his face. "Come on, Render, it was dark. We got who we could get."

"You were supposed to get the scout. They're the ones who get the big ransoms. And what did Farseer tell us?"

"Uh..."

"He told us that their scout is a woman, right?" Render seized the other raider by his neck and pushed his head in Storyteller's direction. "Does that look like a bitch? You too stupid to tell the difference?"

Storyteller cringed away from the man's porcine face. "Mmph..."

"Shut up, you. I want you to speak, I'll grab your tongue and make you." Render tossed the other raider back and crossed his arms. "All right, what's the plan, losers?"

A savage-looking woman crouched next to Storyteller. "Maybe we can still get something for him. He obviously ain't a scav, some of those other types are worth a little bit."

"Well, as long as we got him." Render pulled the rag out of Storyteller's mouth. "What's your name?"

"Storyteller," he said between coughs.

"You're shitting me." Render threw up his hands. "We couldn't even get a trader, someone they'd miss. No, we get some nutjob tagalong they probably sent along hoping he'd get killed. Bet he doesn't even have anything worth taking."

Out of the corner of his eye, Storyteller could spot a short, ill-built figure digging through his satchel. "He's got nothing, Render. Just a lot of junk."

Render rubbed his hands together. "Okay, so we got a nobody with nothing on him. What do you guys think, kill him? I say kill him unless one of you idiots can think of a way to make profit off him."

"I've been modestly successful sharing my fables with crowds," said Storyteller, wriggling around until he faced Render. "Perhaps I can teach you my ways, and a few of my stories?"

Render kicked Storyteller in the chest. "Shut up, dipshit. And don't look at me." He glanced around the circle at the other raiders. "All right, so who wants to do this one? Anyone remember who killed the last one we caught? No...wait, I got a better idea." He reached down and scooped a fist-sized chunk of cement off the ground. "There are a lot of rocks around here. Why don't we all kill him together?"

"Surely I can be of more use to alive than dead," said Storyteller, desperately reaching for anything that might keep him alive. "Before you murder me, perhaps you'll let me tell you the story of the wandering king, or the greedy vintner?"

"What did I say about looking at me?" Render tossed the chunk of cement from hand to hand. "All right, freaks, bring him outside. I want some room to practice my throwing."

Again the hands seized Storyteller, but they were far less gentle than before, dragging him along the ground and giggling rapturously at each sign of pain. The dirt filled his mouth when he tried to cry out, and the grit dug into his eyes when he looked around for some avenue of escape. All he could see through his clouded vision was Render and his friends collecting debris for the gory ritual that was soon to come.

"All right, killers, here's the rundown," said Render. "I get to throw the first one, and then the rest of you go to town. Ready?"

"Stay your hand." The air was split by a booming voice, coming from opposite the circle of raiders. Storyteller twisted and flailed about until he faced the direction of the new arrival. He was an enormous man - over six and a half feet if he was an inch, with muscles like thick coils of rope and a face like rudely-carved stone. He was clad all in red and black, bolts of fabric hanging loosely over an ugly scrap metal breastplate. He bore no weapon, but his gloves were studded with metal rivets and short nails, stained a deep umber.

Render stepped over Storyteller, covertly gripping the handle of one of his knives. "All right, this is new. What's your name?"

"I am called Captain of the North."

"Captain of the..." Render laughed, a manic and brutal sound. "Oh, so you're one of those types, huh? Well, it's your game, asshole. So why are you here?"

"I am here for your captive," said Captain flatly.

"You wanna buy him?" said Render. "Well, I was all set on bludgeoning him to death, but if you've got an offer, I gotta hear it, don't I?"

Captain shook his head, his expression not shifting even a bit. "I am not here to make a trade. You will turn him over to my custody at once."

"Oh, is that a threat?" Render drew his knife, a ghoulish grin crossing his face. "You ready to back that up?"

"I do not make threats," said Captain. "You will turn this man over right now."

The rest of the raiders gathered around Render, all drawing their own weapons. "All right, listen close. You're a big boy, all right. I bet you're used to getting whatever you want just from asking. Well, we've killed twice you, you dumb brick. So why don't you just turn around and walk your giant ass back home, okay? Or do I have to cut you a little bit to drive the point home?"

"I'll not ask again." There was the slightest twitch of rage in Captain's lips, gone in a fraction of a second. "Turn him over at once."

Render ran the blade of his knife along his discolored tongue. "Oh no, big boy. You made me mad."

Render advanced on Captain with his knife leveled with deadly intent, but Captain didn't move a muscle, didn't react to the assault in the slightest. Suddenly, there was a loud crack from behind Captain and Render fell backwards, the knife sailing from his hand. Render's eyes, frozen wide from shock, drifted to the fresh wound in his wrist, the earth beneath him darkening from the blood. Then there was a flurry of motion from all around, men racing into position around the raiders, surrounding them in a moment. They were dressed in the same red-and-black uniform as Captain, wielding spears and sabers - not the sharpened metal fragments and rusty knives wielded by the raiders, but weapons made by skillful hands. From his position, Storyteller could just spot another man standing just behind Captain, a bolt-action rifle resting in his arms.

Instantly, Render's face twisted into a look of terror. He clearly wanted to run, but fear had rooted him fast to the spot. "Oh hell, it's you guys. I'm sorry, I didn't know he was with you. Look, he's yours, okay? No charge, just take him." Render smiled nervously, but Captain only returned a hostile, silent stare. "Seriously, how about I cut these ropes off him? Also free. All I want to do is be helpful."

Captain was in motion so quickly that no one had time to react, least of all Render. Grabbing Render's head in his left hand, he sent his right fist flying squarely into Render's nose. There was a sickening crack of bone and a spray of blood, and Render's body went slack, hitting the dirt next to Storyteller. The other raiders tossed their weapons to the ground, their tough visages vanishing in an instant.

Captain glowered at the raiders. "If I had my way," he roared, "I would tie each of you scumbags up by the wrists and give my men an opportunity to test their weapons on live targets. But I have far more pressing matters, so I will only claim one of you." Captain gestured to one of his men, who handed him a spear. With one smooth motion, Captain drove the spear into Render's throat. Storyteller tried not to scream, even after Captain pulled the spear free and sent a spurt of Render's blood splashing into his face.

Captain handed the spear back to his soldier. "Now, go." The rest of the raiders fled in random directions. Captain pointed to Storyteller. "Get him up." One of the men cut Storyteller free and helped him to his feet. "Your name is Storyteller, correct?"

Storyteller dabbed the blood from his forehead with trembling hands. "That's correct."

"Good," said Captain. "You are to come with me. Conqueror requests your presence."

"Conqueror..." Storyteller shuddered at the sound of the name. "...He wants me?"

"This is not a request," said Captain. "You will come with us, either voluntarily or by force."

"Force will not be necessary," said Storyteller. "I shall do as you ask."

"Good." Captain nodded towards a clearing a few yards away. "The voyage back will take twenty days at most. We have prepared a space for you - I think you will find it comfortable. Now, let's be going. My lord is waiting."

Storyteller spotted a horse-drawn cart in the clearing. It was the same conveyance used by traders and redeemers, but this was a different beast entirely. It was a vehicle of war, covered in metal plates and crowned with perches for armed men to keep watch. One of the men unlatched and opened the hatch leading into the rear compartment. On a typical cart, this would be a storage space, filled with recently acquired goods or special deliveries headed to the trading companies. On this vehicle, the door opened onto a tiny living space - a mattress (rare in the wastes), a few shelves, a small bin for provisions, even a fixed plank meant to serve as a desk.

"If you are in need of anything, let one of the men know," said Captain. "Our pace is brisk, but we will still have time to stop once per day."

Storyteller gazed into the compartment. "But other than that, I shall be in this space for the entire trip?"

"A safety precaution. Raiders normally avoid our caravans, but we don't believe in taking risks, especially with important men."

Storyteller peered up at Captain. "Important men?"

Ignoring Storyteller, Captain climbed up onto the roof of the cart. "Quickly. We must depart."

Realizing that he had little choice in the matter, Storyteller climbed into the compartment. No sooner had he entered than the hatch slammed shut, the guard tossing in his satchel just moments before. He was suddenly aware that the hatch did not open from the inside - Storyteller was officially at their whim, and there was no telling what might await in Conqueror's territory. He reclined against the mattress, clutched his notebook to his chest, let his eyes flutter shut, and sank into a restless unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 14

_~_ T-minus _65:48~_

At its outset, there was nothing glaringly unusual about Friday 14th. The sun rose as it always did, shedding its light over what was, to all outward appearances, another typical, boring day. The one minor oddity, unnoticed by most, was the gathering of the entire Scarborough family at the breakfast table. Given their divergent schedules, this was most unusual, but was owed to nothing more than coincidence. There was nothing unusual about the discourse, either, just the expected mundane chatter over sweetened cereal, buttered toast and microwave sausage.

Will cracked his neck and gazed out the window. "Looks like it's gonna be a great day." He turned to Sam. "Oh, I forgot. Mom's got a busy morning, so I'll drop you off at school."

Sam set down his juice glass. "You don't have to do that. I can walk, It's not that far."

"Like I got anything better to do this morning. My schedule's wide open." Will patted Sam on the shoulder. "I'll drop you off, and then over your lunch period you can meet me at Little Naples. Slice is on me."

"Forget it," said Mrs. Scarborough, pouring herself a second cup of coffee. "My boys don't cut class."

"Who's talking about cutting?" said Will. "They still let kids leave campus over lunch, don't they?"

"Not at his age, they don't," said Mrs. Scarborough.

"Yeah, I'm sure they really enforce those lunch rules. When I went there-" Will was interrupted by the sound of frenzied knocking, furious enough to shake the door. "Oh, what now? Who the hell's gonna come by this early? Don't get up anyone, I'll run 'em off." He rose from his chair and lurched to the door. "Who is it?"

"It's Sara Mills!"

"Huh?"

"Sara...Come on, Will, just open the damn door!"

"Who is it, Will?" said Mrs. Scarborough. "More of your friends coming to the house without warning?"

"Yeah, something like that. Don't worry, this'll only take a second, I'll get rid of them." Will slipped through the door, shutting it behind him. "Well, good morning to you. How'd you even find the place? I don't remember telling you where I live."

"Prophet of Patmos, huh?" Sara was nearly manic, bopping on her toes like a child. "You really are a goddamn prophet, you know that?"

Will gaped back at Sara, her words not quite finding their mark. "Did I miss something?"

"You haven't heard the news? The big story in the Patmos Gazette?" Sara pointed at Will's feet. "You've got a copy right there!"

"Oh yeah. Mom never bring this thing in until lunch." Will leaned down and scooped up the paper. "Can you believe they still send this thing out? I mean, who actually-"

"Will, just read the damn thing already!"

"All right, I'll do that." Will opened up the paper, expecting to find the usual tame fare about the community. The typical collection of banality was absent, though, replaced with a single giant headline:

JAMESON LABS CONCEALS RUDRA SECRETS

Will folded up the paper. "Yeah? What about it?"

Sara balled up her hands. "You have to read the whole article."

"Not really in the mood," said Will. "Could you give the...what do you call it, the synopsis?"

"Oh, you want a synopsis? Here's a synopsis for you." Sara grabbed the front of Will's shirt with both hands. "You. Were. Right."

Will studied the headline, then back at Sara. "Right about...what, exactly?"

"Short answer? All of it."

"No shit?"

"No shit." Sara stepped back, her lips stuck in a mad grin. "You know what that email you got was? The one you didn't understand? It was a white paper, a technical document about Project Rudra meant to explain the basics to a non-expert audience so they could make a decision about its implementation."

"I'm still a little lost."

"It was the document that Joshua Jameson saw that made him decide to back the project, the same one he sent to the Feds to get their approval and backing. But this one's different than the one in the public record. Somewhere between the one they sent you and the one the public saw, a few pages went missing. Very, very interesting pages." Sara clapped her hands together. "Gotta tell you, I didn't imagine we'd ever get a scoop like this in Patmos. You don't even know. This is like the Pentagon Papers times ten."

"Okay, so this thing...this white paper." Will scratched idly at his temple. "How did the people at the paper get it?"

"They were the ones who were _supposed_ to get it," said Sara. "Someone at the lab was trying to get this to the media, but some wires got crossed, I don't know exactly. Sounds like a bunch of people got those white papers, you're just the only person who bothered to look at them. The lab security guys looked into it, and that's when our hometown Deep Throat realized he sent it to the wrong people and got it to the people who were meant to have it."

"Okay, I get that," said Will, trying not to give away any trace of ignorance.

"You see, those missing pages tell another story entirely." Sara was almost giggling as she spoke. "They were signed by a man named Dr. Jedediah DuFresne. Ring a bell?"

"Dr. Jed-"

Sara didn't wait for Will to respond. "They used to call him Dr. Doomsday, the guy who argued with all those anti-nuke activists when they heckled him? Rudra was his project, it was his idea in the first place. Dr. Richter just plagiarized it years after the fact, after Dr. DuFresne gave up on it. You know why? Because there were too many X-factors. Because he was afraid that the machine could cause a global cataclysm!"

"Really?" Will's mouth grew into a smile and a fire sparked behind his eyes. He sprinted about the porch, waving the paper, shouting for the neighbors to hear. "Well, what did you know?" Did you hear that? I was right! Who's the crazy one now? Who's stupid now?"

"Glad to have your passion. Now come on." Sara tugged at Will's wrist.

"Uh, we were going somewhere?" said Will.

"We're going downtown," said Sara. "They're planning a big protest for this afternoon. You've got to get to the planning meeting, and quick."

Will shook loose Sara's hand. "No thanks."

Sara stared back in disbelief. "Are you demented? These people know you had this figured out days ago, they know you stood up to the cops and the Jameson thugs...You're like a hero down there! You can't sit this one out!"

"Sorry, no can do," said Will. "I promised my mother I would stay out of those risky situations. So I'm going to take my brother to school, walk around town a little bit, pick up a large supreme at Little Naples, and then head up to Kiyama to inter my preservation chamber. You're free to come if you'd like."

"You bastard!" Sara shoved Will with both hands. "What's wrong with you? Does your life suck so bad that you're willing to get _everyone_ killed? This is the future of the world we're talking about and you...Christ, why do I even bother with you?" She stormed off, muttering a stream of profane wishes under her breath.

Sam pushed open the door and peered out. "What was that about? Who was that?"

"Just someone I met in town a while back. Having a real bad day, I guess." Will looked over his shoulder. "You ready to go?"

"It's a little early," said Sam.

"It never hurt anyone to be early." Will pulled out his keys. "It'll give us an opportunity to talk, anyway."

The covertly meaningful conversation had never been a strength of Will's. At best, he could imitate what he could remember from his own father, but it was never more than a recitation from a faulty memory. Seated in the driver's seat of his car next to his younger brother, Will was acutely aware of his deficiencies in this area. At the very least, it was a quiet morning. The streets of Patmos were never particularly crowded, but that morning they were particularly desolate. Will wondered if people weren't staying home in light of the news, too shaken to leave their homes.

Sam looked idly through the window. "Where is everybody?"

"Don't know. Everyone slept in, I suppose." Will rubbed the back of his neck. "So how have things been going with you? You never talk about what's going on with...you know, life."

"Not much to say," said Sam, still staring off into the difference. "School is pretty much the same every day."

"Now, that I don't buy, 'cause I remember things a lot different." Will drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Every day, there was something crazy going on. Usually caused by me, granted. But that's okay. Blending in is okay, too, if that's who you are. You gotta be your own man. There's your piece of advice for the day."

"Well, what if you want to blend in and you can't?" said Sam.

"Then you gotta stand up and say what you think," said Will. "Even if they make fun of you. Heh, especially if they make fun of you. Weirdos are the ones who change the world, you know. Not that I'm calling you a weirdo, but it's cool if...you know, it's cool to be that way. Um...you following this?"

"Not really."

Will took a deep breath, drawing in his scattered thoughts. "...Maybe it doesn't make sense now, but one day you're going to be in a place where everyone is judging you, and you know what's right, and they're telling you that you're wrong, calling you a weirdo. Don't listen to them. You've got to be your own man, in that moment, you have to do what you know is right."

As they neared Icaria Street, Sam snapped to attention. "What's going on over there?"

"I don't see..." Will glanced out through the side window. "Holy shit."

Will couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such a surge of activity on Icaria. There were dozens, possibly hundreds of people on the sidewalks - all ages and all walks of life represented among their numbers, farmers and businessmen standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the young punks who'd failed to escape the town's grasp. There were even more people packed into the restaurants, and the House was so full that the doors were open so that the people who couldn't fit inside might at least hear what was going on inside. This was no Sunday window shopping crowd, calmly going about their business. These people were furious, wracked with rage and eager for any opportunity to vent it. Will could spot at least one of the Jameson security cameras lying on the ground, broken clean free of its mount, while a group of men battered the already mangled machine with whatever blunt instruments they could fit in their hands. Another group gathered around a Jameson Communications office, waving bricks and baseball bats and shouting threats at the people inside. The police were already moving to detain the most violent individuals, but this was not a flood that they could possibly hope to stem.

"It almost looks like a riot." Sam looked back at Will. "Does this have something to do with what you and that woman were arguing about?"

"Possibly," said Will. "Hey, could you do me a favor? If you get out early or something like that, could you not go downtown?"

"What about lunch?"

Will turned off of Icaria, the chaos still looming in his rear view. "You'd better stay at school then, too. In fact, I'm going to pass on the pizza myself. Really should get to Kiyama as early as I can, get right to work."

"Can I come up there?" said Sam. "You know, if I get out early."

"Sure, as long as you don't go there by Icaria. Not going to be much going on up there, though. Just digging a big hole." Will parked outside of the school. "All right, you might hear some scary things today. See, there was this story in the paper about that power plant thing they're building at the edge of town."

"Is it dangerous?" said Sam.

"Well...maybe. I mean, it's not..." Will clasped a hand to his forehead. "Just remember, these media guys...they want attention. Sometimes they go with stories that maybe aren't totally true."

"You're hiding something from me, aren't you?"

"It's not...just don't believe everything you hear, okay? Lesson two. Now get going, okay? You don't want to be late."

"But we're still early," said Sam. "Is it really that bad? This thing I might hear today?"

"Sam, please. I need you to just trust me this time."

Sam unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. "I'm not a kid anymore. You don't need to protect me."

"I know," said Will. "We'll talk about this later, okay? Just stay away from downtown and don't believe everything you hear. And have a good day."

Will sat and watched as Sam disappeared into the building, and remained for several minutes longer. At that moment, all he wanted was someone to protect _him_. But there was still too much to be done, too many errands to waste time on idle thoughts and fears. Pulling away from the school, he drove toward Kiyama hill, the capsule shifting to and fro in the trunk. He could only manage a futile hope that this would go smoothly.

CHAPTER 15

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

Conqueror's war caravan advanced southward, carrying with it an important piece of cargo - human cargo, the last artist for a thousand miles. As Captain had promised, the pace was merciless - easily twice that which Storyteller could manage on his own, if not faster. On the rare occasions they halted their advance, it was for only a few brief minutes to gather supplies before returning to the road. On those stops, Storyteller was set free to take care of his needs, but he was all too aware of the guards watching him every second he was outside. After the first few days, he began to wonder if he had escaped a sure death only to face it again in some new prison. If nothing else, his new captors gave him enough liberty to work on his project - the long days on the road provided ample time to review and edit the contents of his notebook, to add annotations, and to reflect on his own experiences.

One morning, Storyteller was roused from his sleep by a powerful hand shaking him with great force. Willing himself out of sleep, he rolled onto one side to see Captain leaning into the hatch. "We have arrived."

Gathering his belongings, Storyteller stepped out into the sickly ocher sunlight. All around them was a great desert stretching miles in each direction, a desolation so utterly slain that it made the rest of the wasteland look Edenic by comparison. But it was what sat before the cart \- the sole landmark in the midst of that terrible desert - that caught Storyteller's attention.

Captain stood beside Storyteller, a hand resting on his shoulder. "Welcome to Pinnacle."

Even in his short time he had spent in the Illinois wastes, Storyteller had heard no shortage of tales about Pinnacle. Every traveler spoke in hushed tones of an empire in the middle of the Shivan Desert, the land that nature had long ago abandoned to the iron rule of death. Somewhere in this lifeless expanse, there was said to be a city - a great city, like the ones that had dotted the landscape before the disaster. But no one knew anything about this city, for there were few with the fortitude to reach it, and none who entered ever returned. It was said that any man who walked through the gates of Pinnacle became the subject of its ruler, a man so feared and despised that his very name was a taboo. Storyteller had already learned to cringe at the sound of it - the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, an almost mythical figure whose ambition and cruelty were without limit. Only a fiend such as Conqueror could possibly have the strength to raise Pinnacle from the ashes of annihilation. This was a place that could not truly exist, and yet Storyteller found himself before that very city, with that diabolic myth awaiting his arrival somewhere within its walls.

"I was instructed to bring you directly to my lord's palace," said Captain. "Come, let's not waste his time."

A squadron of guards immediately appeared at Storyteller's flank, escorting him through the gate with nary a word to their prize. From inside the walls, Pinnacle was an even greater wonder than it appeared from the desert. The buildings were not repurposed ruins, as in most wasteland settlements, but were completely new structures built from recovered stone and concrete, reshaped and cast by skilled hands into brutalist buildings that would have been at home in some long-lost golden age. The main thoroughfare was wide and clean, decorated with clay sculptures depicting what Storyteller could only imagine were heroic figures and lined with shops and stalls. The area hummed with activity, the thoroughfare congested with people going about their business in a casual manner that Storyteller could not recall seeing anywhere else. And at the end of the street, looming high above the city, stood a great multistory citadel, ornamented with precious metals and carvings of monstrous creatures. This was their destination; this was _his_ home, the soul of the empire, the heart of the beast.

As he moved through the streets, the people stopped and examined Storyteller, gathering as closely as the guards would allow. There were whispers from the throng, people speaking to each other in eager tones:

"Is that him? That's him, isn't it?"

"Amazing! The lord has found him!"

"You had doubts? The lord can find anything."

"He doesn't look like a wastelander, does he? I thought they were all savages."

"I know. This one actually belongs here."

Captain swept them aside. "You'll have time to meet him after our lord has spoken with him."

"Is this Captain of the North, returning with our most honored guest?" The booming voice sundered the thoroughfare; every voice fell silent and every pair of eyes were cast skywards. There was a single figure standing on the palace dais, his features obscured by the long shadow projected by the structure. Storyteller couldn't make out the man's face or anything more than the silhouette, but there could be no doubt as to this man's identity.

Captain looked up at the figure. "Yes, lord. I have brought him here unharmed."

"Excellent!" The figure threw out his arms. "Lead him into the welcoming hall and see to his comfort. I shall meet him shortly."

Captain squeezed Storyteller's shoulder. "Let's proceed. Our lord has been waiting for this moment."

Leaving the rest of the guards to manage the crowd, Captain led Storyteller into the palace, his massive hand pushing the smaller man along. If the exterior of the palace was meant to instill a sense of awe, then the interior served to drive home the superiority of its occupant. The narrow corridors were illuminated by narrow windows and the occasional ensconced lantern, granting the bare minimum of light while allowing the fixtures to dance in and out of the shadows. The walls and floors were polished stone and, judging by the lack of wasteland dust and grime, had recently been given a thorough cleaning. The hallway bent at the end, opening onto a spacious room with a long table and chairs - not recovered artifacts half-burned by the disaster, but well-kept pieces that looked as though they had been crafted by hand in the very recent past.

"The great Conqueror will arrive shortly. You are our guest now, and your comfort is our priority." Captain tapped on the wall next to an almost invisible hatch. A moment later, the hatch slid open and Captain removed a tray with a clay jug and several cups, placing it on the table. "From our internal well. It is cleaner than the water you would find in the wastes."

"Thanks, but I'm fine," said Storyteller, exploring the room.

"Then, do you desire food?" Captain walked back to the hatch. "Our stores contain a more diverse assortment than you may be accustomed to."

"No, I need nothing," said Storyteller. "When do you think your lord will arrive?"

"Conqueror appears in his own due time," said Captain. "However, I trust he will not be long. He has been awaiting your appearance for a long time now."

"Might you explain that to me?" said Storyteller. "I am not an powerful man. Why is my presence so vital?"

"Any explanations will come from Conqueror. I am but his servant." Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed down another corridor. Captain immediately sprang to attention. "The lord arrives."

Storyteller spun instinctively towards the source of the sound, a shudder passing through him with each step, quaking in time with the footfalls. He had never felt such inner conflict - mortally terrified and yet also eager, driven to escape but equally afraid that he would miss a rare opportunity. A shadow crossed the threshold, and a moment later, he entered - the figure from the dais. He was not a large man, but imposing nonetheless, with a physique honed by years spent in one of the most inhospitable places on earth. His face was broad and hard, his hands thick and crossed with old scars, the proof of a hundred fights fought and likely won. A red and black mantle fell over his shoulders, sitting above a shirt and trousers that had clearly been tailored just for him. He was crowned with an open helmet made from ivory - or possibly polished bone, though Storyteller preferred to believe that this was not the case.

He threw out his arms as he entered the room. "Ah, so this is the man. The artist, the great bard of the wastes, the Aesop of the age of ruins." He thrust out his hand towards Storyteller. "I am known as the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, undisputed ruler of these lands and all that surround them."

"And I am Storyteller." He extended his hand, which disappeared within Conqueror's mighty grip. "I am to understand that you requested me specifically?"

"Indeed I did." Conqueror looked at Captain. "You are excused."

"Are you sure, lord?" said Captain. "Usually, there is a man present when you meet guests."

"The situation is different," said Conqueror. "This man is not the sort of violent brute that we normally entertain. And there are certain issues that we must discuss in private."

"Very well, my lord." Captain bowed slightly and marched out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. Storyteller wasn't sure if this gave him comfort or not.

Conqueror gazed down the corridor until he could no longer hear Captain's footsteps, then returned his attention to Storyteller. "You must excuse Captain of the North, he is strong and loyal, but rather artless, with no grasp on nuance. It is always a challenge to get him to leave me to myself, and I am sure that he never would have done so if he knew about the knife you carry."

Beads of sweat broke out on Storyteller's face as his thoughts drifted to the blade nestled in his satchel. "It means nothing, I assure you. I am not a man of violence, and I will be rid of it as proof."

Conqueror held up his hand. "No need to placate me, your character is well known. I know that if that weapon were ever to be used against me, it wouldn't be your hand guiding it."

"How do you know this?" said Storyteller. "For that matter, how do you know anything about me? My title, my reputation...I am hardly a legend."

"Ah, a statement guided either by humility or ignorance. My eyes and ears are many, Storyteller, and they are positioned throughout the wastes." Conqueror poured himself a cup of water, swirling it in his hand as though it were a particularly fine vintage, and leaned on one of the chairs. "I do not know everything, but an itinerant fabulist was something that my men would not easily miss. Of course, I am certain that you have heard of me?"

Storyteller pondered his words carefully, searching for a safe answer. "I have heard accounts, yes."

"There's no need to be coy," said Conqueror. "I'm familiar with the stories that men of the wastes tell. You've heard some of those stories, have you not?"

"Yes, I have," said Storyteller, nodding sheepishly. "I have heard well of your exploits."

"You have heard that I am a monster, that I take what I need and destroy those who oppose me? That Pinnacle is nothing more than a great prison?"

"Why did you send for me?" said Storyteller, barely concealing his terror. "I am not an important man, nor am I a threat to you."

"You underestimate your importance," said Conqueror, downing the contents of the cup in one swallow. "My people have acquired a taste for culture and entertainment, a taste that only I can provide for them. That is what I do, provide for them...the wastelanders have no appreciation for what I do, which is find things that my people need. That is why you are here. You see, Storyteller, your particular gifts are most rare and most precious to us." He groaned a bit, his face falling into the half-grimace of a man in the midst of a nostalgia trip. "Storyteller, Conqueror...these titles we've adopted do us little merit, do they?"

"I must admit, I do long for the days when a man was not defined solely by his skill," said Storyteller.

"Then let us shed these titles and greet each other as men once did." Conqueror removed his helmet, revealing a head of short, wispy hair. "I was named Leroy. And you?"

Storyteller looked into Conqueror's eyes as he conjured his will. The name had haunted him as a ghost, and he'd not dared to speak it or even think it since the disaster had changed him. "...Samuel. My name was Samuel."

"Excellent, Samuel! Now, there is much for us to discuss, but I'm sure that you are drained from your voyage. My staff has prepared a small room in the palace for you. Come, I'll show you to your quarters." Conqueror turned back into the corridor, expecting Storyteller to follow him.

Storyteller didn't budge. "Excuse me." Storyteller felt Conqueror's cobalt eyes upon him and immediately regretted interrupting this man. When his head remained attached to his shoulders, he decided to continue with his thought. "...Regarding those stories I've heard about your empire. I must ask how long I am to be kept here. Is this to be my permanent home?"

"The stories that men tell..." Conqueror flashed a glancingly sinister grin. "Don't concern yourself with such matters now."

"But I must know," said Storyteller. "Am I to be a slave as well?"

"All men are slaves. Some merely wear heavier shackles. I would think that one as smart you would understand that." Conqueror closed his eyes for a moment. "But I can understand your point. You assume that because no one ever leaves Pinnacle, that this must mean that no one is allowed to leave. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps no one desires to leave? The gates of Pinnacle are always open, and no guards bar the way. Doesn't this tell you something?"

"I suppose I had not considered that," said Storyteller.

"Perfectly acceptable, my friend," said Conqueror. "I know what you've heard about me in the wastes, what you've been told by the others. But I would hope that a man of vision such as yourself would trust in his own senses and keep his mind open."

"Of course," said Storyteller. "I will try and exhibit more fairness."

"I'll hold you to that." Conqueror took a deep breath, his chest already swelling with pride as he began his case. "Pinnacle has an advanced economy with a fully functional justice system, something almost unheard of in our day. The people here are sheltered both from the cruelties of untamed nature and the violent passions of the criminal gangs that surround us. As a result, it is more stable than any other settlement in the wastes, including the trading centers. But, this is not the part that would appeal to a man such as you. That part you will need to see for yourself."

Conqueror resumed his advance down the corridor, and Storyteller - his fear long since eclipsed by curiosity \- followed closely behind. "In addition to creating day-to-day stability," said Conqueror as he ascended the stairs, "I have also endeavored to salvage and maintain the world's culture. These walls contain a treasure trove of old world knowledge. There are libraries filled with books that were rebound and preserved on these very premises. There are workshops where we pull apart the technology of the old world to find new applications in our current reality. And, as we speak, there are men combing the wastes to recover cultural artifacts of the world as it once was." He stopped at an opening, the word "Gallery" carved into the stone over it. "This is my personal collection. Few have the honor of seeing it, but its doors are always open for special guests."

Storyteller's mind drifted back to the odd collection of baubles he'd seen in Baroness's parlor, and the menageries he'd seen in trading houses before that. These were perhaps somewhat impressive due to the amount of manpower required to accrue them, but there was never much of cultural value within. He expected nothing less from Conqueror's gallery, save perhaps that it was even larger in scope, owing to the degree of cruelty available to assemble it.

What he actually saw was enough to snatch the air from his lungs and root him fast to the spot. This was not a mere collection but a true museum - smaller than the ones Storyteller had toured as a boy, certainly, but no less impressive. Here there were sketches, photographs and documents, carefully preserved behind panes of salvaged glass. Here there were shelves holding religious and cultural icons from a dozen nations, some of which were rare and precious even in the old world. There were displays of jewelry, of clothing, of reels of film that could no longer be watched and music albums that could no longer be played. Also on display were different objects of art, newer ones - things which had been made since the disaster by the new generation, the art of the apocalypse. Each shelf was painstakingly arranged, with the identity of the contents carved into the wood for posterity. Beyond the shelves, Storyteller could see larger objects - machines and statues in the process of restoration - which must have been fetched at no small amount of effort.

Conqueror smiled as he consumed Storyteller's awe. "Does it impress you?"

"That it does. I can't remember the last time I saw such a splendid collection." Storyteller walked among the stacks, each one revealing a new object that he had assumed was lost forever. "The amount of time and effort that must have gone into-"

Storyteller suddenly fell silent as he fell captive to one of the exhibits. It was, on the surface, an unexceptional piece - a battered metal cylinder, perhaps two feet around and four or five feet across, its dull gray surface all but lost beneath a decade and a half of rust. This piece was clearly not factory made, more likely a product of an enthusiast with a garage workshop.

Conqueror walked to Storyteller's side. "You've taken an interest in this object? It was one of the first we found. My men dug it up in a raised area not far from the walls of the city. We don't know what it is, but I believe it to be a time capsule. Unfortunately it's contents will have to remain a mystery until I can find a way open it without damaging what is inside." He looked at Storyteller, who was positively spellbound. "What's wrong? Does it strike a chord? Do you recognize it?"

Storyteller shook off the spell, returning to reality. "No...It just reminded me of something. Something I heard about when I was younger." He turned back to the door. "Perhaps I should lie down after all. Might you show me my quarters?"

"My pleasure, Samuel."

Conqueror led Storyteller down the hall to his quarters, tucked away at the end of a short corridor. The room was small but well-appointed, particularly for a wanderer who'd spent years sleeping wherever we was when night fell. There was a proper bed - by itself a rarity in the wastes - with pillows and blankets, a writing desk crowned with an ensconced lamp, and a wooden chair that was likely carved by hand. There was a window as well, one conspicuously too small to admit a fully grown man. As with every other room, it had been recently cleaned and revealed not even a stray mote of dust.

"Take some time to relax, but remember, the people will want to see you as soon as possible. And of course, we have much yet to discuss." Conqueror withdrew from the room, his eyes not leaving Storyteller until the last minute.

A flurry of images rushed into his mind, memories that he'd long since forced into the shadowy nooks of his consciousness, snapshots of a childhood in a world long since gone. There were the streets with their funny Greek names, and the school where they'd tormented him, and the restaurant where his brother had worked, and the intersection where his father had died, and the hill where the whole thing came to a glorious end. And there was Will Scarborough, not merely a character in a tale, but a real person who had lived, and who had passed on like the rest of them.

"I made it," he whispered to himself. "I'm home."

## CHAPTER 16

~T-minus 58:45~

"Kiyama Hill" was the somewhat grandiose (if technically accurate) term for the highest point in Patmos, located on the outskirts of town just within the limits. Here, the land rose up gently - so gently that an outsider casually walking through the field would be excused for missing it entirely - until it reached an elevation just high enough to give an overview of the town and the surrounding landscape. In another age this had served as the focal point for various local events, ranging from barbecues to local music festivals to revival meetings. These had thinned over time, but the death blow came with Joshua Jameson's announcement of the site of his lab, located less than a mile north of the hill. Sensing that this would not be a feasible site for the future, planners of these events either canceled indefinitely or moved them outside of Patmos, where they soon lost any connection to the town. In time the hill was neglected and allowed to vanish beneath a thicket of brambles and weeds, forgotten by all but a handful of stargazers until they were driven away by lab security.

Perhaps Will Scarborough was the only one left who had any fondness for Kiyama Hill. To him, it was almost a sacred place, one inhabited by the spirits of his childhood memories - but more than that, it was the perfect spot for his party, the last party that there would ever be. First, it overlooked the lab, and whatever the end of all things was going to look like, it would be most impressive at the source. Second, it was one of the only places in town free of Jameson's electronic eyes.

This second trait made it useful for another purpose - the interment of his "historical preservation chamber," a final reminder of the world of men left over for whatever species might someday claim the ruins. Lab security had a fine view of the northern slope of the hill but it was just steep enough to obscure their view of the south, so anyone keeping to that side was simply not their concern. Provided he worked with haste, he could finish and make a stealthy retreat without any additional hassle.

Will's companions were few, for he needed few: Merely a shovel, a sled to drag the capsule, his phone, and the reassuring voice of Joshua Jameson, newly crowned enemy of Patmos. With discontent spreading rapidly across the town, the country, and even the planet, the old man was spinning as he never had before. He went off script for his daily broadcast, reaching desperately for any defense, any reed that might soften his fall:

_"...There is a general lack of understanding of safety protocols among the general public. I do not put the blame on you - your own lives are hectic enough without studying the minutiae of power plant maintenance. No, I place the blame firmly on the_ F _ourth_ E _state. In their zeal for ratings, the press have taken to reporting on rumor divorced from fact and context. Consider this: When our project was announced, we had to submit it to a state board and then to a federal board to ensure that it met every standard. Since the start of Rudra's construction and testing, we have welcomed three federal safety boards and seven international boards to study our protocols. We have been investigated an average of once per t_ wo _months by outside parties_ since the start of the project, before the lab was even fully constructed _._ Internally _, we run daily checks of every component of the engine and match them against computer models. Not one of the thousands of tests has suggested anything in line with the fears spread by the mass media."_

"I acknowledge that many of you have reasons of your own to doubt my words, but I pray that you can trust your own judgment. What reason would I have to commission a project that I knew to be dangerous? What motives would lie with the United States government, or the other private investors? And most importantly, why would Dr. Richter promote a project that he believed might cause a catastrophe? Even if you lack trust in me, you must sure admit that he had no motive at all."

Glancing up from his work, Will spotted Sara coming up the hill, a camera bag over one shoulder. "So you decided to come up after all?" he said, pulling out his earbuds.

"Tell yourself that," said Sara, kneeling to retrieve her camera. "I'm up here to get a better shot of the protest."

"There's a protest?"

"You really do get tunnel vision, don't you?" Sara tipped her head toward the lab as she locked her zoom lens into place. "Take a look."

Will dropped his shovel and walked to Sara's side. "Wow."

What had started as some idle talk at a diner and a coffee shop and a few petty acts of vandalism had blossomed in short order into something grander and far more organized. The lab was engulfed by clusters of protesters, their ranks half-encircling the fortress-like perimeter. This was the same eclectic group that Will had seen earlier - young and old, outsiders and lifelong residents, all united by a chorus of outrage. The crowd was only growing, groups of people parking their cars haphazardly on the prairie and spilling out to add their voices to the din. Just inside the perimeter, the lab guards checked their submachine guns and adjusted their next-generation body armor - special equipment called out by the head of security, likely for its intimidating effect, though the sight hardly pacified the crowd. Then there were the reporters, men and women from those news outlets who had been invited on a tour and were now being held at bay, caught up in a wholly unanticipated story.

"Look at all of them," said Will. "There have to be...two hundred people down there."

Sara rose to one knee and brought the viewfinder to her eye. "Closer to two-fifty, maybe even three hundred, I'd say. They're trying to bring in more people from out of town, so it might clear four hundred by the evening."

Will chuckled as he appraised the crowd. "Shit. I really didn't think those guys had it in them."

"You'd be surprised what people will do when their lives are at stake. And it's not just here. There's a protest in New York at Jameson Enterprises HQ, and word is that damn near every Jameson office in the country has a few people out front." Sara adjusted the lens, pushing her vision into the facility itself. "Shit, they must have called in more guards for this."

"Probably scared that these guys are gonna tear down the gates and come in."

"These people aren't like that. Hell, if anything..." Sara lowered the camera. "...And here comes Aaron Bellamy. The guards are just a cheap show of strength, that's just like him. I bet he's pissing his pants over this - after all the strings his dad pulled to get him the job, they've gotta be watching him extra close."

"Good enough reason to stay away, says me." Will picked up his shovel and returned to his hole. "I wouldn't test those guys. Who knows what they'll do if they're challenged."

"What, you're afraid now?" Sara adjusted the lens on her camera. "Damn it, I'm too far away. I'm getting a better position."

"Don't go down there. You don't want to get shot, do you? Sara? Do you?" Will twisted his head to see Sara halfway down the hill, sprinting for the crowd. "Wait, don't do that!" He tried to give chase, but gravity made a mockery of him. Like most people, Will badly underestimated the decline of Kiyama Hill and gained momentum at an unexpectedly fast rate. As he passed Sara (who seemed a bit startled, at least from the fraction of a second he could see her face), he stumbled, nearly falling over his own feet, recovering and then stumbling again. He was out of control, wheeling madly into the crowd.

Ahead of him, he could hear a tinny voice rising up over the murmur of the protesters. "And I ask you: Did any of you vote for this? Did anyone here sit down and decide 'I'd like to let an oligarch run a dangerous experiment in our backyard'? Did you agree to that? Because you're paying for it, don't forget about that. You're the ones paying to be monitored. You're the ones paying to be shaken down and lied to. Isn't that how it always goes? Any time we the people need something, Uncle Sam can't find the money, but I tell you he opens his wallet wide when one of the masters of the universe wants a new toy. He opens that walled wide when the capitalist class has a big idea!"

Will came to an abrupt stop at the source of the voice, pitching over onto his hands and knees at the man's feet. He paused mid-rant, staring along with the rest at the new arrival. Though he was used to being noticed, Will had seldom felt as conspicuous as he did when he rose to his feet. Before him was the speaker, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, a miniature amplified attached to his belt, a microphone in one hand.

"Brother, you look familiar," said the man, silencing his microphone. "Might you be Will Scarborough?"

Will sized up the crowd before he answered, taking note of the mutterings. "...Yeah."

"Yeah? Doug Wellstone, nice to have you here." His eyes darted into the crowd. "You with her?"

Will traced Doug's gaze to Sara, who was elbowing her way into the crowd. "Not really."

"Sorry, brother. For a minute there, I thought you might be a friend of Roderick Butler's."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Doug flicked the switch on his microphone and tossed an arm over Will's shoulder. "Friends, we have a special guest. This here is William Scarborough. Now, you newbloods might not know him, but the old hands do. This guy has balls of steel. In the face of corporate intimidation and police brutality, he stood up and let everyone know what was coming. Even when we made fun of him, he would not still his voice." He held the microphone up to Will. "Say something to the people, brother."

Will's eyes darted from the microphone to the crowd, all staring straight at him. "Uh...Looks like I was right all along?"

Burst of applause erupted from the crowd. "He's right," said Doug. "We were asleep, and Will Scarborough's eyes were wide open. In fact, since he was so far ahead of the crowd, I think we owe him a few minutes of our time." He removed the amplifier from his own waistband and affixed it to Will's. "Come on, brother. Share with us."

"Uh, I don't...well, okay." Will gingerly took the microphone as though he wasn't sure what to do with it. "Well...I don't know so much about corporate fat-cats or police corruption or government spy cams - although I'm definitely against that last one. I really don't like those at all. But one thing I know is that people should tell the truth. And when you're powerful and your decisions affect other people, then you're really obligated to tell the whole truth." He pointed at the lab. "They should have told you the truth from the beginning."

The applause returned, louder this time and spiced with shouts of approval. Will felt himself relax, the oratory coming more smoothly as his natural panache returned to the surface.

"Now, I don't want to blame the scientists or the techs, or any of the other regular people who happened to work in there. What I hear, they were in the dark just as much as we were. Not everyone who works at the lab is an asshole, I imagine most of these guys really thought they were doing good." Glancing back at the gate, Will saw Aaron glowering at him. "Hey, here's a guy I know! Aaron Bellamy, head of lab security. You might remember him from that big trivia fiasco from a few years back, the one where they really made him look the fool. Say 'Hi,' Aaron!"

Aaron flipped Will the bird. "You're going to pay for this, Scarborough."

"Ooh, guess he's upset with me. He's really a very smart guy, though. It's not his fault he lost. Hell, maybe if they'd let him win, he wouldn't be so eager to commit genocide in small town Illinois."

"Tell us about the fascists!" yelled someone from the crowd. "Tell us about the pigs!"

"The cops? Oh, don't believe what you hear, that was overblown. Just a couple of officers doing their job, which in this case happened to involve taking orders from one particular hard-ass son of a bitch." From the corner of his eye, Will caught Aaron holding up three fingers, a sinister grin on his face. "And there he is! Hey, got more fingers this time. Guess we're friends again, huh?"

Will's voice vanished into a burst of static, the amplifier coughing up raw noise. Doug was at Will's side, fumbling with switches on the device. "Sorry everyone, technical difficulties."

"Hey, no problem, I can just talk over...uh..." Will spotted a cluster of people staring at their phones and arguing. "...Guys, what's up?"

"Signal's dead," said one of them. "People are trying to call and we're getting cut off."

Doug checked his own phone. "Damn it...anyone else getting a signal?" A chorus of "no"s greeted him. "They must have some kind of radio frequency jammer in there."

"A signal jammer, huh?" Will scanned the reporters milling around the production trucks, taking note of the technical crews fighting with the equipment. "Hey, you guys getting a signal?" One of the reporters shook her head. "Wow, I guess you're right."

"That can't be right, they can't jam all those frequencies at once," said Doug. "Man, what kind of military-grade shit do they have in there?"

"You know what? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter! We've got everything we need right here!" Will shoved the microphone and amplifier into Doug's waiting hands and lifted his own voice over the chatter of the crowd. "Look, everyone, we've got plenty of people here. And hey, I've always thought we relied too much on electronic entertainment, anyway. Back in the day, they made their own fun, and maybe we should try doing that. How about some impressions? All right, I've got one I've been working on..."

In a display of adopted ostentation, Will cleared his throat, puffed out his chest, and began to speak in an exaggerated avuncular voice. "Good evening, friends, neighbors, heathens. This is Joshua Jameson." There were scattered laughs and cheers from the crowd. "As you know, I have doomed the sinful human race to extinction by holy fire. I fully expect to be raptured away to heaven before that happens, of course, but the rest of you are free to burn down here on earth before your one-way trip to hell."

"Now, I'd like to say something about Dr. Richter, my main man, the genius who brought me the tool of your purification. I first me him in a chat room for supervillains, and I was very impressed by his ideas. We hoped that he could speak to you himself, but it can be bit difficult to understand him through the bouts of maniacal laughter. Also, I'm afraid that his secret lair in the Antarctic doesn't get wi-fi."

"And now, let me introduce my old friend, Mr. Zhang. Now, those heretics in the media have spread a lot of lies about this dear man. First, I strongly refute the suggesting that he's killed more people than you've ever met. Why, if you stop for a moment and consider how many...uh...how many..."

The laughter in the crowd quickly subsided as all eyes drifted from Will to the gate at his back. Following their gaze, Will spotted a new arrival - a vehicle, a heavy truck with a satellite dish-like object mounted on the roof. Aaron was leaning out of the passenger door, bullhorn in hand.

"Attention, degenerates," said Aaron, the malice in his voice not lost through the distortion. "You have thirty seconds to disperse or we will disperse you."

Sara ran to Will's side, snapping pictures wildly. "Get moving, Will. If this is what I think it is, you don't want to be here."

"Yeah, like I'm afraid of that twerp."

"Damn it." Sara fled at once, discarding camera accessories in her wake.

Will threw his arms wide, hefting his chin toward the truck. "Hit me with your best shot, Aaron. I ain't budging. Come and move me!"

Aaron continued staring Will down, but the rage was gone from his eyes - there was something more insidious, something subtle and wicked and cruel. He exited the vehicle with a shrug and a wave and took a few steps back, arms crossed, running his tongue along his teeth. For a moment, Will thought that the device (whatever it even was) had malfunctioned, or the operator had lost his nerve. There was nothing to suggest otherwise - no light, no vibration, no sound. The first sound he heard was a scream to his rear, then another, then more and more. Will could feel his skin growing warm with tension as he anticipated what was to come. Then it was warmer, and warmer still, and he could feel an ache creeping up from within, a sense of panic, an ever-growing pain. People were running around before him, patting at their skin and clothes as though they were extinguishing invisible flames - and then he knew why, for he could feel the same thing. At first he tried to endure it, to demonstrate his toughness against this invisible weapon, but it was hopeless. He was being cooked from the inside, burned by flames that felt absolutely real, so real that he was ready for his skin to blacken and peel back. There was nothing to do but run - run away from the source, flee and hope that the agony didn't chase him. He didn't even know where he was running, he barely registered his surroundings, though he could swear that he heard a laugh - Aaron's laugh - as he escaped.

Perhaps it was instinct that drew Will back to Kiyama during his flight, or perhaps it was simply happenstance, but that's where he found himself when sense returned to him, lying in the sticker-filled grass on its slope. He ran his hands over his arms, feeling for injuries, but found none - no burns, no scorch marks, nothing to tell the tale of his ordeal. The pain was gone, merely a memory - but not a memory easily lost, not something that he would soon forget.

"Are you okay?"

At length, Will became aware of a figure standing over him, carrying a camera bag in disarray and sporting a look that spoke more to contempt than compassion.

"Sara?"

"I told you not to stand there."

"And I told you not to go down there." Will forced himself to a sitting position. "Am I burned anywhere?"

"You're fine," said Sara. "I've heard of these things. Supposedly, they don't cause any permanent harm, although that's only if you want to believe the military."

"You know what that was?" said Will.

Sara pulled out her camera, studying the pictures she took. "It's military tech. Same with that radio jammer, I'll bet. How do they get all this stuff, anyway? Jameson's connections run a lot deeper than I thought."

Pushing through the lingering pain, Will turned his eyes back to the hill. "Did anyone take my preservation chamber?"

"It's fine." Sara put her camera into its bag. "You need a hand getting up?"

"That's okay, I can manage." Will winced a bit, then looked back at Sara. "Hey, who's Roderick Butler?"

"Huh?"

"Someone down there mentioned you and asked if I knew Roderick Butler. Who's that?"

"No one. Nothing to do with this." Sara slung the camera bag over one shoulder. "I'd better get going. So had you, you don't want the Jameson people to find you up here?"

"Who's Roderick Butler?"

Sara waved to Will as she walked away. "See you, Will. Try not to get shot before Sunday night."

Will raised to his feet, giving the once-over to Jameson Labs, looking for Aaron or the old man or anyone who might help him make sense of the world. There were only a handful of guards shedding their heavy equipment and returning to their normal patrols. It was a blessing - the capsule wasn't in the ground yet. That was what mattered; it was the only thing that mattered, in fact. His pain would soon be gone, but his work was going to outlast him.

## CHAPTER 17

~Date Unknown~

It was a fine evening for Storyteller's first Pinnacle exhibition - the air stirred and cooled by an early autumn breeze, a sea of stars glistening above the lamps that ringed the pavilion. Most of the town gathered in the space at the end of the main thoroughfare - the subtle curve of the palace facade forming an amphitheater, another demonstration of Conqueror's obsessive attention to detail. The massive crowd was certainly a change for a man used to entertaining groups of a dozen or so at most, and Storyteller himself became lost at times in his moment of celebrity. The feeling never lasted long before being sundered by one thing - the great tyrant himself, the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, watching the spectacle from his place above the crowd with the faintest of smiles.

Following the exhibition, Conqueror's men led Storyteller directly back to his chambers and, after checking once more to see that his needs were met, left him to rest. Rest would not come, though - Storyteller was truly exhausted, but sleep eluded him. He couldn't get his mind off of the object in Conqueror's gallery, the one Conqueror had speculated was a time capsule. It had reminded him of something he had heard about but never seen, the "historical preservation chamber" that his brother had spoken of so often. Had this thing actually survived for so long? The chances were remote, and yet there it was, sitting in Conqueror's gallery, just a stroll down a short corridor.

Finally, Storyteller's curiosity got the better of him, and he could wait no longer. Rising from his bed, he crept to the door and poked his head through. Luck was on his side \- Conqueror was not concerned that Storyteller might flee, and had left the corridor unguarded. With the lanterns extinguished, the area was dark, but there was just enough ambient light to guide him down the hall and into the gallery. Without Conqueror's presence, there was a peace here that Storyteller had felt nowhere else in the wastes, a kind of magic that was drawing him back in time. Moonbeams fell through the narrow windows, illuminating the capsule with a ring of bluish light - nothing short of fate itself, beckoning Storyteller to proceed.

Storyteller knelt down before the capsule, running his hands over the hatch. The latch and hinges were rusted through and through - no doubt the reason Conqueror hadn't attempted to open it. There were considerable dents in the hatch, warping it enough to give a narrow glimpse into the interior. After fifteen years of infiltration by dirt and moisture, Storyteller wondered if anything inside had survived, but it was far too late to ask such questions. Pushing aside his doubt, he grabbed hold of the latch and pulled with all his might. There was a loud and labored creak, enough to send a burst of fear through Storyteller's frame, but that dread vanished a moment later when the hatch swung open and surrendered its secrets. The moonlight fell on a tiny engraving on the inside of the hatch, worn by age and exposure but still mostly readable:

INTER--D APRIL 20-- ON THIS SPOT - P--M-S, ILLINO--

BY WILLI-M SCARB-RO--H

Storyteller let his fingers rest on the engraving, absorbing the detail on each letter, slowing to a crawl as his hands landed upon the name of the town and the name at the bottom. The dreamy fog faded before such concrete proof \- it was real, and he'd made it. His eyes drifted to the interior of the capsule which, as he had predicted, was filled with a generation's worth of dirt. Gingerly he dug his hands into the mess, feeling around with eager but cautious hands for anything of value. Most of what he touched was in fragments, shreds of tangible history crushed beneath the infiltrating soil or simply ruined by inevitable time. But there was one thin object at the very bottom that felt intact. Digging through the dirt with renewed vigor, Storyteller fetched the object - an ordinary manila envelope, completely unprotected from the elements yet miraculously intact. He peeled up the flap with fearful fingers, silently praying that the water-damaged envelope wouldn't disintegrate in his hands. Inside, he found a sheaf of crumpled loose-leaf papers covered in hand-written script. Much of it was difficult to read, the ink blurred and faded after so many years, but the title at the top was still clear:

Valeri the Thief

Storyteller laughed aloud. "He saved it. After all these years-"

The sound of frenzied footsteps and the roar of barely coherent voices coming from down the hall interrupted Storyteller's thoughts. Spinning reflexively towards the door, he spotted a set of flickering lights closing fast on the gallery. Short of time and options, he crammed the papers into one of his pockets and froze fast in the shadows at the edge of the moonlight, hoping against hope that no one would spot him. Next there was a flash of movement, ranks of lantern-bearing guards racing through the corridor one after the other, barking orders and reports to each other. Storyteller's breath caught in his throat as one of them entered the gallery, the light from his lantern cutting through the doorway.

The guard stared at Storyteller, one hand holding the lantern aloft, the other wrapped around the hilt of a broad blade. "Found him! Gallery!" he screamed.

A second guard entered the gallery, his shadowy form towering over Storyteller. He held up his own lantern, giving Storyteller a look at his face - Captain, the man who had first found him out in the wastes. Captain gestured to the other guards. "False alarm. This is not him. Continue the search." As the other guards departed, Captain grabbed Storyteller by the shoulder and pulled him up. "You're not supposed to be out of your quarters this late. It could be dangerous."

Storyteller recovered his breath, hoping that Captain wouldn't want to search him. "Sorry, I wasn't aware of the rules."

Captain's eyes were hidden in shadow, but Storyteller could still feel the man's gaze upon him. "Very well. I trust you can find your way back?"

"I think I can manage," said Storyteller.

Storyteller obeyed the order, sliding around the guards as he returned to his room. No one else would harass him that night, and as the hours crept on the sound of movement faded into the night once again. Still, he was positive that someone was watching him as he walked, but this was not unusual - he had felt this ever since entering Pinnacle. After the night's events, he was certain that there would be eyes on him in the future, probing for signs of betrayal.

Sleep did not come to Storyteller that night, and he had never been happier to see the sun rise. The break of day returned life to Pinnacle's streets, its citizens emerging one after the other to take their places at the wheels of society. It reminded Storyteller of the daily routines of the old world, the cycle which he had always taken for granted as a child. In another place it may have been comforting, but here there was something ominous about it. Even after one day, he could sense something amiss in Pinnacle, some part of this wasteland paradise that had been concealed from him, some machinery driving the place that was not his to see.

"Are you awake?" A guard appeared at the door, speaking to Storyteller in a firm tone.

"I am," said Storyteller, rising from his bed.

"Good. Conqueror is taking breakfast on the dais, and he would like you to join him."

Storyteller didn't answer, merely rising to follow the guard. He was quickly learning that Conqueror's "requests" were truly the demands he made of people he respected - there was no point in asking further questions, and still less in arguing. The walk was an uneventful one - another lesson Storyteller had learned was that curiosity was a potential hazard - and he soon found himself at a curtain-draped passage at the top of the palace.

"Go on," said the guard, standing to one side and drawing back the curtain.

Storyteller shielded his eyes to the harsh desert sun as he stepped outside. The dais was little more than a great open air platform with a low wall around the edges, a place designed for the delivery of speeches and the issuing of edicts. Conqueror was already present, seated at a square table in the center of the dais, a large platter of food sitting before him - dried and cooked meat, grain meal, several dark-colored bread rolls, small jars containing a variety of seasonings, and a large clay pitcher of water. Foodstuffs of this type and quality were precious and rare in the wastes, but they were not what Storyteller noticed first. Rather, it was the long-barreled revolver resting on the table in front of Conqueror, just within his reach should he need to use it.

Conqueror showed his teeth as Storyteller entered, an expression Storyteller could only hope was a smile. "Good morning, Samuel. Please, have a seat. I had my staff prepare extra this morning in hopes that you'd be awake in time to join me."

Storyteller stayed where he was, staring at the revolver. "...Hoping I'd be awake in time?"

"Well, I know that one doesn't always keep a regular schedule when out in world beyond. I thought you might be accustomed to sleeping late, rising on your own schedule." Conqueror slowly stretched out his arm to retrieve one of the rolls. "Assuming you slept at all. There was no shortage of activity last night."

"It seems that I'm making a habit of apologizing," said Storyteller. "My curiosity got the better of me last night, and I know that I violated some of your rules. Rest assured, it won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't. Really, I should thank you for opening that capsule. We haven't had a chance to examine its contents yet, but it should prove very enlightening." Conqueror leaned forward, head resting on his chin. "Tell me, did you find anything of worth within?"

Storyteller's thoughts drifted to the crumpled sheets of paper in his pocket, the ones he hadn't thought to check during the night. "...There may have been something there once, but I fear that it is all dust and ruin now. Time is the nemesis of all things, you know."

"That it is." Conqueror followed Storyteller's gaze. "You were looking at this?" he said, resting his hand on the revolver. "Oh, this has nothing to do with you. Perhaps you thought that this was a clumsy act of intimidation?"

"If we're being honest, it had crossed my mind," said Storyteller.

Conqueror smiled again, a sight that still gave Storyteller a faint queasy feeling when he saw it. "Not at all, Samuel, this is merely self-defense. Even a pacifist such as you must understand the value in arming yourself in dangerous times. You do carry a knife, after all."

"That was a gift of sorts, actually," said Storyteller. "I have never raised a hand against another."

"Such a noble sentiment for a brutal time," said Conqueror.

"Perhaps nobility does not play into it," said Storyteller. "I've never had the need. There were always giants around to shelter me."

"Even in the old world?"

"My brother protected me then."

"And you learned nothing from him, from what he did on your behalf?"

"On the contrary, he taught me a great deal. His lessons are all that remain of him now."

"I see." Conqueror slid the revolver closer to himself. "In any case, this does not concern you. One of the workers escaped into the palace last night, and my men haven't found him yet. This is just a precaution, in case he's armed himself."

"That actually brings me to what I wished to discuss yesterday." Storyteller took the seat opposite Conqueror. "You were a bit uncertain about whether or not I would be allowed to leave Pinnacle."

Conqueror reclined in his chair, his fingertips meeting each other. "Then you still doubt that my city can fulfill your needs?"

"It's not that," said Storyteller. "I am not a man to stay in one place for very long. It is in my nature to wander, to discover the world."

"Of course it is!" said Conqueror. "I wouldn't expect you to give up your travels. There are many unique opportunities I can provide for you."

"I'm afraid that it wouldn't be the same," said Storyteller. "A wanderer must make his own path, he cannot follow one that others make for him."

Conqueror lifted his chin just a fraction. "I can understand that. We are very different, but we do share that urge for the endless march, the unveiling of new horizons. But I don't think that's what you mean. Might you be asking if I would keep you here by force?"

"Certainly, it is within your power to do so," said Storyteller.

"Of course it is," said Conqueror. "I could shackle you to the wall if I so desired. I could shatter your knees, if I felt that the shackles were insufficient.""

"But having the power to do something does not justify it." Storyteller poured himself a cup of water. "I find it easier to make these points through stories. Do you mind if I tell you one?"

"By all means," said Conqueror. "It's why you are here."

"Thank you." Storyteller sipped at his water, then pushed aside the chair and stood before Conqueror. "There was an old hermit who had lived alone in the woods for many years. He bore no fear in solitude, but he felt the pains of loneliness every day. One morning, the hermit awoke to find a songbird perched on a tree just outside of his shack. The bird's melody was the sweetest sound to reach the hermit's ears in as long as he could remember. He sat until mid-day, watching the songbird prance and listening to its song, and by the evening he felt uplifted, as though he were the bird taking flight."

"But the next morning, the songbird did not return. The old hermit sat by the window all day, but not a note reached his ear. He wept all night, from the rise of the moon until the first rays of dawn broke through the window. Suddenly, the hermit heard a familiar song. Racing to the window, he saw that the songbird had returned. His heart leaped with joy, but sank just as fast as he realized that the bird could leave at any time and never return."

"The hermit, not willing to let such beauty leave his life, devised a plan. He crafted a cage of oak and pine, and wove a net from vines. Every morning, just before daybreak, he left his shack and hid just out of sight. Finally, the songbird returned. The hermit swung the net, ensnaring the bird before the creature knew what was happening, and shut him away in the cage. He was overjoyed at his turn of fortune, and celebrated well into the evening."

"The next morning, the hermit rose from his bed and sat by the window, where his prize was suspended. But that day, the songbird did not sing. It screeched and flapped and dug at the cage with its beak. The hermit was puzzled by the bird's behavior - he provided everything the beast needed, why was it behaving like this? The next day was no different, nor the day after. Gradually, the hermit acknowledged that the songbird simply wanted to leave. However, this was something he would not accept. He took the knife from his table and thrust it through the cage and into the songbird's breast. He removed the poor creature's body and, working through the night, stuffed it so that it had the appearance of life. The songbird sat in its little cage until the hermit died. It never again left, but neither did it sing."

"Bravo." Conqueror bowed his head. "And your point is not lost. You assume that if you wished to leave, that I would bind your body to stop you."

"Is this not how you control your workers?" said Storyteller.

"They are different." Conqueror drew to his full height, his skin glistening as bronze in the sun, less a man than a statue given life. "Not all men are of a kind, Samuel. The workers are little more than beasts, much like the raiders that prey upon them. Such men respond as beasts do, to force and nothing else. But a reasoning man such as you-"

Conqueror's thoughts were breached by fresh arrivals - a group of guards dragging something in tow. At length, Storyteller could see that their bounty was still moving. It was a prisoner, a slender man with ashen skin and desolate eyes, one who looked every bit a corpse even at he shielded himself. The ugly shackles that bound his wrists, the ones that the guards used to drag him, were a burden he could scarcely lift.

"We caught him, lord," said one of the guards. "He made it as far as the welcoming hall, but not a step further."

"The welcoming hall! So close to the entrance! Impressive, truly. There are so few who come that close to the daylight." Conqueror picked up the revolver, snapping open the cylinder, sliding a cartridge into the first chamber and snapping the cylinder shut. "You have great ambition for a beast, a fire that's rare in your kind. Unfortunately, you have no more intelligence. Your fire has only condemned you."

Storyteller ran to Conqueror's side. "What are you doing? This man means you no harm!"

"Doesn't he?" said Conqueror. "Not today, and maybe not the next. But a beast with ambition will bite one day. Better to put it down before that day comes."

"This is not a wild animal!" said Storyteller. "He doesn't have fangs or claws, he can barely lift his own bones, let alone a weapon!"

"Perhaps not now, but in time he will find the strength. Such is his nature. As long he has that rage within, he is a threat."

Nausea coursed through Storyteller's body as he searched for an argument. "Is this meant to be some demonstration of strength? Far better to forgive him, and prove that you are strong enough that you know no fear!"

"I think you are the one who is afraid. You are afraid of what we must do." Conqueror brought the barrel level with the prisoner's head. "Consider this a lesson. Not all lives are worth preserving."

Time halted as Storyteller's gaze flew back and forth between Conqueror and his helpless victim. He could see the tyrant's finger stroke the trigger, ready to deliver the death blow but halting each time. The prisoner could see it too, and he winced in time with Conqueror's movements, his inevitable death playing out in his head each time. Storyteller felt no less tortured, praying that Conqueror would put the gun away and spare this poor soul, praying that he would spare him the sight of this needless brutality. Finally, when he could take no more anticipation, he threw himself between the prisoner and the revolver. "Stop this madness!" he screamed.

"You would shield this man?" said Conqueror, resting his finger on the trigger guard. "He is a stranger. Do you believe that he would do the same for you?"

"It does not matter," said Storyteller. "He is alive. As long as he is alive, we are as kin."

Conqueror lowered his weapon, a smirk gracing his lips. "So many ways to control a reasoning man." He handed the revolver to one of the guards. "Take him back to his quarters. Use stronger chains this time."

Storyteller watched in awe as the guards dragged the prisoner away. "After your speech, you opted to let him live? Why?"

"I was merely making a point," said Conqueror. "There was some truth in what you said. I'd not waste anything as precious as a cartridge on him."

"Who was he?"

"Merely a worker."

Storyteller locked Conqueror in his gaze. "A slave."

"Words, nothing more." Conqueror clapped his hands together. "That was an admirable thing you did, and courageous. But you haven't answered my question. Do you think he would have done the same for you?"

"There is no way to know," said Storyteller.

"I think you could guess. That man would have watched you die and never entertained a second thought. That's why I have to bind him in heavy shackles of iron. But a man like you can be mastered in more subtle ways. Your shackles will never be as heavy as his." Conqueror walked over to the edge of the dais. "I doubt that there is one person below who would have done as you did. You are unusual, Samuel, not just in your profession but in your behavior."

Storyteller was silent for a moment, pondering Conqueror's comment. "There is something hidden behind your words."

"I am merely stating a fact." Conqueror gazed out over the crowded thoroughfare. "A fact about the moral caliber of all the men and women beneath us. You may be the only one with a heart. The only one who would weep if one of them were to perish."

"Now I see it clearly," said Storyteller, gritting his teeth. "You are threatening to punish them in my stead. To impose violence against people you claim to care for?"

"As you said yourself, I certainly have that power."

"You are every bit the monster I imagined."

"Do not trouble yourself, I have no intention of killing anyone today," said Conqueror. "Perhaps I am a demon after all, but I am not a monster, as you say."

"I fail to grasp the difference."

"Ambition, Samuel. The ambition to create order. A monster is a beast, it seeks only to ruin." Conqueror closed his head and breathed deeply of the dusty desert air. "I seek to build something new, to create a civilization where once there were but tribes clinging to the fringe of existence. I would not harm one of my subjects, but less for morality's sake than out of simple practicality."

"This is a cold decision," said Storyteller.

"These are cold times. The old world was a fine place for saints, but our world needs demons more." Conqueror swung back to Storyteller. "I have not been fully forthright with you. You were not brought here for them, but for me."

"I don't understand," said Storyteller.

"You know things about the world as it was, things I want to know as well. That's why you are here." Conqueror walked back to the door leading into the palace. "You wanted to know how long you must stay? Very well. You will not stay here forever. I will keep you long enough to entertain my subjects - perhaps six months, or nine, or a year - and then my men will take you safely back to the wastelands. In return for this most rare of favors, you will grant me your invaluable assistance."

Storyteller walked over to Conqueror. "How am I to assist you?"

"You lived in this area once, did you not?" said Conqueror.

"That I did," said Storyteller.

"There is something we found under the capital," said Conqueror. "Something that defies all explanation. But if you can explain it to me, my little songbird, then you will surely fly again."

CHAPTER 18

~T-minus 57:02~

There was something bent about the flow of time in Patmos, or at least that was Will's perception. The afternoon advanced at half-speed, and even slower with his constant glances over the horizon for the swarm of guards he was expecting, but in another sense it was marching at an accelerated pace, and he simply couldn't work quickly enough to beat the setting sun. The capsule was in the ground, not as deep as he would have liked but at least it was done and he could put it behind him. Ahead of him was a short drive home, which felt like a voyage into dangerous territory. Icaria Street was abandoned, the protesters driven away by security or otherwise defeated due to some combination of fear, exhaustion and despair. There were still police, though, roaming the streets in large numbers, cleaning up the damage from the riot and prodding into alleys and businesses for potential agitators. There were too many officers to be local - these men had been called in from the state, and Will could even spot the occasional lab security guard working with them. The town was theirs, officially under lockdown. Will drove at exactly the speed limit, knowing that his newly discovered local fame would do him no favors.

Home was a welcome sight after the rigors and trials of the day, a refuge from the growing madness. It was not yet 3:00 - the house would likely be empty for a time at least, exactly what Will needed. As he pushed open the front door, he spotted a cluster of tiny blisters on his forearm - the product of Aaron's military toy. "Great. Harmless, my ass." His first goal was relief for the irritation, which was already starting to burn and itch. As he passed Sam's room, he heard the faint sounds of movement coming from behind the closed door. "Sam? You home?" He knocked on the door. "Sam?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing? School isn't even out yet, is it?"

"Ended early."

"Ended early? Why?"

"Don't know."

"Okay, this is stupid. I'm coming in." Pulling the door open, Will spotted Sam sitting on his bed next to a pile of ragged old notebooks, selecting them one by one and mechanically ripping the pages from the binding, leaving the shreds in a growing pile that ringed the bed. "Whoa, what the hell is this? Hey!" He grabbed Sam by the wrist. "What are you doing? These are your old stories. Have you even typed these up?"

"Not gonna." Sam wrenched free from Will. "Leave me alone."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen." Will took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Okay, first things first. Why are you home."

"Classes canceled."

"Now why would they do that?"

"No students."

"Would you knock it off with these little bulletins? Talk to me like we're brothers and not like I'm some pest of a salesman, will ya?" Will picked through the torn pages. "Man, look at how old these are. 'Sam Scarborough, age 6.' Yeah, I forgot all about this. Do you remember this? Eh, of course you do, you remember everything."

"I guess."

"You remember how you got started on this? That counselor...oh, what was her name? Uh...doesn't matter. You know, though, the lady they had us talk to after dad died? She said it would help to write our thoughts. Of course, there was never much in my head. Man, I bet you've got the first one you ever wrote. Remember that?"

Sam's eyes sullenly moved to Will's arm. "What's wrong with your skin?"

"Oh, this?" Will twisted his forearm, studying the blisters. "Battle scar. Ended up at a protest against my will, got cooked by some kind of sci-fi weapon. As much as it hurt, I'm surprised it wasn't a lot worse than this. I'm shocked I have any skin left, to be honest."

"Protest?" Sam looked down at his hands. "At the lab?'

"You heard about that, huh? It was nuts." Will slapped his hands on his knees. "All right, we're off topic. Why did they cancel your classes?"

"Everyone left," said Sam. "Every period, there were fewer and fewer students. By the end of the day, they were calling off classes. The building was empty. It was like something took us away, and everyone else was gone forever."

"All right, that answers one question," said Will. "Now, why are you destroying all these notebooks?"

"Does it matter? They'll all be gone soon anyway." Sam looked up at Will. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't..." Will pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "...I didn't know what to say."

"Bullshit!" shrieked Sam. "You talked to everyone! Everyone in town knows!"

"That was different!" Will caught himself and lowered his voice. "You know, I've never had to deal with this big stuff before. There's always been someone else to do that for me."

Sam studied the remnants of the notebook in his hands. "It doesn't matter. It's all over, isn't it? It's all going to burn up and I've been wasting my time on these stupid things."

"Okay, I never want to hear you talk like that," said Will. "You haven't been wasting your time. I've wasted more time than anyone on earth, so I think I'd know. You have a skill, and some day that skill's really going to pay off."

"You don't believe that." Sam tossed the ruined notebook to the floor.

"All right, first thing, let's stop destroying these." Will scooped up the remnants of the notebook and all the others and gathered them on the bed, the stacks of pages falling over and sliding away from him as he struggled to organize them. "You know what happens when you tear up a page from a story? You kill the people on that page. No, really! They aren't just words on a page, they're people, and when you destroy the page, they die. I really believe that."

"Sure."

"Sure, nothing, I do believe it, and I also believe that you're going to make a mark one of these days. And why are you believing me all of a sudden? I'm the crazy, flaky one, right?" Will rose to his feet and lifted his voice in an epic crescendo. "Will Scarborough, always flying off the handle with some nutty scheme? All of a sudden, these people decide I know what I'm talking about. You know how it is, the press loves this shit. Bloggers are probably having a field day."

"Whatever."

"Know what? I have an idea." Will paced around the room, hands folded before his chin. "Know what this town has? A bomb shelter. You know that? Back in the day, they actually got government money to build a shelter in case this place got nuked. I don't know, maybe they figured the Russians had bad aim or something. But it's still there, underneath the post office. I bet they'd let you spend Sunday in there. Hell, I'll break in there if I have to. You can spend Sunday evening down there, rough it a little bit, and then on Monday we'll get lunch and have a big ol' laugh over this. Hell, we'll make it the whole day. We can come up with some excuse to get you out of class."

"In fact..." Will snapped his fingers. "Tomorrow. We'll spend tomorrow together. I've got no errands or anything like that, so we'll just make it a day. Watch the sun rise out on Kiyama, then get a bite on Amos Street. I always wanted to know what those lab guys ate, and now I have an excuse to find out."

Sam slowly turned his head to Will. "You mean that?"

"Damn straight I mean that! Hey, I'm a lot of things, but I'm no promise breaker, am I?" Will knelt down in front of Sam. "Now, I still gotta go to work tonight, but as of Saturday I've got nothing but time. And if you want to do something else, just name it. I'm flexible."

A tiny smile crossed Sam's face. "...Thanks."

"No problem," said Will. "Oh, and please don't destroy any more notebooks. Favor to me, okay?"

Will returned to his own room - their guest room, minimally decorated in Mrs. Scarborough's preferred rustic aesthetic - closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the bed. He had contributed little to the room since returning, only a few well-worn articles of clothing and his gear for the coming party. The remaining fliers rested on the dresser, alongside a roll of masking tape, a staple gun and a map with the town's busiest areas marked in red. The plan was to covertly hang the fliers after his shift at the Orientale, but this was before the chaos of the day, the controversy, the protests, the crackdown. Even possessing those fliers was dangerous, and there was no way to tell just how close a normal man could get to the lab with security out in force. There was a real possibility that the party had just been canceled.

_Bzzzzz._ Will's quiet moment was interrupted by the insistent vibration from his phone. Fumbling for the device, he caught sight of a new text message. It came from an unfamiliar number and was strange and terse: _Front porch_. Thoughts raced through his head as he searched for a possible identity. Sara? No, she wouldn't try to make contact like that. Someone who saw a flier and wanted to know more? Maybe someone from the news who saw him at the protest? He'd certainly given his contact information to enough people, it wouldn't be that hard to find his number. It could even be a trap laid by some Jameson assassin or a lab employee out for messy revenge. Will's curiosity was always going to overwhelm his survival instinct, but all the same he armed himself with a claw hammer \- a relic from a phase of his life in which he envisioned himself a carpenter - before going to the door.

There was no mob waiting outside the door, no armed killer - or at least none was visible through the front window. Will nudged the door open, keeping the hammer low behind his back. The lack of gunfire or angry voices was already a good sign. There was one person waiting on the porch, a vaguely familiar face. She was very much the girl-next-door type, the kind of girl Will would have pined after when he was younger - unassuming but attractive, long and unkempt brown hair, a look of casual whimsy on her fair face. Her disheveled look seemed more a choice than anything, the look of someone confident enough that she had no need to put on airs for the public.

"Will Scarborough?" The woman sized him up with a skeptical smirk. "Yeah, there's no mistaking you."

"Thanks."

"I never said it was a compliment." The woman glanced at Will's hand. "What, did I catch you in the middle of home repairs?"

"What? Oh..." Remembering his makeshift armament, Will cast the hammer to the ground. "Yeah, I was in the middle of...it's not a big deal."

"Right."

"So..." Will scratched his head. "...Did I miss something? How the hell do you know me?"

"You know how it is - your picture hits the internet, and an hour later everyone knows who you are." The woman brushed her hair aside. "You don't remember me, do you? We've met."

"I don't think so," said Will. "I've got a pretty good head for faces."

"You don't have a good head for much."

"So what, you came by and send me a weirdo text just to insult me?"

"Sorry, I guess we got off to a bad start. Diana." She sighed at Will's blank expression. "My cousin was in the state Scholar's Bowl? You were there screaming like a drunk at a football game?"

"Oh, yeah," said Will. "The one who was with the boy wonder. Um...Liston, right?"

"It's Jameson, now."

"Oh." Will slapped himself in the forehead. "...Oh! Jameson! So you're married to, uh..."

"That's the one, right." Diana chuckled to herself. "You know, you'd think I'd be used to dealing with slow people by now."

"The big man's kid, huh?" said Will. "Wow, it must be really something having that kind of connection."

"Same one you have," said Diana. "You met him. He was in your restaurant two days ago. Tipped you off to that Opp-Leak guy who was gathering intel."

"That was Ben Jameson?" Will leaned against the door frame, trying to look casual. "Hey, what do you know."

"Look, we're all sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff-"

"We?"

"Yeah, we. As in more than one of us. I didn't know who was home, and I don't know what your family knows, and it's probably better if they don't know too much."

"That's...odd." Will's eyes darted from Diana to the street behind her and back, sweeping the area for a threat he was now sure must be present. "...So what's going on?"

"Listen, you know what's going on, better than anyone else. I'm just here to deliver a warning. Ben would have come himself, but he's trying to keep a low profile. He's been estranged from the old man for years, and their last meeting wasn't exactly pleasant." Diana pushed a small object into Will's hand. "Here. It's a gift."

Will couldn't make heads or tails of the "gift" - a plain plastic box roughly the size of a small cell phone, featureless save for a single protruding button, a crudely assembled circuit board peeking through the gaps in the case. "What on Earth is this thing?"

"A homemade life saver," said Diana. "We don't know what's going to go down and a phone number is too risky, so I had a friend make this. If you get in serious trouble, just press the magic button. We'll all get a text and a bead on your location. Someone will show up in five minutes. Hopefully that will be fast enough."

"Trouble?" said Will. "What kind of trouble?"

"In light of what's been going on, we're not putting anything past these guys," said Diana. "Joshua Jameson doesn't normally go for the rough stuff, but this project is a lot more important than anything he's done before. At this level, nothing's off the table. Having a Jameson show up on your behalf might be the only thing that saves you."

"...Thanks." Will pocketed the device. "I really can't imagine needing this, though. The Jameson boys have beaten me up enough."

"So you might think. You have any plans for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm spending the day with my little brother."

"That's sweet, but watch your back. Jameson himself is going to be in town, and that means more security." Diana turned to leave. "I gotta get back, check on Becky, make sure everything's fine. Just keep your head down, all right?"

"Wait!" said Will as loudly as he dared. "How did you get my number?"

"Common contacts," said Diana.

Will nodded, less in understanding than out of a desire to move the conversation forward. "Uh...do you know Sara Mills?"

"Everyone involved with the Jamesons knows Sara Mills."

"Right." Will rolled his tongue around in his mouth, quietly practicing his inquiries. "Then you know...Roderick Butler?"

"Yeah, I've met him." Diana bit her lip, suppressing a laugh. "You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"No...Well, maybe about certain things."

"Well, stay clueless about those things, you'll have a longer life." Diana gave a flick of her hair as she walked away. "If it's dangerous to ask questions about Jameson, then it's suicide to ask questions about Zhang."

Will backed into the house, closing and locking the door behind him with as much speed and grace as he bulky hands could manage. Sensing movement behind him, he spun to the hall, spotting only Sam standing just outside of his room. "Shit, Sam, don't sneak up on someone like that?"

"I wasn't trying to," said Said. "Was someone there?"

"Nah, just...getting some air."

"So we're still going out tomorrow?"

"Yeah, of course. The hill, and then the new part of town."

"And the lab?"

Will wagged a finger at Sam. "Better stay away from that place, Sam. Seriously, you take your life in your hands going there."

CHAPTER 19

~Date Unknown~

Conqueror's palace was a place rich in forbidden and secret places, but even those insiders allowed access to the tyrant's world were still kept in the dark around Pinnacle's lower chambers. Apart from the man himself, only a select elite cadre of warriors were even granted knowledge of their existence, and they were strictly prohibited from descending into them. Access was deliberately inconvenient, with the only stairway leading beneath the foundation found in an isolated hallway far removed from the palace's prime corridors and the entrance obscured to thwart prying eyes.

No one in Conqueror's empire fully understood why he insisted on keeping the chambers such a close secret, or why he had such a deep interest in them. To those few granted the privilege of seeing the chambers, they concealed nothing more than another set of city ruins, and ruins in a particularly dismal state at that. The place was beyond any hope of salvage, holding nothing more than some electronic detritus which was of no practical use in the new world. Conqueror seemed to agree, given that he had never ordered the area redeemed - yet he was a man obsessed, convinced that those ruins held some secrets yet uncovered, revelations that could only be made with the help of the right guide.

As he stood at the top of the stairs, Storyteller could sense a special tension, one he hadn't felt since the fated days before the disaster. Beside him stood Conqueror, a boyish eagerness shining behind his hard eyes. To the rear stood Captain of the North, motionless as a statue as he awaited his next order.

"What you're about to see is something that few have ever witnessed," said Conqueror, lighting a lantern and adjusting the shutters. "Pinnacle was built atop another city from before the war, and what remains of that place is beneath us. Most likely, you would not recall the name-"

"Actually, I do," said Storyteller. "I came from this place, in fact, and I have been seeking it for many months now. It was a town known as Patmos. This was my home."

Conqueror's eyes went wide, and a broad smile crossed his face. "My luck is better than I would dare to dream! Tell me, do you remember what happened here?"

"I do," said Storyteller. "Every awful, agonizing moment, from the day I learned that the fires would come to the night when the sky burned and everything beyond. It is something that not soon leave me."

"Then you knew that the end was coming?" said Conqueror. "Fascinating. Then let's not waste any more time. History awaits."

The three of them descended the stairs - Conqueror leading the way, Captain following a few paces back to ensure that Storyteller did not attempt an early exit. The trip down the stairway seemed impossibly long, as though they were descending into some ditch of hell that had long since been abandoned. Eventually, the stairs ended and gave way to an open space, or what had once been one. Whatever had been here in the past was now buried beneath tons of rubble, itself burned and blasted beyond recognition. The debris left only a narrow crevasse for passage, just wide enough to accommodate a grown man's shoulders. What was left of the ceiling rose dozens of yards above their heads, or so Storyteller assumed for the darkness so eagerly consumed it. The ground was scattered with shimmering dust cast off from the various scientific implements that had been pulverized by the falling ceiling. Computers, diagnostic equipment, control units - in their current state, Storyteller could only hazard a guess as to what their original functions were.

"This is one of several intact chambers we've found beneath the city," said Conqueror, cautiously shifting his weight as he climbing atop one of the rubble piles. "It appears to be some manner of secure facility, but I can't glean its purpose from what we've seen thus far. At first, I thought it was a military base, but the Army would have no need of this equipment. It may be a laboratory, but why would anyone build such a thing here?"

"So that people would not see their deeds." Storyteller weaved through the rubble, tripping and landing next to a pile of destroyed computer towers. He peered through the cracks in the cases - wasn't there something he was looking for? "Their research was controversial," he continued, hoping not to arouse Conqueror's suspicion as he studied his find. "There were fewer people to object out in the country, fewer prying eyes to scrutinize them."

"I suppose that makes sense." Conqueror descended from the pile of rubble. "Gather yourself and follow me. There's more ahead."

There were only seconds to act before Conqueror noticed that his guest was not by his side - not long enough to consider. Storyteller dug into his bag, retrieving the destroyed computer component that he had been given by the strange girl he had met at the ruined school. Through the splintered case of the tower, he spotted what to his eyes was an identical part, miraculously intact. With as much care as he could muster, Storyteller reached inside and gently removed the component, grimacing as each set of pins emerged from the machine. It was free, resting neatly in Storyteller's hand. There was no way of knowing if this was what she needed, but the fact that he had spotted it at all was enough to give him hope.

Captain approached Storyteller, his boot falling inches from Storyteller's nose. "Conqueror awaits. Do not waste his time."

Storyteller quickly discarded the ruined component, tucked the new component away inside his satchel and rose to his feet. "My apologies. I feared I had lost something."

"Do you require assistance?"

"Not at all. Let us advance."

Storyteller hurried into the next chamber. This one had once been a hallway, most of the doors blocked off by mountains of dirt and concrete fragments. Conqueror stood at the far end, next to a bend in the hallway that was partially clear of debris. "Sadly, most of the laboratory is no longer reachable," said Conqueror. "What we can reach needs some explanation. Tell me everything you remember. Omit nothing, this is important."

Storyteller studied the walls of the corridor. "So strange to be here. This was a citadel, a bastion of steel and wire that admitted so few." He closed his eyes, reflecting on the moment. "Jameson Laboratories, that was the name. They were building something here, a machine to grant salvation to the world."

"What manner of machine?"

"A power source. Rudra was its name."

"Rudra?" said Conqueror. "An unusual name for a generator."

"It was the name its creator had chosen for it," said Storyteller. "A dark joke on the world, as it turns out. Most of us hadn't a clue as to its meaning \- what would the denizens of a small Midwestern town know about Hindu deities? Rudra - a spirit of creative destruction."

"Burning away the old world and creating a new one in its wake," said Conqueror. "An appropriate moniker."

"Indeed. Were the designer here, he could tell you more of his intentions. What was his name?" Storyteller opened his eyes. "...Richter. No doubt he had an office somewhere in this complex. Of course, I'm sure that his personal effects are beyond any use."

"You would be surprised at the skill with which my workers restore things to their original glory." Conqueror scrutinized the partially obstructed hallway. "Perhaps the offices are this way. The way is narrow, but we can still reach the other side."

"You have not explored that passage?"

"Before now, we had no reason. I do not take unnecessary risks, least of all with anything as unique as this ruin." Conqueror returned his gaze to Storyteller. "Don't be afraid, Samuel, the risk is minimal. If this weight will fall on anyone, it will fall on me first."

Conqueror and Storyteller slid through a gap in the debris, leaving the light of the surface further behind them. On the other side was a tiny space, clear of debris and in remarkably good shape given the state of the rest of the facility. There was just enough space here to allow both men to move with some liberty, and Storyteller freely took advantage. There were three offices, their name plates intact but obscured by years of debris.

"So strange to stand in this place," said Storyteller, resting a hand against the wall. "In another life, this place was off-limits, its secrets kept safe by armed men and the finest technology available. Now I walk within these chambers without fear."

"This is my gift to you, Samuel. I give you the past. I give you your past." Conqueror rested a hand on Storyteller's shoulder. "Now, continue with your account. I must know more."

"Of course." Storyteller drew in a deep breath, scarcely noticing the dust that filled his lungs. "Jameson Laboratory, a project of Jameson Enterprises."

"As in Joshua Jameson?" said Conqueror. "Yes, there's a name easily remembered by those who've heard it. Wealth and power beyond most men's reckoning."

"And ambition, as well," said Storyteller. "He dreamed of ridding the world of need, and would do anything to achieve his goal. To that end, he enlisted the aid of a man named Richter, a nihilist with plans of his own to change the world. They enlisted us all into their scheme, extras in their grand play."

"I see," said Conqueror. "Then these halls hold the secrets to doomsday."

"Indeed," said Storyteller. "The largest one must by Jameson's. All of them hold knowledge, I'm sure, but the project was Richter's alone. His office is the one you want."

"Perfect! We can start excavating immediately. But first, I'd like to explore on my own." Conqueror handed the lantern to Storyteller. "Keep the light steady." He walked over to the first door, grabbing chunks of detritus and tossing them aside. Slowly, the brass name plate by the door came into view:

_Dr._ Yang Yizhen.

_Project Administrator,_ Reflected Antithesis

Conqueror squinted at the plate for a moment, then glanced back at Storyteller, his smile dipping. "Rudra, was it?"

"This can't be right. It was a large facility. Maybe they had more than one project here. Please, give me a moment." Storyteller ran to the next office and placed the lantern on the floor. "This one must be Richter's office." He tore the debris away from the plate.

Conqueror squinted at the plate:

Dr. Johnathan Bellamy

Chief of Staff

_Assistant Administrator,_ Reflected Antithesis

"No..." Storyteller scrambled down the hall, searching in vain for something that might exonerate him. "This can't be right..."

"I think you're telling me another story." Conqueror took a step towards Storyteller, backing him against the wall. "Is that it?"

Storyteller frantically shook his head. "It's the truth. I remember it all, the stories in the news, the protests, the lockdown. I remember my brother-"

Conqueror's fist landed squarely in Storyteller's abdomen, stealing the words from his lips. Storyteller fell to his hands and knees, his lungs straining for air, his vision swimming with black clouds. Before he knew what was happening, Conqueror had him by the throat, lifting him to his feet and slamming him back against the wall. Conqueror leaned in close, near enough that Storyteller could feel the heat jumping from each word. "I don't appreciate your deception, Samuel. I came to you with an offering of respect, and you rewarded this offer with lies. What you have done today diminishes us as men, diminishes our honor, and I will not abide by such an injury. I assure you that over the coming weeks and months and years, you will come to regret this betrayal."

"I speak no lies," muttered Storyteller, as loudly as he could with Conqueror's thumb braced against his windpipe. "I swear it."

Conqueror paid Storyteller no more heed, dragging him back through the rubble and depositing him on the ground in the main hallway. "Captain!"

Captain appeared in the hallway. "Yes, lord?"

Conqueror rested his foot on Storyteller's back. "Take this man back to his quarters. See to it that he stays put."

"Yes, lord." Captain roughly lifted Storyteller to his feet. "Come on, get moving."

Storyteller's head was still spinning as Captain led him up the stairs - with fear and pain, certainly, but confusion as well. Conqueror spoke in edicts that were dire even at an even temper, and there was no telling what the man would do when angered. He had no explanation that would calm Conqueror's fury, but he also had none that would settle his own mind. It Conqueror had been deceived, then Storyteller had been as well, but he could not imagine who would do such a thing.

## CHAPTER 20

~T-minus 50:30~

Will Scarborough had a few fine qualities - energy, enthusiasm, honesty - but punctuality had never been one of them, not even before the impending end of all things made motivation something of a challenge. Even so, he had seldom been so late for work, late enough that it almost seemed like a waste to even arrive. His duties at the Orientale were just another part of his routine, something to occupy his time while he waited for the next part of his plan. That night, it would be posting the rest of his fliers, whether it was safe or not. With the police stepping up patrols, he'd have to wait until very late to make his move. This alone gave him cause to waste a few hours at an increasingly meaningless occupation that he'd planned on quitting anyway.

The Orientale was packed when Will entered, but almost everyone was in the bar - the only people in the restaurant area were a handful of idle waiters and servers trying to look busy enough that they wouldn't have to work. The crowd was an unusual one as well. There were the usual customers - the older men downing their paychecks one shot at a time and the younger ones pretending to be sophisticates by passing up beer for cocktails - but there were also plenty of out-of-towners, including some Will recognized from the protest and the chaos that had preceded it. These were weary souls, beaten and fried and driven into the woods, now gathered here in search of any cheap comfort they could still claim.

Sadie leaned over the bar as Will entered. "Oh, just three and a half hours late this time, huh?"

"I know," said Will. "I'm not even going to bother with an excuse this time."

"Eh, don't sweat it," said Sadie. "Everyone coming in is opting for the liquid supper, anyway. Want to give me a hand?"

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Just hang out here, if I need something I'll grab you." Sadie glanced at the bag slung over Will's shoulder. "Doing some handiwork before you came here?"

"Huh? Oh, this." Will patted the bag, which replied with a rattle of metal. "Nah, this is for later. You wanna know the truth? This is it for me. I'm getting out of this job tonight. I'm only here to cash out and be on my way."

"Well, the owner isn't here, but I can put the message across. In the meantime..." Sadie pointed at a table of young men who had clearly been there for a while. "...Pick up their glasses for me. I have a feeling there's another round of vodka tonics coming up."

"On it, Sadie." Will strolled over to the table, every bit the man expecting imminent freedom. "Evening, gents. Will you be needing another round?"

One of the men flashed Will a crooked smile. "Hey, I know you. You're the dude, the one from the thing. Will, right?"

"That's right, pal," said Will. "You at the protest or something? I didn't see you."

"Nah, man," said another man, this one clearly struggling to keep his head upright. "But we heard you guys got cooked down there. You get cooked?"

"Yeah, but I'm fine now. Thanks for your thoughts."

The first man pawed at Will. "Hey man, tell us about the shit that happened."

"I'd love to, but I'm working. Maybe later, huh? Let me get these for you." Will collected their glasses and returned to Sadie. "What's the deal, Sadie? You're not cutting these people off?"

"Two hours ago we were, but they refuse to leave," said Sadie. "Now the cops are stopping people the second they step outside, field testing on the spot. I guess one upside to living in a police state is that you can really crack down on drunk driving."

Will rapped on the bar. "Yeah, well I walked, so how about a shot? You can take it out of my check."

"Get it yourself. I'm busy." Sadie tipped her head to the door. "...And so are you. Looks like we got a customer, and this one isn't half in the bag for a change."

Will grabbed a menu and was halfway to the door before he identified the man standing there - a diminutive man, dark-haired and pallid, unfamiliar without his emerald blazer. "...What the hell are you doing here, Aaron?"

"What does a person normally do at a restaurant?" said Aaron. "I'd like a table for one. You can manage that, right? You don't need any encouragement?"

A lengthy collection of obscenities swam through Will's mind, but he forced them back down. "All right. Let me show you to your table." He led Aaron through the crowded bar area, words leaking out through gritted teeth. "Would you like to start with an appetizer?"

"No thanks, bring me a medium rare rib eye and some fries," said Aaron with a smirk. "It's been a long day, I could really use something hearty."

"I'm surprised you didn't want that well done," muttered Will.

"Oh, what was that?" Aaron cupped a hand to his ear. "I didn't quite catch that witty little remark."

"Just talking to myself, I'll get your order in right away. You want something to drink with that?"

"Tea." Aaron's smile grew wider. "Hot as you can get it."

"Hot tea. Got it."

"That does reminds me of something, though. I've been wondering - what does that Active Denial weapon feel like? I've always been curious - not curious enough to step in front of it, but...curious." Aaron crossed his arms. "I know it's painful, but it is an intense flaming sensation, or more of a simmering, under the skin burn?"

"You son of a bitch." Will halted in his footsteps and spun back to face Aaron, storming over to him with less dignity than he would have liked. "You get off on that, don't you? Hurting people make you feel big?"

"As a matter of fact, it does not," said Aaron. "Pain is the tool of small, primitive minds. I'd just as soon we settle our problems through civil and intelligent discourse, but as long as the idiots have so much power in this country, we're going to have to employ more extreme solutions."

"Civil discourse, huh? You want to have a chat?"

"With you? Don't embarrass yourself."

"You don't want to talk with me? Fine." Will clapped his hands. "Hey, everyone, we have a special guest here! Say hello to Aaron Baines Bellamy, chief of security for Jameson Labs! He thinks we should have more reasoned debate, so what better time than now, huh? Come on, Aaron, don't be shy!"

All eyes immediately turned to Will and Aaron, accompanied by no shortage of drunken grumblings. There were enough people present who knew Aaron's face that the anger and distrust spread quickly. Aaron, for his part, looked annoyed, but he hardly betrayed the kind of nervousness that Will would have expected.

"So this is your game, huh? You think you're being clever, putting me on the spot? Hey, I'm happy to play along." Aaron rushed out of his seat, brushed Will aside and stepped to the bar, the eyes of the patrons tracking him every step of the way. "So you know who I am. How many of you hate me?"

The patrons flooded the room with profane agreements, vibrant descriptions of the depths of their hatred, and suggestions for anatomically unlikely acts. Will would have expected Aaron to back down at this drunken show of animosity, but Aaron actually seemed to revel in it, growing stronger from their hatred.

"Okay, so that's clear. How about Dr. Richter?" More shouts greeted Aaron, these even more bitter. "And the other people who work at the lab, your new neighbors. What about them?" Again, there was agreement. Aaron merely shook his head. "I figured as much. The typical ignorant peasant mentality. The sign of a low intellect and a deficit of gratitude."

"Hey, who are you calling ingrates?" said Will. "We're the ones who've had to put up with you and your bullshit. We're the ones who had our lives turned upside down. We're the ones you lied to. That's all you!"

"No. All. For. You." Aaron climbed onto the bar, kicking aside empty glasses and glowering down at the patrons. "You people have no idea what you have, or what it took to get there. Look at your comfortable little modern lives. You have whatever you want. Hot and cold air at the flick of a switch. Entertainment piped into your dumb heads twenty-four hours a day. Snap your fingers, and they deliver food right to your door. You get so much as an ache, you take a pill and it goes away. Science did all of that. Science made your lives better and brighter than your ancestors could have dreamed, and you're still scared of it."

"Get over yourself," yelled Will. "This ain't about science or progress, it's about what Jameson and the rest of you are doing, putting us all at risk and lying about it. So you think you're heroes? Why didn't you come out and tell us the whole truth?"

"We didn't lie to you," said Aaron. "Jameson publicized everything he had. Whose fault was it if you were too lazy or stupid to grasp it?"

"Oh, kiss my ass," said Will. "We see what you want us to see, remember? You told me that, and it's exactly what Jameson did. But guys like you are always willing to overlook that when there's money to be made."

"Please, you think I give a shit about that Bible-thumper's money? You think I'm impressed by his connections?" Aaron's jaw was tight, his skin turning a light shade of red as the fury rose in his voice. "It's not about what he wants, it's about what Dr. Richter can do. It's about the world he can create, one where the right people are in charge. The ones who respect the power of a superior mind."

"A superior mind, huh?" said Will. "You mean, like Paul Liston?"

"Don't you DARE..." Aaron's face turned a brilliant scarlet for a moment as he recovered his position in his rant. "...Dr. Richter offers you a thousand years of power, a thousand years of mindless comfort and easy pleasure, and you reject it because there's a risk. Well, maybe we should just take it all away. I'd love to see how any of you would do without us. How long would you last if you had to get your own food, huh? If you had to live with illness and treat your own wounds? If you had to endure the cold and the rain and the blistering sun, without a cool beer and a warm television? It would be just what you deserve after pushing us away."

"Pushing us away? That's what it always comes down to with freaks like you." Will wagged his finger at Aaron as as he approached. "You get your head dunked in a toiled one too many times and you never get over it."

There was a flash of panic in Aaron's eyes as Will drew neared and his hand darted to his pocket. For a moment, Will could only see a flash of metal in the dim lights, but that was enough to knock him back a step. There was the source of Aaron's fearlessness - a pocket-sized pistol with a fine chrome finish. Behind him, Will could sense more movement as the patrons fell back from their seats, not sure what was about to happen.

"Kiss MY ass, Scarborough." Aaron held up the gun to the light, admiring the details with a mad grin. "See the power of science? Chemistry, metallurgy, engineering, physics...put them together, and you can bring down an ape twice your size."

Will took a deep breath, bracing himself but drawing no closer. "So that's how it is?"

"That's how it is now. It's how it has to be." Aaron gestured with the gun as he spoke, sending a wave of cringes through the patrons each time he waved it over their heads. "Scientists deal with 'is,' not 'ought.' And the way the world is? It's a necessity."

"Geez, Aaron, would you put the piece away? You've made your point."

"That I have." Aaron slid the pistol back into his pocket. "You know, Jameson didn't cover anything up, but I'll tell you, if it was up to me I wouldn't have let you people know anything. I would've covered it up because I would've known how you people would react." Aaron extended his arms over the crowd, gesturing with an almost mad vigor. "If you idiots could only have seen the world that Dr. Richter saw. He saw that this modern world couldn't last, not at the pace that we were going. Oh, it could have lasted forever if people could just learn to be happy with what they have, happy in a life of comfort. But that's never good enough for you greedy, grasping apes, is it? We give you everything you want and it's never enough. Those filthy little fingers of yours are always clawing for more and more. Someone had to do something before you killed the world with your lust and avarice."

"Victory at any price, huh?" Will's boldness returned to him, less courage than the zeal of a man with no future. "So what, it's a race? You see if you can't destroy the world before we can?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Scarborough?" said Aaron. "That's the idea behind this little celebration of yours, that you want it to happen? Yeah, your type would have been happier ten thousand years ago, back when you all you needed to get your way was size. You'd be happy if we went back there. Well, that age is over. YOUR age is over. Mine's just beginning."

Will clapped his hands."Bravo, Mr. Bellamy. That was a fine speech. But you're forgetting something. We're not your children. We're not your subjects, as much as old man Jameson or your boy Richter might think that. You don't get to make decisions on our behalf, and you damn sure don't get to doom every life in this town or anywhere!" His voice rose to a crescendo, booming through the room. "You play around with other people's lives, you tell them. That's the rule. And if you don't tell them, then the responsibility's on you!"

"Bastard." Aaron sneered down at Will. "You think a little bit of pain is the worst thing I can do to you? You've got a lot to lose, fat boy."

"Not as much as you think." Will reached over the bar, poured himself a shot of bourbon, downed it in one gulp and flung the empty glass to the floor. "I quit. Sadie, take the glass out of my last check, all right?"

Will barged out of the front door, Aaron following in tow. "You think you're going to be some kind of hero? You think you can stop the future with your fearmongering? Well, you'd better not try anything, nutjob! We've worked too hard on this, we're not going to let some loser get in the way!" Aaron glared at the police officers, waiting just outside to snare troublemakers. "Aren't you going to do your job?"

Will held out his arms and continued walking. "I'm not drunk, I'm not making a scene, and if you're going to shoot me this time you'll have to shoot me in the back. Otherwise, I'm headed home."

This was a lie, or at least half of one. Police presence or not, Will had no intention of going home until he had a chance to hang fliers, every last one he had in his possession. It was insanity and he'd considered giving up and just heading home, but Aaron's spiel had reignited the fire within him. Even so, the new nightly patrols meant that this otherwise anodyne task required a bit of added finesse. For once in his life, Will had to exercise patience, biding his time for the right opportunity to make his move. He would huddle in a shadowy alley, sometimes for ten or fifteen or twenty minutes, waiting for the patrols to get bored or tired and move on, at which point he would spring into action. As the night wore on, he noticed fewer and fewer officers - dispatched, he assumed, to Amos Street to protect the property of the lab workers. By midnight, the streets were his, and in no time he had blanketed the area in advertising.

The end of this task restored some of Will's natural cheer, and he whistled merrily to himself as he affixed the final flier to a light pole on Icaria. Behind him, a row of neat maroon dots spoke to his diligent work. They were there even if no one saw them, and for the moment that was enough. He drank in the silence of the night as he set course for home.

Then Will spotted something that was decidedly awry - movement, people moving in and out of one of the buildings. It was faint but he could make it out, and it was clearly nothing savory - things seldom were at that hour, especially in places like Patmos. There was nothing to gain from investigating, and yet Will found himself drawn closer, edging ever nearer to what he was increasingly convinced was an crime happening before his eyes. There were at least three men, all dressed in inconspicuous dark clothing, moving in and out of the Gazette building. Some were carrying things out of the building and into a truck, other hauling equipment inside. It would be an ordinary sight were it not happening long after the entire town had gone to sleep.

Instinct took over, pushing Will toward the men without a second thought as to the wisdom in confronting them. "Hey! Get out of there! What do you think you're doing?"

A man standing in the back of the truck glanced over at Will. "Maintenance. We're bringing in requested equipment."

"Past midnight on a weekend? Like hell." Will jabbed his finger at the group. "Who are you with? I want names."

The man sized up Will, his hand smoothly wrapping around something in the truck. "None of your business, friend. Go on home, it's curfew anyway."

"Not until you tell me who the hell you are." Will became aware of at least two men at his flank, surrounding him. "Now. I won't ask again."

The man responded, not with an argument, but with a spanner swung at Will's face. Will ducked away from the attack, landing a blow to the man's abdomen hard enough to drop him to his knees. The other two men sprang into action, diving toward Will with fists cocked. Will swung wildly, knocking one of them back against the wall, but the other shrugged it off and caught Will with a cross. This did little other than irritate Will, who grabbed his assailant and flung him against the truck. Then he felt a blow from behind, some heavy object striking him first in the lower back and then the shoulders, painful enough to put him on the ground.

The men scrambled for the truck, hurling in their gear and then piling in. "Let's go."

"Don't you dare run off!" Will struggled to his feet, but the truck was halfway down the street. He ran after the vehicle for half a block, but the limitations of his body soon overwhelmed him, leaving him struggling for each breath. The burglars had vanished into the night, leaving only their half-finished job.

Will dragged himself back to the scene of the crime. The door to the Gazette building hung halfway open, left unlocked and open by the fleeing burglars. Keeping a cautious eye for police, Will crept up on the building and peeked inside. There were a few lamps still on inside, casting enough light to make out the interior of the office. At first glance, it appeared normal - the office was in disarray, but Will was familiar enough with the Gazette to know that this was hardly an unusual state. However, several of the desk drawers were open and the front of one of the computers had been removed, revealing a mostly empty case. There was no finesse here, strictly smash-and-grab - the actions of someone who didn't care if they were caught.

The walk back home was a tense one, Will's thoughts racing with the events of the evening. His mother was more right than she knew - Patmos was changing, growing dangerous, growing ugly. Each day brought a novel horror, and there was no telling what might result with Jameson's arrival. A man waving a gun in a bar, a strongarm robbery at a newspaper - soon, no one would even look twice at such a scene, and after that there would be nothing left to see.

## CHAPTER 21

~Date Unknown~

In the hours that followed his trip to the Patmos ruins, Storyteller became thoroughly acquainted with the texture of the stone used in the ceiling of his quarters. There was little to do besides staring upward - the guards would not speak to him even to issue threats, and there was no sign of Conqueror, presumably off planning some elaborate punishment. Storyteller wondered if perhaps this horrid anticipation was the first step in that regimen of suffering, or if it was merely a sign that his captor had been too overwhelmed with rage to dream up a suitable agony. In any case, the waiting had become a torture all its own. He was in no shape to attend to the notebook, and there was nothing else to occupy him time save watching the sun move across the sky as he awaited the drop of the sword.

At length, a truth came to Storyteller - there was no point in dwelling on what might come next, escape was the only thing that mattered. No one had ever left Pinnacle, and Storyteller could easily understand why. Pinnacle was not a city but a cage, the palace doubly so. The windows were narrow enough to stop anyone with a skeleton from leaving, and the echoing halls made a quiet exit impossible. There was only one door to his room, and Captain of the North was always there, standing at attention. On the few occasions Captain had left he was swiftly replaced by other guards, moving with a sublime mechanical precision. There was simply no opportunity to flee, and no excuse to even leave the room. That left only force, which - even if violence was in Storyteller's nature - was nothing short of suicide. Conqueror had left Storyteller's knife in his possession, but the small blade would be of little use against a giant like Captain, who could easily kill Storyteller with naught but his hands. If there was any way out, Storyteller would have to dream it up himself, but no dreams came to him.

Storyteller's thoughts were interrupted as Captain stormed into the room, carrying a tray with a doughy roll and a clay cup. "Time to eat," he said, setting the tray down on a small table.

"Then Conqueror is still feeding me?" said Storyteller. "A surprising mercy."

"If it were me, I would have strangled the life out of you on the spot," said Captain. "My lord has other plans for you, larger plans."

"Plans?"

"My lord does not take a life unless it advances his vision. I'm sure that your death is on the horizon, but not yet, not while there is value in your bones. Better that you'd ended your own life than made such a bad choice."

An desperate idea danced through Storyteller's mind - a true long shot, a fantastic plan that hinged upon the warrior's gullibility and his own perfect timing. It was an impossible thing, and there was no time to plan it out, but Storyteller was ready to cast his lots on an escape.

"You are right, but not because I fear for myself," said Storyteller with a deep sigh. "I realize far too late that I have dishonored a great man and, in my own fashion, hindered his plan for a new world."

"How wise of you to see that," said Captain. "He admired your skill. You would still be in a place of honor were it not for your disgraceful lies."

Storyteller buried his face in his hands. "Yes, I know. I dread that there may be no erasing this terrible disgrace." He reached into his satchel, slowly drawing the knife and resting it in his hands. "Perhaps there are no options left to me."

"What are you doing?" said Captain, reaching for Storyteller. "Put it down!"

Storyteller gripped the knife in both hands, the blade pointed at his heart. "Why? What purpose is there to live in shame? How can a man live with that agony? You are right - better I go this way."

Captain grabbed Storyteller's wrist, wrenching his arm away and knocking the knife free of his hands. Storyteller lunged for the weapon, but Captain already had it fast in his grip. "How did you even get this?" said Captain, eyeballing the knife. "You must have sneaked it in or stolen it. Did you plan to kill my lord?"

"Certainly not. It would have been a fool's errand for a man such as me to strive to slay a god." Storyteller bowed his head again. "Conqueror allowed me to have this. I assumed that this was an act of mercy, granting me the option of an honorable exit."

Captain rubbed the back of his neck. "That does make more sense than a weakling like you bringing it in. But Conqueror told me nothing of this."

"Why would he? This path was mine to choose." Storyteller held out his hand. "Please, grant me this favor. Allow me to end this torment."

"I should check this with Conqueror. But..." Captain peered back out the hallway - his replacements were not due for a while yet. "...Very well. It will only take a minute to ask. But know this, Storyteller: If you've lied again, I'll ask Conqueror for permission to execute your punishment myself."

Storyteller sat quietly as Captain walked down the hall, listening for the footfalls, each quieter than the last. Once the air was truly still, he darted to the hallway and crawled out on his hands and knees, peeking around the corner. The area was completely desolate - no guards, no slaves, just the faint crackle of the lanterns hanging from their sconces. His gambit had worked - the way was clear, an opportunity for flight open, though there was no telling for how long. He snatched his satchel and advanced into the hallway, moving as quietly as he could and as swiftly as he dared. His body screamed at him to run but he instead advanced with prudence, listening for any sound of advancing guards as he descended the stairs and passed through the welcoming hall. The final corridor was ahead and clear of men; Storyteller held his breath as he emerged into the open air.

Night had fallen in Pinnacle, but the moon was full and bright with a glory that gave the impression of daytime. The citizens of the town were taking full advantage of the evening, lounging outside of their homes, chatting over the day's events or showing off their recent acquisitions. Storyteller had hoped for more darkness - all it would take was one person to spot him and assume that another exhibition was being held, and all would be lost - but it was far too late to revise the plan or end his escape. He would leave Pinnacle that evening or die for his arrogance. He crept down side streets, darting from house to house like a common thief in search of easy prey. With each step, the outer walls loomed larger and larger, the entrance coming into view, until there were mere yards between him and swift freedom. As Conqueror had said, there were no obstacles but his own fear to bar his exit. Steeling his nerves one last time, he sprinted for the entrance, moving as quickly as his legs could carry him. His senses were sharpened by the burst of adrenaline, each step booming with thunder as he darted through the massive gate. In the next moment, he was outside. There were no footsteps bearing down on him, no guards sounding the alarm, no arrows or bullets glancing off the walls over his shoulder. He was clear, free of the great cell.

Storyteller pressed onward, charging across the desert until his body grew weary. Sitting to rest, he squinted back at the great city, silhouetted in the glorious moonlight, and allowed himself a laugh. He had done the impossible, escaping from the heart of hell on his own legs by his own wits. Just then, as he was fully lost in his private reverie, he could have sworn he heard something reverberating through the night air. It was a frantic sound, furious, bestial, but also human - a roar of outrage from the general direction of the palace. Had he imagined it? He couldn't hear anything from such a distance - surely it was merely a product of his racing mind? Real or not, it was a signal. There would be no time to rest, not yet, maybe not ever.

Storyteller ran, and looked back as he ran, and ran with big steps and small ones, and felt the pain of exhaustion and then ran more. There was nothing more for him to do but to run until he had truly spent every ounce of energy, push himself to run on the fumes of willpower, rest for a moment, then continue running. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going. Without trade roads or guidestones, there was nothing in particular to give him any direction. He had been locked away in the cart for the entire trek, so he had little notion of the surrounding geography. The rise of the sun at least granted him the chance to get attuned to direction, but with no idea where Pinnacle was located this was of little help. There was no recourse except to pick a direction and trudge that way until he found something. So he ran, sprinting out into the desert as fast and as far as his legs would take him.

The night gave way to day, and then night again. Storyteller slept little - images of Conqueror's war carts besieged his thoughts any time he shut his eyes, serving only as inducement to accelerate his pace. This was fine at night, but what was a reasonable pace in the cool evening air was a death march beneath the savage desert sun. What's more, Storyteller had suddenly become painfully aware of his limited supplies. He had devised and executed his brilliant plan in the same moment, thinking of the impossible escape but not what would come next. In his haste, he had neglected to take even the barest of provisions, and had likewise forgotten to check his own belongings. He carried no food, and only a few scarce drops of water left over from before Captain found him. Any hopes that he could find supplies in the wastes were soon dashed by brutal reality. The Shivan Desert that surrounded Pinnacle was even more hellish than Storyteller could have dreamed - whatever rain had fallen here in the past had been greedily swallowed by the parched earth, leaving only a few meager patched of mud for sustenance. Plant life was even more scarce, with only the odd patch of brown grass and the occasional near-dead sapling struggling in vain for life. Storyteller chewed the grass whenever he could find it, finding that at least it stopped the pains in his stomach, but he could feel the hunger slowly throttling the life from him.

And still Storyteller trudged on, for there was nothing else to do. Darkness gave way to light, then receded again to darkness, the edges between the two turning fuzzy in his thirst-polluted mind. Storyteller slept in bursts, nodding off where he stood and snapping back to consciousness minutes later. Time began to have little meaning to him, his judgment clouded by exhaustion and dehydration. He no longer had any fear of Conqueror, no longer dreaded his cruelty. Instead, he clung to the perverse hope that Conqueror would find him again, knowing that he could more easily reason with the man than the desert. But even if he wanted to surrender, Storyteller had no way of finding his way back to Pinnacle, which had disappeared into the horizon days prior. Despite all his efforts, he could find no notable landmarks in the desert, nothing he could use to aid his navigation. No matter how far he went, all he saw was more desert. Was he even advancing, or merely pacing circles around Pinnacle? Was there a world at all anymore, or had he wandered into a no man's land beyond his limited knowledge?

Day and night, night and day - this was the only wisdom that Storyteller still possessed, the only thing that still anchored him in the real world. Apart from that there were only ghosts, the specters of memories that came from the notebook and the stolen story in his pocket. At times, he felt like a child again, fearing everything that he couldn't see, cringing at the shadows. The coyote song that he heard at night - could that truly be real? Could any wild animal survive in this kind of environment? There was nothing concrete for him anymore, least of all his thoughts which he no longer commanded. The past and the future were just delusions, and the present was swimming beyond his grasp with each day and each step.

Bit by bit, the weakness of his limbs grew until it was more than he could bear. His head was throbbing, the pain radiating to his fingertips and back, a newly vivid torment. He pressed a leaden hand to his face, which was dry and sore. The world was spinning, awash in shadows that flickered in and out of existence, whatever existence there even still was. His struggle was futile, all options disappearing into the hot air. There was nothing left for him.

Everything went black.

## CHAPTER 22

~T-minus 41:39~

"You up? Sam, you up?"

It was hardly in Will Scarborough's nature to wake up early. That his jobs were mostly at night was by design, picked by a man who never paid time enough heed to rouse himself at any fixed hour. Furthermore, given the previous day's events, there were few people who would fault Will for wanting to sleep until doomsday. Even so, he had made a promise, one that he had every intention of keeping. Thus, that Saturday, he was up well before the sun, dressing in the dark and creeping through sleeping halls to find his brother.

"Sam?" Will had one hand rested against Sam's door, knocking gently and whispering. "Sam?"

"Out here." Sam waved from the living room, backpack over one shoulder.

"You beat me up?" Will made a little whispery laugh. "Yeah, I guess you always did, huh?"

"I didn't sleep much, so I decided to work on some things. Type up a few old notes..." Sam pulled a notebook out of his bag. "...and get started on this."

"Awesome," said Will. "What's it about?"

Sam tucked the notebook under one arm. "Something special. I don't want to tell you until it's done. You should be the first person to read it."

"Yeah? That's great. Hey, if it's that important, we ought to get you something more durable to keep it in. Maybe after breakfast, huh?" Will peeked back down the hall. "We can talk more in the car. Mom was on call, I'm sure she wants to sleep."

"Okay," said Sam, opening the front door for Will. "So what's the plan?"

"I've got a few things planned, but I figure we can just play it by ear for the most part." Will gently closed and locked the door. "There's never much going on in ol' Patmos, but I think we can find some entertainment."

Will's junker was quiet that morning, almost as though it were respecting the morning calm. There was nothing peaceful about Patmos, though, but rather an eerie sensation. Not that there was ever much activity at that time, but with the lockdown in effect there was even less going on. The devoted joggers, the early birds, the chronic insomniacs - they all kept indoors behind drawn curtains and blinds, lest they arouse suspicion. Even the police were staying out of sight, watching the town from side streets and quiet little nooks, ready to pounce at the next sign of trouble. Apart from whatever business owners chose to open their shops in the wake of recent events, the sidewalks and roads were clear. There was an apocalyptic character to the town, such that the two of them may as well have been the only people alive.

"Why didn't we eat before we left?" said Sam. "I always get hungry when I stay up late."

"Oh, you're in for a treat," said Will. "After the sun rises, we're going to Harper's for an old fashioned greasy spoon breakfast, with donuts on the side. It's cheap, it's awful for you, and it's just the thing you need in the morning. Gives you that all-day energy."

"You sure Harper's will be open?" said Sam. "It looks like a lot of people are sleeping in today."

"You kidding? Those guys never close. They could burn the whole town to the ground, and a short order cook would start frying eggs in the smoldering ash."

"Even with all the police around?"

"Yeah. Reminds me - I'd better avoid Icaria. We'll take the scenic route."

Sam inspected Will, scanning his face with puzzled eyes. "What's wrong with your face?"

"What? Oh..." Will self-consciously touched the bruises at his temple - the relics from his confrontation the night before. "You can see those?"

"Just barely."

"Yeah, I...got into a thing last night. It was dumb, don't ask about it. Don't get into fights, that's my advice for the day."

"You don't need to tell me that. I don't get into fights, I'd never win."

"Hey, no one wins a fight. One guy loses, the other guy loses a little worse." Will rubbed the bruise again, wincing slightly. "I'm not sure which one I was last night."

Sam gazed out the window at the sleeping town in silence, turning back to Will only after several protracted moments of silence. "Can I get an apple fritter?"

"You can't order something that fancy at a diner," said Will. "Chocolate-frosted cake donuts. Old school. That's what you want."

The car rumbled down Leros, stopping in a patch of stickers at the base of Kiyama Hill. The morning sun was just peeking over the horizon, giving the world a faint cerulean cast. From where they stood, the burial site of Will's time capsule was just visible, a naked square of earth amid the blue-purple buffalo grass. Everything else was cloaked in the hill's long shadow, the ghostly plants swaying in a phantasmal breeze.

Will breathed in deeply, drinking in the morning air and savoring the flavor. "Here we are. Kiyama Hill. You know, I can't remember the last time I came up here to watch the sun rise. You never do these things for yourself, that's the problem. I don't know what it is about people, we need an excuse to enjoy beauty, or even just to be happy." He clapped his hands. "Well, let's get to it. Don't want to miss a second."

Will led Sam up the side of the grassy incline, the rays of the sun growing more brilliant with each step. At the crest of the hill, the sky erupted for them. The sun was sitting on the edge of the prairie, as though resting from its arduous journey across the planet. The endless brush field was painted a deep vermilion, a vibrant sea of smoldering flames supporting a great golden sphere. Above it all, the sky was a palette of every shade in nature, the yellow brilliance of the sun giving way to royal hyacinth and blending into the deepest of azure blues before fading into the coal smudged edge of night.

Sam beheld the sight in mute awe for several seconds before willing himself to speak. "It's beautiful. I didn't know you could see something like this in town."

"Yeah." Will drank deeply of the morning air. "Bet you'd never think to come up here, huh? No one does."

"I can see why you like this place so much," said Sam.

Will patted Sam on the shoulder. "Oh, it's not just this. It seems like everything good happens on Kiyama." He pointed to the north, to a field at the edge of the lab's perimeter. "Over there? They used to have this music festival, uh...Main Event Patmos, that's what they called it. We had all these little bands that were going on to bigger and better things in Chicago or New York, or Nashville or wherever. But they always came here for one more show, to give us thanks for our support. I must have been nine or ten when I heard about it first, and I came every year until they stopped doing it. It could have been a hundred and five degrees out, didn't matter. I was here. I took you to one once, but you didn't seem to like it too much."

"I don't really remember that," said Sam.

"Really?" said Will. "I helped you write your first story. You don't remember that?"

"I don't know...maybe a little."

"Well, that's okay. It was a bigger deal to me than it was to you." Will pointed Sam to Patmos, still slumbering in the half-darkness. "Look at that. It's just an ordinary town, but when the light hits it like that? Poetry. When I was in school, there was this kid...What was his name? Derek? Derek Brawney, right. He was an artist. Fifteen years old, but I tell you, he had a gift that most people couldn't get in decades of practice. He came up here in the mornings to sketch the town. But he said that the light was only right for about twenty minutes a day, so it took him over two months. Two months! That's two months of getting up early, walking here, getting all his stuff set up, making a couple pencil strokes, packing everything away and then going to school. Everything had to be perfect, too, that's what I remember about the kid. Man, imagine dedicating so much of your life to beauty."

"I think I've seen that drawing," said Sam. "Never heard that story, though. I wish I had that kind of talent."

"But you do! You do have talent, and don't you forget it." Will paced around the crest of the hill. "This is the best place for stargazing, best in the state as far as I'm concerned. It's all clear for miles. You come here at midnight when the town turns off and space, like you could gather up all the stars within your grasp. When I was real little, dad got me this star map and took me out here one night. He always said that a real man should be able to appreciate natural beauty, the beauty of it all. Said that if you don't think the world is a beautiful place, you'll turn cruel." He took a deep breath and studied the town beneath them. "...So cruel."

Sam looked up at Will. "Are you okay?"

Will pointed at one of the intersections below them. "See that? That's the most dangerous intersection in town. Maybe not now, because it's clear. But all it takes is one cold and rainy night, one early freeze, one town too cheap to maintain the roads. He was only supposed to be out for fifteen minutes, you know that? Fifteen minutes, that's all it takes to change someone's life. That..." He paused for a moment, then began screaming. "A man's life isn't worth a couple dollar's worth of rock salt? Bastards! You dirty sons of bitches!"

Sam ran to Will's side. "Will?"

"And then what do you do? You sell your soul to these devils? You let them turn our town into a prison? Tell us this is the future...Who the hell wants this future? You all deserve to burn! Every last one of you!"

"Will, you're scaring me."

"I'm okay. Geez, I just lost it for a second." Will fell back into the grass, staring into the sky. "Whenever I get upset, I look up. Just look up at the sky. It's this ancient thing, you know? Ten thousand years ago, people looked up there and couldn't wrap their heads around it, this endless blue thing that was bigger than anything they'd ever known. It must have scared them just to think about it. And now we fly around in it, and we shoot big rockets right through it, and we've got sensors that can tell us just how blue it is, you know. But I'll tell you, for all of that, we've never been the master. The sky will always be the boss. It'll outlast all of us and everything we build. A million years from now, it'll still be there, laughing at us."

Sam reclined in the grass and closed his eyes, letting the cool morning air wash over him.

CHAPTER 23

"Sam? Hey, you still sleeping on me? Wake up!"

Storyteller opened his eyes to something unimaginable. He was no longer in the desert but in a place far removed, laying in the grass on a hill with the breeze flowing over him. Glancing to one side, he could see a field, a great garden unlike anything he'd ever seen, stretching out infinitely in all directions, beyond the horizon and beyond his senses. Every inch of that field was covered in flowers in the full bloom of Spring, emerald and ruby, ivory and jet, each one a color and cut as glorious as any precious stone he'd ever gleaned in his life. They danced in the breeze, shedding their petals and casting them to the sky to float on the winds, covering the sun in a living rainbow, encircling him in color. Even before the disaster, places like this could never exist - yet this garden felt not just real but familiar, as though he'd caught a glimpse of it in a time and place far removed.

At length, Storyteller noticed another figure sitting next to him on the hill. He was a stout man, much taller than Storyteller - the kind of person who would claim to be strongly-built, if only out of vanity. He was dressed in a casual, pre-disaster style, taking sips of something from an aluminum can.

Storyteller squinted at the man. "...Will? Is it you?"

"Of course it is. You were expecting someone else?" Will patted a cooler nestled amid the flowers next to him. "Oh, right, this. I ran back to the car to get this. Sorry I didn't ask you, but you seemed so relaxed, I didn't want to disturb you."

Storyteller was lost in his own disbelief, unable to move or even think with any clarity. Here was a ghost of a man dead for well over a decade, exactly as he had remembered him \- looming large over him, a strong presence and a real one. He had stepped out of his own reality and into a memory, but one of exceptional clarity and sharpness. It was impossible - or perhaps he had just convinced himself of that?

Storyteller pulled himself to a sitting position. "But that's not right. You can't be here, you..."

"I what?" Will reached into the cooler and handed something to Storyteller. "Want a beer? Don't tell mom, this'll be our little secret, okay?"

"Thanks." Storyteller accepted the can, cradling it in both hands. "Uh...I found your time capsule."

"The preservation chamber, you mean? It survived? Awesome! You never know what's gonna happen with these homemade things." Will finished his beer and tossed the can aside. "Wait, that's a shitty thing to do. I'll get that." He snatched the empty can and crammed it into the cooler. "You got to keep the planet clean, right?"

"Of course," said Storyteller, flicking the drops of condensation from the can. "You saved the story I wrote."

"Of course I did. The point was to save things that should last, right?"

"Thanks, but I'm not sure that anything I wrote back then was worth saving forever."

"You always were too hard on yourself. I don't know much, but I know what's good. And you're getting better all the time. But there's one thing I gotta know, and you can be honest..." Will leaned in closer. "...Why do you have to lie to everyone?"

"What do you mean?" said Storyteller. "I've never lied to a soul."

"Come on, Sam, it's me," said Will. "We both know you didn't see half that shit."

"But I did," said Storyteller. "And what I didn't see I heard from you. We were together until the last minute."

"Have it your way, buddy. Not like it's going to matter in a few minutes." Suddenly, Will stood up, staring off into the distance. "Hear that? It's coming."

"What's coming?" Storyteller leaped to his feet, frantic, screaming in panic. "Will? What's coming?"

"The end." Will smiled at Storyteller. "C'mon, buddy, you don't want to miss it again, do you?"

Will spun his head back to the horizon, Storyteller tracing his gaze. There was nothing to see but there was a sudden rush, a blast of hot wind that raked the flowers and sent the petals spiraling in mad patterns through the air. Then there came a noise, something otherworldly hum at an eardrum-rending pitch - something coming not from the horizon but from within Storyteller's own head, a terrible note sung by his own bones. His body trembled down to his core, down to the very molecules in his organs, vibrating in time with some unseen force. There came a light, a beam of brilliant energy erupting from a point far on the horizon accompanied by a hellish wave of force. The flowers and petals burst into flames, flooding the sky with strangling smoke and tinging the very air a grim scarlet. The light beam grew wider by the second, expanding and expanding until Storyteller could see nothing else. The entire world melted away. All was ash and then, all was nothing.

#####

~Date Unknown~

"His pulse is getting stronger."

"Is he reacting at all?"

There were voices somewhere in the darkness the engulfed Storyteller, voices coming from somewhere far above him, but growing ever closes. The searing light was gone, replaced by a realm of shadows flitting around at the edges of his perception. Moment by moment, the image grew clearer - first the shadows transformed into indistinct shapes, then sharper ones with strange, ill-defined colors, then blurry images that he could just recognize. The voices grew sharper as well - voices from the people standing over him, familiar ones, the names attached to them floating just beyond his reach.

"It looks like he's coming around."

"Get more of the solution. He'll need it."

The first thing Storyteller could make out clearly was a massive object towering over him - a statue of a man, his arm outstretched to the heavens. On the arm was a black smudge that slowly came into focus - a crow perched on the arm, staring down at him with bestial curiosity.

"So I didn't make all of it up, did I?" said Storyteller. "Some of it was real. It had to be."

More people leaned over him. "Why's he talking like that?"

"Probably still delirious. Give him time, it'll pass."

"Here's the solution, Lifebringer."

Storyteller stared groggily up at the man leaning over him. "I remember you. We went to Nexus together, didn't we? How long ago was that?"

"You know, you must be the luckiest man alive." Lifebringer propped up Storyteller's head and poured a sweet liquid down his throat. "Think you can sit up?"

Willing his muscles back to functionality, Storyteller pulled himself into a sitting position and surveyed his new environment. His senses were still distorted, his thoughts clogged by haze, but he had regained enough of himself to recognize the sorry state of the place. He was in a clearing in an encampment \- a particularly sorry-looking one, more like a war zone than a village. Storyteller was just one of many lying in the clearing, most of them in dire shape. It was clear that none of them had eaten in some time, and some bore injuries that had gone untreated for tragically long periods. Lifebringer's attendants sprinted through the ranks of the dying, doing their best to treat their maladies, but many of these people were clearly beyond the help that they could offer.

Lifebringer shooed away a crow which had landed next to them. "Too many blackbirds in this place." He handed Storyteller a gourd filled with a cloudy liquid. "Keep drinking this. It will help."

Storyteller swallowed the contents of the gourd, dropped it, then buried his face in his hands. "I feel like death is right behind me."

"You weren't far off," said Lifebringer. "How long were you in that desert?"

"Merely three days...or was it five?" Storyteller squinted against the hazy sunlight. "It might well have been a year. I really don't remember."

Lifebringer took Storyteller's wrist, searching for a pulse. "Well, you can thank the locals for saving your life. There's a dust storm coming soon, so some of the men went out into the desert to make sure that the children were safe. They found you and dragged you back here. If they hadn't, you'd be lost forever."

"Another group of friendly souls to whom I owe my life." Storyteller groaned as a fresh wave of pain struck him. "Where are we, anyway? What happened here?"

"It has no name, but people call it Settlement 12. And Conqueror is what happened. We're right at the far edge of his territory. This is what life looks like on the edge of hell." Lifebringer turned loose Storyteller's wrist and shook his head. "You take more risks, you know that? First, you walk down a raider-heavy trade route by yourself. Now I find you wandering in the desert at Conqueror's doorstep. What were you even doing out here, anyway?"

"I had an appointment," said Storyteller. "A mandatory one."

"Strange to say it, but I was half-expecting to see you again," said Lifebringer. "We ran into this woman, a trail scout, who was looking for someone who sounded a lot like you."

"Pathfinder?" said Storyteller. "So she spared a thought for me. It seems I do have admirers."

"But I am still surprised to see you this far south. You had an appointment? An appointment with whom? The only thing in that direction..." Lifebringer abruptly froze, staring in stunned awe at Storyteller. "...It's not possible. You were in Pinnacle?"

The invocation of Conqueror's mythical desert city sent a wave of murmurs through the encampment. The attendants turned to stare at Storyteller, joined by many of the patients who were drawn back to the world of the living by the prospect of a new legend. There were dozens of eyes on Storyteller, all of them filled with barely restrained reverence - most of all Lifebringer, who swiftly shed his bitter disposition for something far more respectful.

Lifebringer snapped himself clear of his state of awe. "You must still be delirious. Conqueror never lets civilians out, everyone knows that. If you were in Pinnacle, then how are you here?"

"I made my own exit," said Storyteller.

"I think you're telling tales again, or maybe feeding us some heat-induced hallucination," said Lifebringer. "I don't suppose you can prove this?"

"It may not prove it to your satisfaction," said Storyteller, "but I liberated a few articles before I left the city."

Lifebringer's mouth fell open, his eyes growing wide as the truth of the situation dawned on him. "You...You stole from Pinnacle? From Conqueror?" He made a feeble attempt to compose himself, allowing his awe to shine freely. "Do you realize what you've accomplished? Everything I've heard about Conqueror's collections, his libraries, his workshops...it's beyond comprehension. With his resources, I could save a thousand lives...a million!"

"Nothing I liberated would be of much use to you, I think, and I doubt that one could save a life. But I'd be more than pleased to show you what I found." Storyteller drew himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the statue. "Where's my satchel?"

One of the attendants jogged over, setting the bag at Storyteller's feet. "Here. We didn't touch anything, I promise."

"Thanks." Storyteller knelt down next to the bag and opened it, carefully sifting through the contents. "I should check. One of the objects I took is a bit fragile." He first removed the computer component, examining it in the light. "It looks intact to my eye, at least."

Lifebringer crouched down next to Storyteller, peering at the object in Storyteller's hand. "Is this what I think it is?"

"The ruins beneath Pinnacle hold countless old world machines," said Storyteller. "Computers included."

"So Conqueror has even this, huh?" said Lifebringer.

"He has it, but he does not use it." Storyteller tucked the component back into his satchel. "Conqueror is a very smart man, but with a sore lack of imagination. Once I've recovered, I will be taking this to someone with a touch more ingenuity. We'll see what secrets she can unearth."

"Did you take anything else?" said Lifebringer, not bothering to hide his eagerness.

"Yes, but it's a personal thing." Storyteller looked away. "It wouldn't interest you."

"Anything that comes from Conqueror's vaults is of interest to me," said Lifebringer. "It would be of interest to anyone who's ever lived within his reach."

Storyteller reached into his pocket, producing a wad of crumpled papers. "It was a remarkable coincidence, actually. Pinnacle was built atop my hometown, and Conqueror had dug up a time capsule that was interred by my own brother. Miraculously, this survived the disaster."

"What is it?" said Lifebringer.

"A story I composed, right before the disaster," said Storyteller, gingerly unfolding each balled-up sheet. "Remarkable, is it not? He saved it for future generations."

Lifebringer scrutinized the papers for a moment, jaw locked in place, teeth grinding, cold eyes fixed on Storyteller's hands. Without warning, he snatched the papers from Storyteller's hands and ripped them in half and then in half again and again and again. He was in a frenzy, numb to Storyteller's horror, wordlessly tearing until only ragged shreds remained.

"What are you doing?" cried Storyteller.

"I'm doing you a favor," said Lifebringer, staring down Storyteller, no longer shrouding his disdain. "When you turned up in my camp again, I'd hoped that you'd had some time to mature. I'd hoped that seeing the violence and tyranny and murderous greed out here would wake you up to the real world. But you keep clinging to the way things were!" Lifebringer dropped the shreds of paper, sending them dancing through the air on imperceptible wind currents. Storyteller moved quickly to rescue them, snatching them out of the air and then falling to his knees to grab the ones that had hit the ground. "Look at yourself! You're debasing yourself for a thing of no value!"

"No value?" said Storyteller as he crammed the shreds into his satchel. "This was all I had to connect me to my past."

"And that was worth risking your life?" said Lifebringer. "Do you have any idea what Conqueror would have done if he'd found that on you?"

"It was worth the risk," said Storyteller. "When you have passion for a cause, there is no risk too great. I'd think you might understand that."

"Don't compare yourself to me!" said Lifebringer. "I have a cause, and it's a just one. You don't have anything but dreams and memories. My life has purpose and yours is a waste. We save lives, Storyteller, we ease pain. What do you even do for anyone? Tell them stories? They don't need stories. They need to survive!"

"They need a reason to survive." Storyteller stood up, bracing himself against the base of the statue as a wave of weakness struck him. "Yes, you do an excellent job of fixing these people up when a raider gang or local tyrant comes through, or when there's a bad crop or tainted water. But to what end? So they can bide their time for the next drought, for the next pack of murderers? They don't just want to survive, Lifebringer. They want to know that there's something more. They want to know that there's a world where they won't have to listen to their children crying out in fear every night. They need that hope."

"Hope?" The word was tinged in acid as it snaked between Lifebringer's teeth. "A comforting lie. You give people hope? How, by chaining them to the past? The past is past. We need a future."

"A vision of the future. I thought I'd left that talk behind when I escaped from Conqueror's chambers."

"Don't you DARE compare me to that monster!" Lifebringer seized Storyteller by the front of his garment. "Or is this an attack to conceal your own collusion? No one escapes from Pinnacle. Did Conqueror do a favor for one of his kindred spirits?"

"Turn me loose." Storyteller brushed aside Lifebringer's hands, sliding down the statue to the ground as his legs gave way from the exertion. "So you have no need for the past. Then why do you wear that?" He pointed to the Rod of Asclepius pin on Lifebringer's collar. "I believe you once told me that there was a medical tradition in your family. Is that the pin's origin? Did it come from one of your parents, or a grandparent?"

"And now you bring my family into this! All your platitudes about beauty and the human spirit are just to make you look bigger, aren't they?" Lifebringer glanced down at Storyteller's satchel, resting just within his reach. "You need a stronger lesson. It's the only way you'll ever understand."

"What are you doing?" Storyteller's anger faded, replaced by a creeping dread.

"What needs to be done." Lifebringer pushed his hand into the satchel, quickly returning with the notebook. Storyteller clawed at Lifebringer, fighting as a wounded animal, but in his weakened state he was no match for the healer.

"Stop it! Return that at once!" Lacking the strength to stand up, Storyteller crawled after Lifebringer as he ran to the watchfire at the heart of the camp. "Stop!"

"I'm going to do you another favor, Storyteller." Lifebringer reached into his pocket, producing a metal cigarette lighter. "I'll set you free at last. I'm sorry it had to come to this, but healing often hurts."

"No!" Storyteller tried to stand up and fell flat on his face again.

Lifebringer flicked the lighter, summoning a small flame just visible in the daylight. "This is for your own good."

"You can't!" screamed Storyteller. "Don't kill him!"

"What?" Lifebringer stared down at Storyteller, stunned by the oddity of the remark. A look of awareness crossed his face as he surveyed his surroundings. He could catch the eyes of no supporters - those who weren't averting their eyes were staring him down with contempt. His eyes drifted from the lighter to the notebook and back as he reckoned the nature of his threat. Snapping the lighter shut, he tossed the notebook into the dirt before Storyteller. "Fine. Have it your way."

Storyteller fell on the notebook, cradling it to his chest. "Thank you."

"Enough of this." Lifebringer snapped his fingers. "All right everyone, get ready to move out." He'd done this many times, but that day there was no movement, only shocked and angry glares. "What did I say?" He swung back to Storyteller. "You see? You've turned my retinue against me."

"You wounded yourself, doctor," said Storyteller. "My destination is Westhigh. Tell me how I can reach that location from here, and you'll be rid of me."

"You're in no shape to travel alone," said Lifebringer. "But even if you were, you'd never get there using the trade routes. Conqueror's men control every settlement around here. By now, he's dispatched messengers to all of them. If one of the messengers reaches a settlement before you, then you'll be lucky if they just kill you where you stand."

"Then what do you propose?" said Storyteller.

"There's another route, across the river to the north," said Lifebringer. "It's off our regular path, but the storm is going to divert us anyway. We can take you back to the main trade route. After that, you're on your own."

"So now you choose to help me?" said Storyteller. "An act of contrition, or just trying to win back the faith of your followers?"

"A stirring show of bad faith," said Lifebringer. "No man deserves to fall into that monster's hands, especially not a soft-headed fool like you. Now, will you follow my instructions?"

"Of course," said Storyteller. "And I forgive you for what you've done today."

"I haven't done anything that needs forgiveness."

"I'm sorry. I should have said that even after today, I still see the goodness in you. In other circumstances, I would have called you friend. Perhaps I will one day, no matter what your behavior."

"Friendship is a nice fiction," said Lifebringer. "Allies and enemies, that's all there really is."

"Allies only as long as they are useful, then?" said Storyteller.

Lifebringer turned his shoulder to Storyteller. "Don't get left behind."
CHAPTER 24

~T-minus 35:36~

For a time after his outburst on Kiyama Hill, Will was a wholly different person. Unpacking that rage that he'd kept inside him for so long had spent his energy, leaving him without his familiar zeal. He was quiet at breakfast, speaking no more than a few words to Sam, keeping his head down and eating quickly. His usual character returned with the sun's advance, and by noon the old Will was back in force, with language spiked with passion and steps filled with the joy of existence. Sam responded in turn, and both of them were in fine spirits as Will led them on an impromptu trip to Amos Street.

"Now this is the part that I've been looking forward to," said Will, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel to the rhythm in his head.

"What's the big deal?" said Sam. "It's just another neighborhood."

"Just another neighborhood? It's Amos, man. It's different. This is where the lab people live."

"So?"

"So? They're from all over the country, all over the world even. All these people bringing their own tastes to this one spot? It's like a itty bitty New York City, right in our own town." Will tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Hey, do you remember when they started building it? Took them less than a year to get the whole thing set up. Those Jameson guys had it all planned from the start, they knew exactly what their people needed. Shops and restaurants to cater to the world's elite minds? Yeah, I guess I'd like to see what it's like. I'd like to see how these people live."

"Yeah, I guess that is cool," said Sam. "So where are we going to eat?"

"That's your call, buddy. All of these places are nice. Forget the Orientale, these places..." Will gaped through the window. "...the hell?"

Will, who had kept well clear of the new neighborhood, had certain perhaps unrealistic expectations for Amos Street. In his head, it was a place that epitomized class - long rows of $80-per-meal bistros and cosmopolitan boutiques vending goods from countries he'd never heard of, broken up at regular intervals by well-kept parks and classical gardens showcasing exotic plants. What met his eyes looked more like the dividing line between gang territory, or perhaps a test fire range. Each shop was covered in spectacularly profane graffiti, and many had broken windows, forced open doors, or other signs of burglary. The streets were filled with shards of glass from busted street lamps and cameras, the alleys covered in garbage from flipped dumpsters. The afternoon shoppers were not out - they would have no room to walk with the streets choked by city workers performing repairs, police officers moving in and out of crime scenes and merchants desperately trying to scrub the filth from their walls.

Sam snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah, I heard some kids at school talking about coming down here and busting things up. I didn't think they'd actually go through with it, though. They say stuff like that all the time."

"That explains why the cops left," muttered Will.

"What?"

"Nothing, never mind." Will turned onto a side street and parked with his usual level of care. "Well, let's go."

"We're still going?" said Sam. "I don't think these people are in the mood to deal with people from town."

"Nonsense. I've got money, they'll take it." Will stepped out of the car. "One of these places must be open. We'll go to the first one we find."

Now privileged with a closer view, Will realized that the damage to Amos was far worse than it appeared from a comfortable distance. It was a miracle that the street was open at all, what with the mounds of rubbish and debris littering the walkways and road. Burn marks marred the street as well, odd scorched patches ringed by shattered glass - Molotov cocktails, Will thought, a thing he never thought he'd actually see. The whole neighborhood had been defaced in a particularly thorough way, leaving no sign unbattered and no traffic light intact. This wasn't the work of rowdy kids. This was the aftermath of a full-on riot, an angry retribution for the violence carried out the previous day.

Will crossed his arms over his chest as he surveyed the street. "All right, this is kinda uncomfortable, I'll grant you that. Maybe we skip lunch and just grab a snack? They've gotta have a cafe around here." Will sprinted past a pair of workers. "Let's see...'The Space Beyond.' Yeah, this one's open. It's a lot nicer than the House, too. Come on, let's get something fancy and overpriced!"

"Are you sure?" said Sam. "These people are giving us some dirty looks."

"It'll be okay, we'll just stay a minute."

For whatever miseries had afflicted the other Amos Street business owners, the owner of the Space Beyond must have been pleased. The riot had inflicted minimal damage as it passed the cafe, leaving the facility in good enough shape that it could open for business as usual, scooping up the customers for the other restaurants. It was a very nice cafe, a far cry from what Will was accustomed to in Patmos. The furnishings were new and pricey - the sectional sofa in the front probably cost as much as a car - and the walls were decorated with art from nationally-known artists whom even Will could recognize, each piece an original.

"Not bad, huh pal? You know, the way they price things in places like this, you could spend a week's salary, no problem." Will felt a vibration in his pocket. Surreptitiously checking his phone, he caught Sara's name on the screen. "All right, pick out what you want, I gotta get this."

Beep. "Will? Will, are you there?"

"Whoa, a little aggressive there, aren't you? You that eager for a follow-up interview?"

"Just...I'm glad you're all right."

"That's nice, I guess. Look, I'm with my brother here so let's keep this brief, all right?" Will sidled to a relatively quiet corner of the room. "Is this about the Gazette thing?"

"Huh?"

"The break-in last night?"

"What break-in? What are you talking about?"

"You know, those guys that..." Will turned to the wall and cupped his hand over his mouth. "...Those guys who were at the office last night."

"That one's news to me. I've been downtown and it doesn't look like anyone broke in."

"But I was there! Are you saying..." Will's tongue stilled for a moment as he shot a glance at the patrons behind him. "...Never mind. Just tell me what you want so I can get going."

"I don't need anything from you. I was just checking in. You can hang up right now."

"I'm totally lost. You're checking in?"

There was an audible sigh from the other end. "...All right, Will. I'm putting myself out there by saying this on the phone...Remember Zoe Mulroney?"

"I don't...oh, wait, the girl from the lab, right?"

"She's disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Will pulled the phone away and peeked back over his shoulder, longer this time, scrutinizing the crowd for anyone out of sorts. "...So she hasn't picked up her phone. Lots of reasons why someone would do that."

"It's not just that. I checked her apartment, checked with her neighbors. No one's seen her in days."

"What are you saying?"

"Will, they're shitting themselves at the lab right now. There's that white paper...thing, the leak that you got. Now rumor is that some rogue tech, maybe the same person, is spreading around these gizmos to get around their surveillance and security. They already suspected Zoe. She talks to me, now she's gone. So what am I saying? I'm saying this whole thing has gotten a lot nastier than I would have imagined."

Will chewed apprehensively on his lip. "It...yeah, it sounds bad, but it could still be a coincidence."

"Will...goddamn you. I haven't been fully honest with you. I've been investigating the Jamesons for years."

"Investigating?"

There was another protracted sigh from the other end. _"They brought me on to write about them when I was sixteen years old. It was a gimmick, it looked cute to have this teenager writing their story. When I got old enough...well, I decided to branch out. A friend of mine set me up with an interview with this guy who worked for one of Jameson's Chinese businesses. It was this guy named Roderick."_

"Roderick Butler?"

"Yeah. Turns out that this guy was tied straight into everything. Working for a company funded by Jameson money, run by Zhang, he was banging Zhang's daughter, maybe engaged to her depending on who I was talking to. People spotted him hanging out with Jameson's kid, the kid's wife, a really connected guy...he's gone too, Will. No one's seen him in days. I could give you more, Will. People who talk to me go away."

"Well, that's...no, you're being paranoid. I know there's a lot of money at stake here-"

"You think it's about money, Will? Money is shit to these people. They're building the future, you think they're gonna let me stand in the way? I'm probably on their list, and so are you. Just...watch your back, all right? Watch your back. And if you let this slip to anyone...well, watch their backs, too." Click.

Will stared at the now-silent phone for a moment before returning it to his pocket. He was suddenly aware of the conversations around him - idle chatter, mostly meaningless, at least to his ears. He took notice of the eyes glancing in his direction, the gentle sneers - derision at a townie, or was there something more sinister here?

"Will? Hey, Will." Sam tugged at Will's shoulder. "Who was that?"

"Who? Oh...just a friend. Are you, uh...do you know what you'd like?"

"Excuse me, sir." One of the staffers approached the two of them, far friendlier in demeanor than the patrons. "Are you Will Scarborough?"

"...Sure," said Will. "Who wants to know."

"There's someone here who'd like to speak with you," said the staffer, gesturing toward the back of the cafe. "He's in the tea room. If you'll come with me, it'll just be a few minutes."

Will squinted at the staffer. "...Who, exactly?"

"I'm really not at liberty to reveal that here. Suffice it say that he's extremely important and plenty of people would love to have this opportunity." The staffer shot Will a knowing grin, then drew in closer. "Sir? He's not used to being refused."

A single name floated into Will's head and stuck fast to his brain. His hand drifted into his pocket, wrapping around the strange little device that he'd been given the day before. "Not used to being refused, huh? Well, then I suppose I shouldn't..." He felt for the button as he stalled, finally finding it with his thumb and pressing it so hard that he half-expected the gadget to shatter in his hand. "...keep him waiting."

"What about me?" said Sam.

"We'll keep an eye on him, sir," said the staffer.

"Of course. Hey, buddy, I'll only be a minute." Will reached into his pocket again, pulling out a fistful of bills. "Here, get whatever you want. I'll be right back and we'll do...I don't know, whatever you want to do. Be thinking about it, okay?"

A server appeared to attend to Sam as Will followed the staffer to the isolated room in the back. "Through here, sir," said the staffer. "Enjoy yourself."

"Thanks." Will reached for the knob but hesitated before his fingers could as much as brush it. He had never been in awe of a door before, but then he had never seen such detail lavished on something so simple. He was eye-to-eye with a raven - one carved from mahogany rather than flesh and bone, with feathers colored by wood finish rather than nature, but a bird nevertheless, one ready to fly away at any moment. "You guys are really into the little details, huh?"

"We have generous patrons, sir." The staffer stepped away from the door. "Go on in."

Will had barely grasped the brass handle when the door drifted open and the room beyond greeted him with opulence. The cafe was class, but the tea room was true luxury. Will couldn't begin to calculate the value of the crystal in the fixtures or the paintings on the walls - masterpieces, either the finest reproductions ever made or the result of some under-reported heists - but even his peasant eyes could appreciate the cost. A mahogany table dominated the room, around which were seated three men. The one on the left was familiar - he'd been in the Orientale, and the intimidating aura that enveloped him was still present. On the right was a rotund man with short-cropped hair and the general countenance of a fanatical accountant. Between them was a silver lion, a figure Will had seen and heard many times before, a figure who had been a presence over his life for what seemed like ages.

"William?" The man in the center rose from his chair. "My name is Joshua Jameson."

"Yeah, I know." Will tried to hide his awe as he scanned the table. "Mr. Zhang, you I know..." His eyes swept to the right. "Which would make you..."

"Dr. John Bellamy." Dr. Bellamy knocked his fist against the table. "Joshua, why are we wasting our time with this imbecile?"

"John, please." Joshua pointed to a chair opposite the three of them. "Please, take a seat."

"No thanks, I..." Will halted as he felt strong hands on his shoulders. The room was more crowded than he had thought - there was a man standing at each flank, stern Asian men in dark sunglasses who reacted to each tiny motion that Zhang Yanli made. "...All right, I can hang out for a few minutes. No problem." He took his seat with a firm assist from the two men. "So what can I do for you?"

Joshua returned to his own seat. "First, are you comfortable right now?"

Will shifted in his seat. "I guess. I mean, I'm not used to, you know, digs this nice."

"Of course. I actually own this cafe, you know, and I had the operator put together this room just for meetings of a more casual nature - less formal than the office. I'm sorry if you feel awkward, but I was not expecting you." Joshua leaned over the table with his arms crossed, a firm jaw topped with soft eyes, the very image of the stern but loving father. "William, I understand that you've been causing some problems for my company."

"Uh-uh, no way," said Will. "All I wanted was to have a little party. This was nothing to do with me."

"You lying bastard!" said Dr. Bellamy. "Joshua, Aaron told me that this man was running with those rioters, trying to stir up anger against the company. He was there whipping them up."

"Hey, I was there on an errand," said Will. "I stumble on in, literally, and someone shoves a microphone in my hands. I just went with the flow."

"I see." Joshua turned his attention rightward. "Mr. Zhang, do you have an opinion on this?"

Zhang Yanli leaned back from the table, hands bridged before his face. "My daughter tells me that he is not such a bright man."

"Aaron told me the same thing," said Dr. Bellamy. "It doesn't take a lot of brains to cause chaos, though, does it?"

"What, you brought me here just to insult me?" Will waved a finger at Dr. Bellamy. "Your son is a goddamn psychopath. He cooked with me with a heat gun, waved a gun in my face, threatened with a taser, threatened to have me shot..." He spun toward Zhang Yanli. "And you \- it was your men who came by my house, right? What, you're threatening my family now?" He tried to stand, but the men at his back forced him back down.

"Son, calm yourself," said Joshua. "First, I'll not abide by blasphemy. Don't take the Lord's name in vain in my presence again. Now, I am aware of the various charges that have been leveled against me, my company and my associates over the years. I'm not sure precisely what you have heard-"

"What I've seen, Josh," said Will. "Documents, the ones your boys were trying to find at the Gazette last night, I'll bet. You've been lying to everyone."

"I've never deceived a soul," said Joshua.

"Well, then maybe Dr. Richter has been lying to you," said Will "Where is Otto anyway? His life's work is about to go live and he's still not around?"

Joshua reclined from the table, hands clenched - fatherly disappointment this time. "William, I haven't brought you here to discuss that."

"Well, we're discussing it now. Stop the goddamn test. Are you hearing me?" Will slammed his fists on the table. "Cancel the test, you maniac!"

Zhang Yanli tipped his head and his men set to work, moving so quickly that Will wasn't aware what had happened until his face was already pressed against the table. Each of them had one of his arms, rendering him immobile. From his new position, he could only see one of the three men at a time, each face reflecting a different style of anger.

"I told you to mind the blasphemy." Joshua stood up and leaned over the table. "We're not here to discuss that. You are here to answer a question: Where is my son? Where is Benjamin?"

"What?" grunted Will.

"I know you've been in contact with him," said Joshua. "Where is he?"

"I don't know - augh!" One of the goons wrenched Will's arm with precisely enough force to send a wave of pain through him. "Damn it, I don't know!"

Joshua glared absently at Will. "Where is he?"

"He's not here anymore!" Will broke out into nervous giggles. "He's in Mexico."

"Don't play games with me, son," said Joshua.

"Tijuana. In a dark and dingy little bar with a winsome senorita - augh!" Will's giggles turned into laughter, crackling slightly from the pain. "He's in Beijing, on the Great Wall with Zoe and Roderick." He cast a sideways glance at Zhang Yanli. "You know what I'm talking about. The close friend, right?"

With a half-swallowed sigh, Zhang Yanli crouched down to Will's eye level. "My daughter is smart but not wise. She laid down with a dog because she could not see that he was a dog. Though he was a clever dog and a reliable dog, so it was a shame to lose him. But you are not a clever man or a reliable man. You are a useless man."

"Joshua, we need to get rid of him now," said Dr. Bellamy. "He's a wild card and we can't have him ruining everything we've worked for!"

"He did incite a riot," said Joshua. "I can call the attorney general and see to it that charges are filed. He'll not trouble us for a few years at least."

"But the test is tomorrow," said Zhang Yanli. "He is an immediate problem, yes?"

"Not to mention all the people he's been talking to," said Dr. Bellamy. "That crazy Mills woman, for one. And his brother's outside-"

"Don't you dare mess with Sam!" With a primal roar, Will launched himself upright and brushed off the two goons, sending each staggering back. One of them reached for Will's arm but he seized the man by the lapels and shoved him back into Zhang Yanli, knocking both to the ground. The chair was in his hands now, a crude weapon he swung wildly before tossing it in the general direction of Joshua and Dr. Bellamy, both of whom dove for cover. Will could sense that the shock from his outburst was wearing off, and that time was short to make an escape. He barreled for the door, yanking it open and tripping over his own feet as he made an abrupt reentry to the main cafe area. He couldn't see the faces, but the screams of panic were certainly clear.

"Will!" Sam sprinted over to Will, who was sprawled on the ground. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," said Will. "Hey, what did you order?"

The goons stormed out of the tea room and were on Will before he could regain his footing. One of them hauled him to his feet while the other delivered a blow to Will's solar plexus, dropping him back to his knees.

"Leave him alone!" shrieked Sam.

"I'm fine!" Will laughed maniacally. "Is that the best you got, ya pussies? Go on, why don't you try actually hitting me for a change!"

Suddenly, a woman charged through the door of the cafe. "Will, you idiot, get out of here!"

"Diana!" Will shoved the goons away, grabbed Sam by the back of his shirt and bolted for the entrance. "Come on! It's for us!"

"What's going on?" said Sam as he fled.

"I'll explain later!" shouted Will.

There was a nondescript white sedan idling on the street outside of the Space Beyond, a dull and forgettable vehicle that may as well have come straight from a robbery. Diana was already in the driver's seat, gesturing madly for Will and Sam. "The cops are coming! Hurry up, damn it!"

Will fumbled for the handle, his fingers numb from pain and panic and slick with sweat. When the door at last opened, he all but tossed Sam inside before diving in after him, landing flat on his back. He had barely cleared the street when the car took off, the door swinging wildly under the acceleration. Will stretched for the open door, his fingers scraping against the frame until a bump in road pushed it close enough that he could yank it shut.

Sam's eyes traced the interior of the car as though probing for some sign of a trick. "Will?"

"Yeah?"

"What just happened?"

"We escaped, that's what."

"And where are we going?"

"Uh..."

CHAPTER 25

~Date Unknown~

The journey through the badlands at the edge of the Shivan Desert would prove a new experience for Storyteller, far different than his previous journey with Lifebringer's retinue. The wind here was unusually savage, carrying the loose dust of the desert and pouring it across the land for days at a stretch. This had become merely another part of life in the south since the disaster - the ruined soil, held in place by naught but a few patches of grass, moved freely with the winds. It wasn't merely sand, though, but particles of concrete, glass, and- many suspected \- more toxic materials. As a result, those who lived and worked in the area learned to protect themselves from the storms, shrouding themselves when the skies grew dark.

Lifebringer's attendants had learned to do as the natives did, and outfitted themselves appropriately. Their garb resembled armor more than clothing, with heavy padding covering every inch of flesh and a gauzy wrap to cover the mouth and nose. The storm outfits were uniform, differing only in their level of wear and otherwise offering nothing to distinguish one person from another. This conformity of appearance was a true gift to Storyteller, being exactly what he needed as they advanced through Conqueror's territory.

Storyteller drew back his face wrap. "Will they not become suspicious? The storms have died down."

"People wear these things all the time. No one will suspect a thing." Lifebringer adjusted Storyteller's face wrap, then glanced back over his shoulder at the settlement. "Okay, I need to make a few things clear before we go in there. The only reason Conqueror allows us to operate in his territory is because he doesn't consider us a threat. If he finds you with us, we'll all end up either in shackles or shallow graves, understand?"

"I understand," said Storyteller. "I'll do as you ask."

"You'd better. That mindset will save your life." Lifebringer turned back towards the settlement. "The settlements on the fringe of Conqueror's territory are always the ugliest. I guarantee that you will see things in there that you'll want to stop. You can't. The only thing we're allowed to do is pick up the pieces after the ugliness has passed. Anything else, we're dead."

"Your words don't exactly put me at ease," said Storyteller.

"Just keep your mouth shut and do as you're told, you'll be fine. Just remember, I'm putting myself out for you. We all are." Lifebringer gestured to the rest of his group. "All right, let's go."

The group gathered up their tools and trudged up the half-buried path towards the walls of the settlement. This itself was an oddity - walls were a feature of northern settlements, where attacks by bands of raiders were a fact of life. Presumably, these walls had been erected by Conqueror's men, but whether this was a fortress or a prison was known only to the warriors. Many of the guard posts along the wall faced inward rather than out, the better to control the people dwelling there. There was but one man, clad in the usual red and black and carrying a longbow, who watched out over the path. Storyteller was newly thankful for his face-obscuring clothes, for he knew that even without specific knowledge of his appearance, it would take but one tense expression to give him away.

What Storyteller saw beyond the gates gave him immediate context for Lifebringer's earlier warnings. There were nearly as many warriors here as there were settlers - more than he'd seen in Conqueror's palace, even, and exceptionally well-armed. The place had the look of a depot, a place where Conqueror's men could rest and gather supplies before heading out on expeditions in the north and west. There was an odd calm here, a casual nature that Storyteller would not expect to see at the edge of an empire of slaves. His only reckoning was that after years of living with these men, fear had become mundane for the people who dwelt here.

One of the guards approached Lifebringer. "You're the healer, correct? The wanderer?"

"That's right," said Lifebringer. "We were redirected by the storm. We did not intend to make camp here, so we'll be gone shortly."

The guard held out an arm to block Lifebringer. "Not so fast. My men have returned from a long campaign, and we have need of your services. Give us your aid, and I'll see to it that you are generously supplied." He grabbed Lifebringer by the shoulder. "I insist."

"Very well, but we can only manage a brief stay." Lifebringer clapped his hands to summon his retinue. "All right, here's the plan. You will circulate in pairs, giving aid to whomever needs it. I will be in the center of the encampment; if you find someone with a serious problem, you can find me there. Now, I'll need some assistants...you, and..." He pointed at Storyteller. "...you. Let's get started."

There was a group awaiting at the encampment's heart - not the usual socializing villagers, but a band of guards nearly a dozen strong, all carrying weapons, some still in their armor. A few were wounded, but offered no sign of pain or distress. These were Conqueror's elite, men endowed not merely with strength but with the same single-minded obsession that pushed Conqueror to drive his borders outward. Storyteller felt very conspicuous here, but all eyes were on Lifebringer as the warriors awaited his consultation.

The first man to approach Lifebringer was a large tan-skinned man with battle scars crossing his face, his arm wrapped in a filthy rag. By the way the others stepped aside as he passed, he was obviously a warrior of some advanced rank in Conqueror's army. "You are the healer?"

"That I am," said Lifebringer, opening his bag. "What do you need?"

"I was injured in a skirmish with raiders. It is a trivial wound, but the pain grows worse by the day." The warrior removed the rag, revealing an ugly, running laceration. "Is there something you can do?"

"It's clearly infected," said Lifebringer as he dug through his belongings. "I'll need to clean it and suture it shut before I rebind it. It won't be pleasant."

"Don't concern yourself with my pain," said the warrior. "It means little to me."

Lifebringer hadn't even the time to find his instruments when there came a commotion, a fracas at the other end of the square. All heads turned at once, and for a moment Storyteller felt free of scrutiny, though his relief faded once he saw what was transpiring. There was a settler, bony and sallow-faced, charging at a pair of guards with a rusty hoe lifted high over his head, screaming with rage. The guards swiftly disarmed him and knocked him back, which only further enraged the settler, who clawed at the guards with his bare hands in some futile effort to draw blood.

The warrior at Lifebringer's side surveyed at the scene. "What's going on?"

The settler tore away from the guards and stomped over to the elite warrior. "Do you know what your men have done? They've been down at my shack, robbing me blind! They've left me with nothing! We can't live on the scraps that they left behind!"

"We were only taking Conqueror's share, sir," said one of the guards. "He objected to the size of the cut, but it was no greater than we take from anyone else. No greater than what we've asked from him before."

"Liar!" howled the settler. "These men are thieves, filling their pockets!"

The elite warrior glared back at the man with nary a trace of emotion. "You know the price you must pay to live freely on Conqueror's lands. Every workman must devote some of his time to repairing our vehicles, every craftsman owes our lord part of his work, and every farmer owes the first portion of his crop to feed the men. That is the cost of security, and it is reasonable. The raiders take far more."

"But we had an agreement with them!" said the settler.

"An agreement?" said the warrior. "Conqueror's tax is absolute. My men are not authorized to make agreements to the contrary."

"It was..." The settled swallowed hard. "...It was a personal deal."

"An illicit bargain, then?" said the warrior. "So you admit to bribery?"

"Worse," said the settler, emotion trembling in his words. "It was...my wife made a deal with them. We heard them talking about their unmet needs. She promised that if they would take less, she-"

The warrior smashed his fist against the ground. "Don't say another word, I don't wish to hear the details of whatever debauched deal you brokered with my men. I certainly have no intention of honoring anything so vile. You owe what you owe and I'll hear no more about it."

"But what...but she..." The settler was in tears, robbed of calm speech, only able to wail. "What about them, your men? What are you going to do about them?"

The warrior waved him away. "I will discipline them later. The means should not concern you."

"Of course it concerns me!" shrieked the settler.

"My men acted out of foolishness and impulse," said the warrior. "You tried to sell someone you loved as though she were cattle. Whose crime is truly worse? Count yourself lucky that I have not focused my attention upon you."

The settler's face turned bright red and he clenched his teeth together. "You bastard! You act like the king of this place but you can't even control your own men!"

"Mind your words," said the warrior. "You are to show respect to your betters."

"You are no one's better," said the settler. "You are a clown!"

The warrior nodded to his men. "Enough of this. Punish him."

It took only a moment for the settler's rage to dissipate, replaced by a visible dread. The other men were already upon him, blocking any possibility of retreat. The settler tried to flee anyway, only to be shoved back to the ground repeatedly. The guards seemed to make a game of it, allowing the terrified man to pass just an inch beyond them before forcing him back, giving him hope just to snatch it away. Eventually, one of the guards, weary from the exercise, grabbed the hoe from the ground and swung it at the settler, the dull blade catching him just beneath the ribs on his left side. The salvaged wooden handle, run through with invisible with rot, exploded into splinters from the force of the blow. The settler hit the ground, face in the dirt, a trickle of blood running out from beneath him. Another guard drove his boot into the settler's back, eliciting a sad and agonized gasp - feeble proof that he was still alive.

"Enough." The warrior turned away from the spectacle and back toward Lifebringer. "Continue your work."

Lifebringer leaped to his feet and bolted to the injured settler's side, pushing aside the guards. "Attendants," he said, gesturing to Storyteller. "Come quickly."

The warrior rose and walked to Lifebringer and the injured settler. "What are you doing?"

"I'm treating this man's wounds. I'm a healer. It's my job. My duty." Lifebringer tore away the settler's garment and studied the wound. "The laceration isn't severe, but it could become infected. He could have a broken rib, too. I'm not sure if I'm equipped for this, but we'll try."

"Leave him." The warrior grabbed Lifebringer by the shoulder. "Didn't you hear what he said? This man is scum."

"Be that as it may, I'm obliged to help him," said Lifebringer.

The warrior squeezed Lifebringer's arm with all his strength. "You didn't hear me, healer. I told you to leave him."

Lifebringer winced from the warrior's grip, but otherwise remained focused on his patient. "I have my obligations. I can't leave someone to die."

"Stand up!" bellowed the warrior.

"Once I've seen to this man," said Lifebringer. "Not a minute sooner."

The warrior let out a furious roar and delivered a fierce kick to Lifebringer's chest, knocking him clear of the wounded settler. "I bear the authority of the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes. No one ignores me, least of all some self-appointed healer!" He planted one metal-shod boot on Lifebringer's prone form, pressing on his chest. "Now beg my forgiveness."

Lifebringer gasped for air. "...Can't."

"You're making a mistake, healer." The warrior planted the tip of his boot under Lifebringer's back as he pulled a hatchet from a hangar on his belt. "Now, to your knees and beg for your life, while I still have mercy to offer you."

Storyteller sprinted to Lifebringer's side, kneeling by the hurt man. "Please, great warrior, do not slay this man. We cannot live without his guidance."

"That would be a fine thought if it came from him," said the warrior. "From you, it's sorely lacking."

"Can't you see that this is not a practical man?" said Storyteller. "His head is in the clouds, not on the same field as you or I. He believes that he can rescue the world with his healing art."

"Then he's a fool," said the warrior. "A healer's only duty is to keep important men alive."

"And you realize this, but he refuses. So why would you exert yourself to end a fool's life?" Storyteller rose to his feet. "A giant should not waste his strength on a mite."

"True enough." The warrior returned his hatchet to its hangar. "I'll let him go this time, but if he ever acts that way again, he'll be dead before the words are out of his mouth. And I want him out of my sight and my settlement."

"Thank you." Storyteller wrapped his arm around Lifebringer and helped him walk back to the other attendants. "Are you injured? Did he break your ribs?"

"My ribs are fine," said Lifebringer. "What about the man I was treating?"

Storyteller glanced back at the wounded man, being carried off by others from the settlement. "He seems to be breathing."

"Good." Lifebringer cringed, but shook off the pain. "Someone attend to him."

"We are still being observed," said Storyteller. "I don't think this would be wise. They expect us to depart immediately, do they not?"

"Not until I've had the chance..." Lifebringer sighed, an agonizing act with his new wounds. "...Fine. Everyone gather your things, we're leaving at once."

"Best that we remove you from danger first," said Storyteller, walking with Lifebringer through the gates. "You are certain that your injuries are not severe?"

Lifebringer elbowed Storyteller aside, wincing with pain but keeping his feet. "I'm fine."

The other attendants were gathering around the two of them, toting medical bags clumsily and hastily packed. Some of them jogged to Lifebringer, who only reluctantly allowed them to examine him. Storyteller stood to the side, the other attendants drawing to him.

"That was amazing," one of them said. "You've saved Lifebringer twice now, do you realize that?"

"And he has steered me out of danger twice," said Storyteller. "To my mind, this makes us even."

"Well, we all owe you one," said another attendant. "This was the closest we've ever come to losing our leader, and..." She leaned in close and whispered. "...For such a silly reason."

"Silly? There's nothing silly about helping a man in trouble." Storyteller sent a smile to Lifebringer. "That's your cause, yes? That devotion is the difference between foolishness and heroism. Anyone can throw his life away, but it takes a special person to do so on behalf of another."

"Enough of your flattery," said Lifebringer. "We're nearly clear of Conqueror's territory. We should keep moving. The sooner I'm rid of you, the better we'll all be."

Storyteller dipped his head. "Yes, I suppose gratitude was more than I should have expected."

"Don't preach to me," said Lifebringer. "You're still a dreamer."

"That I am," said Storyteller. "I'm just a man with a dream. There's not a soul left to mourn for me if I die in the wastes, and I have no family legacy to keep up."

"Family legacy?" One of the attendants seeing to Lifebringer raised his voice. "Lifebringer, you told him that story?"

"I told him nothing!" Lifebringer swatted the attendants aside and dropped to a sitting position. "...You asked about the pin before? Well, it's no heirloom. I found it in the ruins of a building not long after we came out of the shelter. There's no medical tradition in my family, at least not as far as I know. What do I know about my family? They're all dead, beyond that it's pointless to know. But I put the pin on, and people came to me for help, came to me to keep them alive. I accepted that responsibility and I still do."

"I see," said Storyteller. "I apologize for prodding at an old wound. I can see how this talk about my own past would harm you so."

"Drop the phony understanding!" said Lifebringer. "I don't need or want your pity. Yes, I'm a man without a past, but you're a man without a future. These little stories of yours might impress people now, but you'll run out one day. You'll cannibalize your past and have nothing left, and then what? What will you do when your memories abandon you?"

"I don't know," said Storyteller. "Perhaps it's time I take my leave. As you said, we are nearly free of Conqueror's clutches. Goodbye, Lifebringer."

As Storyteller turned to leave, Lifebringer raised his hand. "No. I made a promise and I'm keeping it. You'll travel with us until we reach the trade roads."

"You are a man of true honor," said Storyteller.

"...Honor." Lifebringer shook his head ruefully. "Storyteller?"

"Something else?"

Lifebringer cast his eyes down. "...I'm sorry I ripped up that paper."

"It's okay," said Storyteller. "I'd long since memorized it. It's high time I wrote something new. There are yet stories untold."

## CHAPTER 26

_~_ T-minus _35:21~_

It was rare that Will was truly at a loss for words but as he sat in the back of that vehicle, waiting for his heart to return to its typically vigorous but steady cadence, he realized that there was little he could say to Sam to explain their current situation. Sam, who could exhibit at least some grace under pressure, had secured his seat belt and was braced against the door in case the vehicle put on another burst of speed. Will, by contrast, was fully stymied, able to do nothing more than take in his surroundings. The car itself was not especially interesting \- just a typical interior to a typical sedan, cleaner than his own vehicle but otherwise very similar. Diana was at the wheel, an ear piece clipped to one ear, occasionally glancing into the passenger seat at something Will couldn't make out.

"Paul, I'm not going to ask you again." Diana mostly ignored her new passengers, opting to focus on berating the person at the other end of the call. "You need to make the damn call and if you don't, I'll hold you down and force you...That's no excuse. Man up and do it...Fine, you can call your delicate snowflake friends and cry to them about how I was mean to you. That can be your second call, all right? Second. Just do it already." _Click._ She glanced in the rear view mirror. "You two doing all right?"

"I remember you," said Sam. "From the trivia thing. Diana?"

"Diana Jameson," said Will, wrapping an arm around his brother. "This is Sam, my little brother. I like to bring him along with me so he can learn from my mistakes. What did you learn today, bro?"

"Um..." Sam kneaded his hands. "Fighting is stupid?"

"That's a good one." Will studied his knuckles, scarred and misshapen from too many pointless scraps. "I don't know why I get in fights, I never win. But hey, you lose even when you win, right?

"You're lucky," said Diana, glancing again at the passenger seat. "The police have been rough lately, and they're going to get worse. I'd stay off the streets if I were you."

"Is there someone up there?" said Will.

A tiny face framed in golden braids appeared just over the back of the seat, bright turquoise eyes scrutinizing the new arrivals. "Hi."

Will waved at the child. "Hello."

"Come on, Becky, sit down. You know that isn't safe." Diana reached over and tugged gently at the girl's arm and she reluctantly returned to her seat. "Sorry about that. This is Becky."

"Yours?" said Will. "She doesn't look like you."

"Sometimes everything skips a generation," said Diana. "She takes after her grandmother."

"You drive like that with a little girl with you?" said Sam.

"Well, I didn't expect to have to come and rescue you," said Diana. "Good timing, though, 'cause there's someone you need to meet. You don't mind a change of plans, do you? Hey, doesn't matter, I'm driving."

Will sank back into his seat. "Well, this was an interesting surprise, right?"

"Will, I'm scared," whispered Sam. "What's going on? This doesn't make any sense."

"I know," said Will. "I'll tell you about it later. Just try to roll with it for now, I can't imagine that it'll get much worse."

The car wound its way through the side streets of Patmos, advancing slowly toward the edge of town until it came to a stop at a small business hotel - one of several such establishments built quickly to accommodate what the town elders assumed would be a rush of new activity. Diana emerged first, scanning the area first, then taking Becky out of the passenger seat. "All right, boys, get out and hurry up. They're probably watching us here, too." She moved swiftly into the building, taking pains not to look around excessively or otherwise call attention to herself. Will took Sam by the arm and followed suit, though he couldn't help but eyeball the cars in the lot and on the road behind him, searching for the Jameson agents that he was sure were present here as well.

"We're set up in one of the conference rooms," said Diana. "We're not actually staying here, it's better if we stay mobile."

"Wow, you two are pretty paranoid, aren't you?" said Will.

"It's not paranoia, Ben just isn't ready to see Joshua yet," said Diana. "It's a really long story, so just believe me when I say that he has good reason."

"Are you talking about daddy?" Becky's head pivoted, her feet knocking against Diana's abdomen as she attempted to wriggle to the ground. "Where is he? He's gonna show me around."

"Your dad is busy. Please don't kick your mom in the ribs." Diana lowered the girl to the ground, crouching before her. "He'll be done soon, then you can go explore, okay?"

"He's always busy." Becky planted a hand on her hip and pointed a plump finger at Sam. "I wanna play with him."

"With me?" said Sam.

"Could you?" said Diana, rising to her feet. "Look, it's only going to be for five minutes, maybe ten. We're trying to keep her out of this mess as much as we can."

Will rubbed his chin. "Geez, I don't know if he's gonna want to do that. She's what, four? That's some responsibility."

"Please, it's the easiest babysitting gig in the world," said Diana. "I did it enough times when I was his age."

"No, I'll do it." Sam shrugged and flashed a smile. "...You know, for ten minutes."

"Perfect." Diana grabbed Will by the wrist and gave his arm a gentle jerk. "Come on, we don't have all day."

Will followed Diana past the reception desk and down a needlessly long corridor decked out in typical corporate blandness, a hall echoing with the muffled rhythm of footsteps on the thin carpet. They encountered the source of the sound as they rounded the corner - a scrawny, brown-haired youth with the hyperaware look of a frightened terrier, a phone locked fast in his pallid knuckles.

"Shit, whoa!" The man hopped back against the wall as the two of them came into view. "Diana! Geez, don't sneak up on me like that! Who's this guy?"

"He's..." Diana's eyes fell to the phone. "Holy shit, Paul, you haven't made that call yet? We've been gone over twenty minutes!"

"You don't understand," said Paul, rubbing his temples. "It's not that simple."

"Yeah, it really is." Diana stepped in front of Paul, blocking his tiny route. "Look, if you don't have the guts to call Aaron, send a text, but get on it. It didn't take me this long to call Lidia."

"Lidia doesn't hate you," said Paul through gritted teeth.

"She does a little," said Diana. "Come on, you're gonna let the state get blown off the map because of something that happened in high school?"

"Oh shit, I know who you are now!" Will crossed the room to Paul, smiling broadly. "You're the trivia kid, right? The one from Northwest? I've read so much about you! Hey, did all that crazy shit really happen at your school, or was Ed making it all up?"

Paul clapped his hands to his face. "Man, I don't want to talk about this right now..."

"Just do it, Paul. If I come out and you haven't made the call, then I'm gonna slap some sense into you." Diana pushed past Paul and into the nook beyond, a tiny hallway ending in a plain door. She ignored the biometric pad securing the room, instead tapping a few buttons on a device crudely wired into it. The pad chirped out a merry beep, followed by the broad sound of the lock sliding open. "Jameson manufactures these things," said Diana. "It's better if he knows as little about our position as possible."

"Man, who's making all these gadgets?" said Will.

"We have an inside man," said Diana. "Come on."

Rare is the conference room that is at all memorable but this meeting space was dull even by those standards, a weary carbon copy of a similar space to be found in almost any business hotel in the region. It had the expected fluorescent lights with their magnified hum, the expected fold-out tables that emerged pre-aged from the factory, the expected video projector pointed at the expected worn-out projection screen. The room was nearly devoid of both the people and equipment that would normally be found there - empty save for a few pizzas, some scattered office supplies and two individuals. One of them Will had already met - Lidia Zhang, slice of pizza in one hand, typing furiously on a notebook computer with the other. The other was a dimly familiar face, one Will had glimpsed in passing at some juncture in his life. His chiseled features were lost beneath a three-day sprig of beard hair, his thick auburn hair unkempt, his boutique clothing wrinkled from fitful nights without changing. He was the type who might have been considered handsome if he had even a passing interest in his appearance.

"You're Will Scarborough, correct?" he said. "I'm Ben Jameson. We've met."

"...In the Orientale. I know." Will winced and rubbed his abdomen. "Sorry if I'm a little off here, but between the beating and the chase, I'm not at 100%."

"You're lucky, you could have been a lot worse off," said Ben. "Do you need any medical attention?"

"Nah, I've had worse." Will crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. "So this is what a Jameson base of operations looks like, huh? I'm a little disappointed."

"Base of operations? Nothing so dramatic, Will, this is just a place to hide out while we try to reason our way out of a problem. Take a seat, I'll explain as best as I can." Ben led Will to a seat next to Lidia. "Will, this is-"

"We've met." Lidia reached for another slice of pizza. "Ben, does he really have to be here? He's a nobody, he brings nothing to the table."

"He's in the middle of it. That's enough." Ben leaned back against the table, a posture of forced ease. "What we're doing here is pretty simple, Will. We're trying to talk Joshua out of the test. At this point, there's no one else with the authority to call it off, so we're going right to the source."

"But you're his son!" said Will. "Jesus, man, just talk to him!"

"It's not that simple, Will. We don't get along. The last time we spoke..." Ben squirmed and shifted, his voice wavering ever so slightly. "...It's been a long time and he's not going to listen to me. That's the advantage of having that kind of money, you don't really have to listen to anyone. There are a few people he respects, though. Two of them are right here in Patmos: Dr. Bellamy and Mr. Zhang. He's trusted those two for as long as I can remember."

"I hear you," said Will. "You get the kids of your dad's friends here, and persuade him by proxy."

"Absent God contacting him in a dream, it's our only real hope of putting a stop to this." Ben leaned over to Lidia. "Have you gotten through to your father yet?"

"I've been working on him for days, but he's not budging," said Lidia. "You're putting a lot of stock in me, Ben. He hasn't had much respect for me lately, not with everything that happened in the old country."

"Are you talking about Roderick Butler?" said Will.

Lidia's fingers blanched as she reflexively grabbed the edge of the table. "Who told you about that? Which one of you assholes has been talking-"

"Chill out, Lidia, we haven't told him anything," said Diana. "He's been hanging around that Mills girl, I'm sure that's where he got it."

"Everyone calm down, we can hash this out after we're done," said Ben. "Bellamy's the tough nut. Even if we can get his son on our side-"

"Which is a long shot because he truly hates Paul," added Diana.

"Even if we get him on our side, there's no telling how the father will react," said Ben. "He's a bit of a zealot himself."

"You're telling me!" said Will. "Guy was trying to talk your old man into having me whacked. He's as psycho as the son."

"True, but we don't have another in," said Diana. "The only other person any of us could think of was Dr. Richter, and who the hell knows how to find that guy."

Will hopped out of his seat. "So what, this whole operation is just the four of you then?"

"Plus our silent partner," said Ben. "The person who's been giving us data on Jameson's systems. Probably the same one who leaked those documents to you."

"So what, I'm supposed to be number six?" said Will. "I mean, how does any of this involve me?"

"Really, it doesn't," said Ben. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You've been a victim of circumstance all along, Will, starting from the day you got those files by mistake."

"Yeah, well, I ain't connected like you guys," said Will. "I'm just some loser. Ask anyone."

"I'm not so sure," said Ben. "I saw the way you rallied those people at the protest. You have charisma, even if you don't know it. Maybe you'll end up leading the resistance that puts a stop to this. Right now? My priority is keeping you alive and out of trouble."

"Hence the rescue. And this thing." Will tossed the rescue gadget onto the table. "Well, thanks for that, but I can't help you. In case you hadn't notice, I've been looking forward to this. You see, I've got this party planned-"

"Dancing at the brink of the apocalypse?" Ben pulled a flier out of his pocket and smoothed it on the table. "I saved one of these from the police. I think you're going to be disappointed in the turnout, they've pulled them all down."

"I don't think so," said Will with a chuckle. "I put up fifty of those things."

"That's about how many we found in the trash," said Ben.

"Seriously?" Will muffled a growl. "...Well, that's okay. I don't really need those fliers I've rented this great little outdoor sound system. Totally wireless. The quality isn't great, but this thing can fill space like you wouldn't believe. They'll hear it over half the town. Plus I've got a generator and a bunch of flood lights. No one will miss this."

"You know you're marked, right?" said Diana. "We probably can't save you if someone comes after you, and you're in their sights now."

Will paused, braced by the notion that he had made such a dangerous and efficient enemy, then released the stress with a shrug. "Doesn't matter. It's all going down in a few days. If they cap me first, it'll just be another disappointment."

"Can't you grasp this?" Ben put his hands on Will's shoulders. "You've got a chance to save lives here, maybe billions, maybe the whole world. You're honestly telling me that you won't take it?"

"Exactly." Will brushed Ben's hands away. "Who the hell needs the world, anyway? And it's not like it was going to last forever, anyway. The people are doomed, the planet is doomed - we can at least enjoy it, right? I'm going to enjoy the hell out of this."

"You expect us to believe that you're that much of a nihilist?" said Diana.

"Know what? You don't get it." Will stomped to the door, each footfall demonstrating his contempt. "I ain't no nihilist. I just can't think of anything in this life that I'd rather see than the flaming end of it all. The big event. That's what matters, the only thing."

"The only thing?" said Ben. "What about your brother?"

"Sam? He'll..." Will trailed off to nothingness, lost deep within his own space. "...He's not going out with me. He'll survive this. I'll make sure of that. I've got plans."

"Plans?" said Lidia. "How can you still be so stupid after everything you've been through this past week?"

"You know what? You're right." Will turned back to the group, waving a finger in time with each utterance. "I am stupid. And I'm a loser and failure and all those other things that people say. But there's one thing I can do, one thing - I can keep Sam moving forward. He's the one who's gonna change the world, that's why he's here, and me? Maybe I'm just here to step in front of a doomsday bullet for him. So tomorrow, I'm putting Sam in the shelter, and then I'm going to the hill to watch the show, and there ain't a thing any of you can say to change my mind."

Ben walked to Will's side, leaning in close, whispering the words right into his ear. "I haven't known you for very long, but I can already tell that you care about your brother deeply. You're more of a father to him than Joshua ever was to me, so why aren't you trying to protect the world for him?"

"Sam's plenty tough too, okay?" said Will, mirroring Ben's whisper. "And he's learned what not to do from me, I'll tell you that much. Whatever the next world will look like, he'll thrive in that one, too."

"And you don't think he'll need you?"

"Me? No. I'd only hold him back."

"Fine." Ben snatched a pen from the table, scrawled something on the back of the flier and pushed it into Will's hand. "I can tell that I won't change your mind, but before you prance off to watch everything burn, I think there's someone you should meet. His name is Jedediah DuFresne. I'm sure you know who he is."

"The guy who dreamed up the machine, right?" said Will. "The one who used to argue with the protesters?"

"Exactly." Ben handed Will the flier. "He lives right here in town. I don't know why he's been keeping silent through all this, but I've spoken to him and I think you should, too. If you're going to go, go as soon as you leave here. For all I know, Joshua could already have men watching his house, too."

Paul made an abrupt entrance, stumbling through the door, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with Will, and finally flopping against the wall holding his phone away from his body. "Guys...I got through to Aaron, but he won't listen to me. I told you this wouldn't work."

"Keep him on the line, I'll deal with him." As Ben jogged to the other side of the room, he looked over one shoulder at Will. "Consider what I told you."

"All right, I'm gonna go check on Becky." Diana nudged Will's shoulder. "You coming?"

"Yeah, I'll be there." Will looked at the flyer crumpled in his fist, the address staring back at him. "Change my mind, huh?" he muttered to himself.

"You should talk to him. It's worth your time." Lidia opened the pizza box and, finding it empty, pushed it aside and opened the next one beneath it. "I don't share all of his fears, but he is a brilliant man."

"Sure," said Will. "Whatever, right? After all the effort I put into into planning this all out, I don't see how this guy is going to make me call it all off."

"You really are pathetic." Lidia looked up at Will, flipping the hair out of her face. "I don't buy any of this bullshit you're trying to pass about witnessing the end of the world. You're not as unique as you think, Will. I've met plenty of people just like you, who think their lives are so empty and hopeless that they fantasize about catastrophe. If you'd led a harder life, you'd know that there's no beauty in disaster. Just death."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm different. And maybe this is different. You don't know everything, you know. You don't know me." Will tapped his foot as he reached for a response. "But let's say that you guys have a point, a little one. You know what? I don't care. I'm excited for this."

"And your brother?"

"He'll be fine. I'll make sure that he's fine."

"Fine. I really don't care." Lidia added another slice to her plate. "Unlike you, I have a future after this."

"Which is?"

Lidia peered directly ahead, not even tossing a glance at Will. "...You don't know me, either. Don't think you do just because you heard a name."

"It's not the name, it's what it does to you." Will let out a loud sigh. "I'm done with you guys anyway."

Will was prepared for an ambush, but none awaited, only the drab hallway leading out to the hotel lobby. There were all smiles there, young Becky running in circles and cheering without restraint while Diana tried to wrangle her. Sam was seated before the two of them, wearied a bit and plainly pleased to be free of the responsibility.

"Well." That single syllable of Will's concealed an expression of pleasant shock. "So everything went well, I take it?"

"More!" said Becky. "I wanna hear more! I wanna stay with Sam."

"Looks like she has her first crush. Lucky me." Diana scooped Becky into her arms and headed back into the conference room. "Come on, let's go see daddy."

Will watched Diana disappear down the hallways before returning his attention to Sam. "What did you do to get that response?"

Sam shrugged himself to his feet. "I told her the story of Valeri the Thief. She loved it."

"You are an exceptional person, you know that right?" said Will. "All right, we can't go back and get the car just yet. What do you think? You cool with a little walking?"

"Of course not," said Sam. "Are we headed home?"

"No..." Will chewed on his lip. "...No. There's a stop we should make first. Someone I've been told I should meet."

CHAPTER 27

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

The boundaries of Conqueror's territory were marked by a special desolation, a no man's land long since abandoned by those who feared becoming the tyrant's future subjects. The trade routes here were long abandoned even by Conqueror's own forces, who were more inclined to build their own routes than use a network of ill-kept and hard to spot footpaths. One such footpath led to Westhigh, a three days' walk through immolated grasslands that offered little of interest or value. Lifebringer's retinue moved as quickly along these paths as they could, though their pace was far slower than the norm. Lifebringer was clearly downplaying his injuries, but opted to soldier on, accepting only self-treatment for his pain. Storyteller was doing his own share of suffering - walking the path with his head turned, always waiting to hear the sound of an army on the march, the forces of enslavement come to restore the human prize that they had plundered.

It was no small mercy when Westhigh finally came into view. Day had just broken as they neared the facility, the path marked by long shadows from the rubble monuments that dotted the horizon. Little had changed in the months since Storyteller's first visit - a bit more overgrowth, a few more fallen bricks, or perhaps even this was merely his imagination. The building itself was as it ever was, a stalwart remnant of a better age.

"Here it is," said Storyteller. "My destination."

"I still can't understand why you would want to come here" said Lifebringer sporting the same puzzled look he had when Storyteller first mentioned the ruin. "What are you expecting to find?"

"My past." Storyteller approached the entrance. "You are free to come in, as well. I would be happy to vouch for you with the inhabitant."

"This is your quest," said Lifebringer. "We have a route to keep. We'll pick it up against to the southeast."

"Conqueror's territory?" It was Storyteller's turn to gape in amazement. "You're returning?"

"The people there are the ones who need us," said Lifebringer. "Hopefully, this is the last time our paths will cross. You're nothing but bad luck."

"A shame. I was hoping to meet you again, once this business was settled. I do truly admire you, even for our differences. It has been so long since I've conversed with a man of your principles." Storyteller gave Lifebringer a shallow bow. "I wish you safe passage."

The retinue began its trek back along the southeastern road, and Storyteller turned back to the ruins, stepping through the main entrance. "Archivist?" he shouted, his voice bouncing down the corridor and fading into oblivion. No response returned - there was no sound save that of the click and hum of the insects preparing for dormancy. He advanced into the corridor, searching for any sign of activity, but there was none to be found. "Archivist? Are you here?" Again, there was no response but the echo.

Clearing aside a few boards, Storyteller uncovered the stairway that led into Archivist's workshop. His heart quickened for thought of what he might find - the girl dead, perhaps, or captive to some pack of raiders. He listened for signs of distress as he crept down the stairs, but the air was still and silent. The workshop was much as he remembered, and at the very least there was no sign of a violent struggle, but neither was there proof of Archivist's presence. Storyteller's thoughts swirled \- surely the girl had not left?

"One more step and you're a dead man, you hear?" There was a flash of movement to the right. Storyteller spotted Archivist hunkered behind an overturned table, wielding what appeared to be a crude crossbow made from scrap wood. "Storyteller? You came back!" A wide smile crossing her face, she ran over and threw her arms around Storyteller. "You've been gone so long. I was positive that you were dead."

"I came perilously close to the grave, but I always pulled through." Storyteller stepped back from Archivist. "But why were you so sure that I had died?"

"Well, no one ever comes back," said Archivist. "I figure everyone dies in the wastes. It's very dangerous out there. They eat people out there. You could have been eaten."

"I've never heard of such things." Storyteller studied the crossbow, an unwieldy weapon but certainly intimidating. "Truth be told, I was concerned for your safety as well. I'm glad to see that you are well protected."

"Yeah, if this thing worked," said Archivist, casting the weapon aside. "So, what's going on out there, anyway? Tell me about those brushes with the grave. What was it that came after you? Was it robots? Mutants? The living dead?"

"Nothing so thrilling, I'm afraid, but I did find something for you." Storyteller reached into his satchel. "Now, keep in mind that I haven't been terribly delicate with this, and I can't tell you if it works..." He produced the computer component, holding it gingerly between two fingers.

"You found one!" said Archivist, gaping in shock at the object in Storyteller's hand. "Did you get this in Nexus? What did you have to do for it? Anything sinister? Anything...sultry? I'll try not to judge."

"I didn't find it in Nexus," said Storyteller. "I had to travel farther south."

Archivist took a step back, covering her mouth. "You didn't." Her eyes went wide. "You did! You were in Pinnacle! Oh geez...Is it true that Conqueror has a giant library and a science museum and rare historical artifacts and..." She took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. "...No, not now. We can talk about that later. Right now, there's work to be done. Bring that thing over to the table, it's time we tested it out."

Storyteller followed Archivist to one of the work tables, which held the guts of a computer (or perhaps several) stripped from its case and shoved into a new makeshift container. Unlike the other broken machines, this one was hooked up to various devices - a sign that, despite her concerns, Archivist was fully anticipating that this one would work. She shifted a mirror to throw light onto the machine, then took a pair of forceps and lifted the component from Storyteller's hand, studying the pins in the dusty illumination.

"No way to know if this thing is going to work until we run power into it," said Archivist, hunkered over the table. "This'll take a minute. Make yourself at home. Have some jerky."

"I'm not sure if my stomach would accept a bite," said Storyteller. "The anticipation has stifled my appetite."

"You are so awesome with your words! Okay, let's get this set up." Archivist leaned in close, sweat forming on her brow as she carefully set each pin into the circuit board. "Okay, we're good. Let's turn it on."

"I take it you fixed the solar battery?" said Storyteller.

"Yeah, but then I got to thinking. How long's that rickety old battery going to fuel this thing? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Not nearly enough time. So I dug around in the building, and found this." Archivist pulled on a rope that led under the table, revealing a small cart carrying a yellow box from which wires emerged. "It's a portable generator! Awesome, huh?" She grabbed the loose wires and crammed them into components on the mutilated computer, reapplying electrical tape to hold them in place. "Shit. Sorry, this happens sometimes. Just another minute."

Storyteller knelt next to the generator. "It works?"

Archivist grinned madly, eyes traced with unalloyed glee. "It works. And I found some fuel, too. Gotta figure that it'll run the computation machine for at least two, two-and-a-half hours. Minimum! Could be a lot more! Imagine all the secrets we can uncover in that much time!"

"Perfect," said Storyteller. "Now, all we need are the discs."

"They're right here." Archivist held up a weathered green backpack, removing a disc in a translucent case. "I kept all the ones in good shape in here, just in case I had to ditch the facility. Also..." She grabbed a three-ring binder filled with sheets of paper, most of which were burned to some degree. "...I have my notebook. Gonna transcribe what I hear and make my own historical record. I'd like to engrave it onto big metal plates so it'll last if this happens again."

"You're quite the ambitious one," said Storyteller, sporting a gentle grin. "May I do the honors?"

Archivist opened the binder and fished a charred pencil out of the backpack. "Start it up."

Storyteller took the cord in hand and gave it a firm yank - the machine grumbled for a moment before letting out a roar and springing to life. There was a staccato click from inside the computer as the fan, crudely repositioned in its new casing, struggled to spin. Archivist cringed with each creak and whine, chewing at her cuticles as the machine struggled to wake up. One by one, the tiny lights on the various components flickered to life, winked our and turned on again. Then there was a hum from the monitor, growing brighter and brighter, displaying the image of some forgotten operating system.

"It works..." Archivist started laughing. "Something I fixed up works! I did it! Wait...I've never actually used one of these things before. I mean I've read about it, but..." She handed one of the discs to Storyteller. "You must understand these things. Could you put this thing...y'know, wherever it goes?"

"Certainly." Storyteller searched the machine until he found the old disc drive, slid the disc into the half-open tray, pushing it shut. "I hope that this part still works. The lasers that perform this task tend to wear out quickly."

Archivist tugged at her hair. "No more doubt from you! I'm doubting enough for both of us!"

The computer emitted a faintly audible whirring sound, and a new window emerged on the monitor. "It seems that the laser survived," said Storyteller. "My doubt was misplaced, it seems."

"Sorry, it's just that I'm very, very invested in this." Archivist squinted at the screen. "Okay, this says 'Edward Page personal.' You think you can show us that one?"

"Absolutely." Storyteller found the mouse - a bulky thing that had been reassembled with Archivist's delicate touch - and clicked the file. "And there you are, the contents."

"Okay, cool." Archivist pointed at the screen. "What's that one that says 'Audiolog'?"

"It's an audio file," said Storyteller. "A sound clip. Are there speakers here?"

"I guess?" said Archivist, eyeballing the machine. "I put everything in it, don't know if that stuff works though."

"Then there is an easy way to find out," said Storyteller. "If these old speakers still work, we can hear what the disc's owner had to say."

"A voice from the past? Ooh, perfect. Let's give this a shot."

Storyteller clicked on the file and was greeted by a hiss coming from one of the recesses of the machine. A few seconds later, a voice emerged from the right side, distorted but audible. Both Archivist and Storyteller leaned in, eager to catch every single word:

"Good afternoon, world. This is Edward Page, future ace reporter, here on behalf the Northwest High Beacon. This recording kicks off a year-long project on the future of journalism. There are many out there who have declared real journalism dead, saying that it's been wiped out by cynicism, or the corrupting influence of money, or an obsession with speed at the expense of depth or accuracy. And those are real issues, I won't lie. But what I'll be doing over the course of this academic year is demonstrating that there's still life in this craft that I love.

My arguments are threefold. Point One: Young people are not overly cynical. This is an excuse adopted by older generations to excuse their failure to act. Point Two: Technology is not the end of journalism. The internet is just a tool, and like any other tool, its value is in how it is used or misused. Point Three: The truth never changes. The world may be a much different place than when my great-grandfather investigated the Chicago Outfit, but the truth remains the truth, and nothing will ever change that. This is Edward Page, signing off."

"Incredible!" said Archivist, furiously scribbling in her binder. "We've just made contact with a world that no longer exists! This is so much more incredible than I would have dared to hope!"

"I believe I remember this young man," said Storyteller. "I read the stories he wrote of the cutthroat competitions at his school."

"They cut each others' throats?" said Archivist, recoiling from the screen.

"Merely a figure of speech," said Storyteller. "I meant that their competitions were intense and dishonest. He recorded their deeds for posterity, on this very disc it seems. I know he always wished to record the truth, but I'm sure he never imagined that it would be like this."

"You'll need to tell me about this later. Oh, so much to record." Archivist pointed at the screen. "What's this one?"

"I think this one's video," said Storyteller.

"You mean we'll get to see what the school actually looked like?" Archivist giggled, the binder jiggling in her hands. "Awesome! Let's not waste any time, then. Start it up!"

The screen was replaced by an image - two young men in what appeared to be a school library. One of them was a bit on the doughy side, with a round, friendly face; he held a memo book and a pen. The other one was skinny and pale, with an air of frustration that was noticeable even on the damaged monitor.

"That's Edward on the left," said Storyteller. "The other...I've met him as well. Paul was his name, Paul...Liston, that was it. There was another boy chasing a vendetta against him. It became a very famous story for its madness. This must have been one of Edward's expose videos on the whole affair."

"Well come on!" said Archivist. "Let's see it!"

A few seconds later, the image began to move:

EDWARD: ...Okay, it's running. This is Edward Page, on scene. We're well into the season for Trivia Master, a fine school tradition and a lot of fun for most. But there's another tradition that's not so savory, not so fun - cheating. Dirty play. Sabotage. I'm sitting here with competitor Paul Liston, who - as a member of one of the teams widely favored to win - is, I suspect, no stranger to fowl play. Paul, why don't you give us your take on this issue?

PAUL: What is...Ed, I didn't agree to talk about this.

EDWARD: It's part of the investigation. Are you worried about retribution, Paul?

PAUL: What investigation? Since when was there an investigation? I thought you wanted to talk about Trivia Master.

EDWARD: We are. This is part of it. What, you're not about to tell me that you've never been a target for this kind of thing? We've all heard the stories...are they all lies?

PAUL: I don't want...Ed, you know what people are like, they love rumors, they blow things out of proportion. God, Ed, I don't want people thinking I'm some sort of victim here.

EDWARD: It's only rumor?

PAUL: Yes!

EDWARD: What about your rivalry with Aaron Bellamy? He's here, you know.

PAUL: ...In the library?

AARON (enters frame): That he is. Afternoon, Paul.

EDWARD: Perfect timing, Aaron. We've been talking about Trivia Master and fair play.

AARON: You've been trying to spread rumors about cheating, haven't you? Shit, Ed, this is low. You're chasing rumors now, Mr. Murrow? It's all hype, you must know that.

EDWARD: The things I've heard-

AARON: I've heard them all, too. The things I supposedly did, the things Paul supposedly did...are you a cheater, Paul?

PAUL: Never in my life.

AARON: Exactly. It comes down to this, Ed: I don't need to play dirty to kick his ass.

PAUL: Same here.

EDWARD: So, you're not enemies?

AARON: Ed, I've known this guy since we were eight. I want to beat him, but I don't want to hurt him. Honest.

PAUL: Neither do I.

Storyteller stared at the monitor in disbelief. "No. It's not right. This can't be right."

Archivist spun to Storyteller. "What do you mean?"

"But I remember this. I met both of them, and they despised each other, I saw it. And I remember the day Aaron turned his wrath on us, on the town..." Storyteller sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands. "How could my recollection be so wrong? What's wrong with me?"

"Don't beat yourself up," said Archivist. "So you remembered something wrong from half a lifetime ago. Hey, I can barely remember a week ago. No big deal, right?"

"You don't understand. I-" Storyteller sniffed the air. "...Do you smell something unusual?"

"Now that you mention it..." Archivist squinted at the computer. Smoke and sparks were pouring out of the ventilation slots. "Uh...I think something's wrong..."

Storyteller shot to his feet. "Archivist? You may wish to step away from the machine..." Even from several feet away, he could easily spot an unnatural glow radiating from inside the computer casing and feel heat seeping out. "...Quickly."

Archivist didn't react, frozen as she was with terror, staring dumbstruck at the computer, the orange flashes that emerged from the cracks in the case reflected in her terror-broadened eyes. "Fire! Fire!"

"Don't panic. It's small yet, we can still put it out." Storyteller grabbed one of the large sheets that was laying across the table. "Here, help me smother it."

Storyteller's hands could not move quickly enough to stop what came next. A tongue of flame spat of the side of the machine, contacting a small trail of gasoline that had leaked out of the generator. Instantly the room was flooded with angry light as the flame consumed the generator and the table. Archivist, numb with fear but still holding some command of her senses, snatched the backpack away from the destructive wave. By that point, there was no stopping it - the fire was growing, fed by Archivist's reconstructed book collection and the bottles of decades-old solvents scattered without care for safety around the room. It moved more like an entity than a force of nature, slithering to block off what routes of escape there were.

"No no no no no!" Archivist was panicked, throwing whatever objects were handy at whatever windows were yet unbroken.

"Don't do that!" Storyteller dropped to his knees, pulling Archivist down with him. The room was filling with a dense black smoke, made all the more caustic by the chemicals and computer elements it was consuming. Storyteller looked around frantically. "Is there another exit?"

"I don't know!" screamed Archivist, still clutching the backpack. "I can't think, I can't breathe!"

"All right. I think I remember where the stairway is. Come on, there's no time."

Storyteller took Archivist by the wrist and led them both through the still growing blaze towards what he could only hope was a way out. Blinded by the caustic smoke, his sense of touch was all he had to guide him. His hand landed upon the first step of the staircase - not yet blocked by the flame, though it was close at their backs. Wasting no time, he sprinted to the top, pulling Archivist along with him, and through the doors to the relative safety of the wastes.

The two of them sat side by side and watched as Westhigh burned. At first it was only smoke, pouring out of the gaps and mingling with the haze, giving the sky a bloody hue. Westhigh was little more than a pile of bricks, but there were still things within to ignite, and the flames slowly spread through the building's interior, leaping out of the shattered windows as it reached for air. There was the occasional crack as some worn timber succumbed to the blaze and another section of the ceiling gave way. The fire achieved what the apocalypse had failed to do, and still desiring satisfaction, it quietly smoldered beneath the surface, the pop of each spark sounding like a mocking laugh.

Archivist was too stunned to cry, capable only of staring at the fireplace that had once been her home. "I must have used bad wires...or maybe there was something flammable in the case by the thing."

Storyteller put his hand on Archivist's shoulder. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I doubt that it was your fault."

"Well, there goes everything," said Archivist, pacing back and forth. "Everything I had - everything I was - is in there, turning to ash. All my books, my workshop, my projects...Wait a second, where am I supposed to live? Westhigh was the only home I ever knew! Where am I supposed to go now?" She grabbed hold of Storyteller's garment, twisting it tight in her hands. "I can't live out in the wastes! The gangs will eat me alive. Literally, I'm sure."

"Calm down," said Storyteller, taking Archivist by the shoulders. "This is bad, but it's not the end of the world. That, you've already survived, remember?"

"Okay, but where am I gonna live?" shrieked Archivist. "I can't wander like you. Look at me, I'm not built for it!"

"There are many settlements around here," said Storyteller. "I'm sure that one of them will take you in. We will follow the trade roads north, and see what we can find."

Archivist brushed away a tear. "You're really great, you know that?"

"You can thank me once we've found you a home. Now..." Storyteller noticed the backpack. "...You chose to bring that along?"

"Are you going to make me leave it?" said Archivist. "I know it's silly, and I'll never find another working computation machine, but these are still too valuable. I can't just leave them."

"Not to worry," said Storyteller. "It's your burden. If you are willing to bear the weight, it is yours to take."

"Oh, I can handle it just fine," said Archivist, adjusting the straps. "Let's head out. Hey, maybe this'll work out after all, give me a chance to see the world for real. Right?"

"Right," said Storyteller. "And what a world it is."
CHAPTER 28

_~_ T-minus _33:51~_

It was a long walk from the hotel to the DuFresne residence, a stroll through roadside weeds and along vacant sidewalks beneath skies burdened with rain. Sam drew back a bit as they approached the door, and even Will felt a little apprehensive, for Dr. DuFresne had not chosen the friendliest of homes. Will had heard stories about the place - it was one of the oldest structures in Patmos, dating back to the first years of the settlement when it was constructed for the wealthiest man in town. In ages past the house had been an opulent thing, a bastion of Victorian elegance standing against a dull, prefabricated world. The ravages of time and the ever-changing world had turned it into something wholly different, an overbuilt monstrosity looming menacingly over a peaceful little neighborhood. It was the kind of place to send a tremor down the spine, the kind of place that would lead otherwise rational souls to cross the street rather than pass before it. This place had sat empty for decades before DuFresne bought it, and no doubt had the property for a song in spite of its size.

"What are we doing here?" said Sam. "This is the kind of house a vampire would live in."

"Well, that's not who we're here to meet. Just an old scientist with very weird taste." Will's eyes fell upon the heavy, antique knocker affixed to the door. "I guess this is the best way to announce our presence, huh?" He lifted the knocker and dropped it, sending a deep tone reverberating through the house. "You think he heard it?"

A moment later, there was a crackle as the decades-old intercom crackled to life. "Someone there? Who is it?"

Will cleared his throat and pushed his lips close to the intercom. "Sir, my name is William Scarborough. I'm here with my brother. We didn't mean to just drop in like this, but I met some people who insisted that I speak with you."

"Ah, I see." There was a faint hiss, though Will couldn't tell if it was coming from the aging electronics or the speaker at the other end. "The door's open. Let yourself in and take a seat in the sitting room. I'll be with you shortly."

Will jiggled the doorknob. "Unlocked. Hey, this is like an adventure, right? Meeting a famous scientist?"

"Yeah, I guess." Sam pulled his thin jacket against the chill breeze. "You know, in a story this would never end well. There would be something awful on the other side of that door."

"Well, life isn't as interesting as a story. Sometimes it's just plain boring." Will pushed the door open. "See? Let's take a look."

Will had never met any world-famous scientists and had just a few expectations of what such a man's home might look like, and this certainly wasn't it. Dr. DuFresne's "sitting room" better resembled an awkwardly curated museum of scientific history than a person's home. The walls were covered in medical and scientific charts - the Periodic table, human anatomy, astronomical guides - as well as Gnostic diagrams, Daoist alchemical charts and biorhythm graphs. The floor space was dominated by bookshelves in a variety of sizes and styles, some filled with old textbooks and bulging binders, others cluttered with pieces of research equipment from ages long since past or reconstructed animal skeletons. Somewhere in the middle of it all was the sitting area, a tiny clearing containing a couch, a sturdy wingback chair and a coffee table piled high with yellowing newspapers. The whole mess was arranged before an antique grandfather clock, its hands frozen at 11:59.

Will was uncomfortable, but was not about to further unnerve Sam by putting that feeling on display. "This is interesting, right? Yeah, this is...a lifetime collection right here."

Sam's eyes drew weary circles around the room. "Is there something moving around in here? I hear something."

"It's just the house," said Will. "Old places makes weird sounds."

Suddenly, one of the bits of clutter moved of its own volition. Sam spotted it first, clasping both hands over his mouth to suppress a scream. Will whirled toward the sound and found himself eye-to-muzzle with a live squirrel, a fat little creature that had endured his share of winters. He swung a hand at it by instinct and the creature leaped to the next bookshelf, studying Will with fearful intensity.

"How the hell did that thing get in here?" Will searched for something to swing at the creature. "It must have followed us in. The old guy's gonna be pissed if he finds out we let pests in."

Then there was a new voice from the back of the room: "Morgi? Are you scaring out guests?"

Somewhere in the back, there was the soft click of a door opening, and a moment later a little old man entered the sitting room. His face was half-hidden under an oversized newsboy cap, showing only a funny, half-mad grin atop a few wisps that passed for a beard. One hand rested heavily on his cane - a stout hand-carved thing adorned with arcane symbols and grotesque faces - yet he moved with a dexterity and ease that belied his age. As he spotted his guests, that grin broadened into a strange smile, quizzical yet knowing, the expression of a man who was privy to a great and hidden truth. The squirrel bounded over to the old man, perching on his shoulder, its timidity gone at the sight of its master.

"Morgi, you rogue, I warned you against exploring," said the old man. "Pardon him, he is curious about strangers. Your name is Scarborough, correct?"

"Sure," said Will. "How did you know?"

"It is my job to know things. Dr. DuFresne is all-knowing, didn't you know?" Dr. DuFresne made a hand gesture and the squirrel pranced off into a nook. "He won't bother you again."

Will shrugged, his eyes not leaving the squirrel. "Well, he wasn't really bothering us..."

"Did you see something that interests you?" Dr. DuFresne hobbled into the center of the room, slowly lowering himself into the chair. "You must excuse the mess. I have so little energy for tidying, and it is so easy for an old scientist to grow used to a bit of chaos."

Sam picked up a framed photograph featuring a young boy standing alongside a familiar figure. "Whoa! Is this you with Albert Einstein?"

"That it is. I had a chance to meet the master a few years after he became a citizen. He taught me the secret to grasping the universe...Creative madness." Dr. DuFresne chuckled, a lilting sound that well matched his deliberate, yet oddly lighthearted cadence - the voice of man listening to a song no one else could hear. "What is your name, son?"

"Samuel." Sam returned the photograph to its place atop one of the bookshelves. "We've read about you in school. Did they really call you Dr. Doomsday?"

"Ah yes, a sobriquet from my days sparring with anti-nuclear activists," said Dr. DuFresne. "The 1970's were an interesting time for men of my profession. In colorful times, one must be a little colorful to maintain stability."

"It would have been cool if you could have come talk at the school," said Sam, taking a seat on the couch. "I guess no one knows you live here."

"By design, my boy. After twenty years, I grew weary of the limelight." Dr. DuFresne glanced at Will, who was running his hands along the grandfather clock. "Excuse me, what do you think you are doing?"

"Your clock's stopped," said Will. "I was just checking to see if there was a switch off or something."

"Does everyone think they know my affairs better than I?" Dr. DuFresne tapped at Will's leg with his cane. "First the reporter, then those young people who came before you. I'll have you know that this clock is exactly where it should be."

"Sorry, I didn't know you were so sensitive about it." Will sat down next to his brother. "See? Not touching it."

"Thank you." Dr. DuFresne cleared his throat. "Now, I take it that you are here to learn about Rudra? The great engine of progress at the heart of this, eh, latest controversy."

"I'm not here for anything," said Will. "All I know is that everyone's telling me I need to talk to you, that you're so brilliant."

"I'd like to hear about Rudra," said Sam. "I heard that it was your idea, and Dr. Richter stole it. Is that true?"

"This is...a complex question," said Dr. DuFresne.

"Well, then simplify it for us," said Will. "Because that damn machine has been nothing but trouble for us, and I'd like to know who to blame."

"I shall try, but the story is not a short one." Dr. DuFresne shifted in his seat. "The concept was borne from the AEV panel in the 1980's - that's Atomic Energy Viability, if you don't know, we didn't exactly advertise it to the masses. I had entered the council confident that nuclear energy would remain a cornerstone of our energy policy. By the end, I had some doubts. We all did. So we began work on new, highly theoretical energy sources to replace fission."

"So you created Rudra and Richter ran off with it," said Will. "Seems simple enough to me."

"So impetuous. But this is your right." Dr. DuFresne reclined in his chair, his smile growing wider. "Perhaps you would like some refreshment before we continue? I don't have much, but I can offer you tea. I have many varieties."

"What, is the squirrel going to fetch it?" said Will.

"A talent beyond Morgi, I'm afraid," said Dr. DuFresne. "It would only take a few minutes to prepare."

"Nah, let's just get on with it," said Will. "I'll keep my mouth shut and everything."

"Very well." Dr. DuFresne lay his cane across his lap, his gnarled fingers resting gently upon it. "You see, I conceived of the device, but it was Otto who designed it. I didn't feel it was practical, so it remained only a concept until Otto learned of it. In truth, I would have nothing to do with that wretched machine."

"Otto's story is a long one, so I'll give you the abridged version. He was the youngest member on the AEV panel. We had a certain rapport, being the only members who entered the study with a positive view of atomic energy. But he also felt that our debates were missing the point. He felt that, in the long term, society could be simplified enough that energy would no longer be a concern. Even nuclear power would be an unnecessary relic of the past. This was what passed for optimism in our world. Then he began his voyage."

"He went to Russia, right?" said Will.

"Eastern Europe, yes," said Dr. DuFresne. "What he saw disgusted him. This was a simplified society enforced at the point of a gun, and it caused only pain. This was a true epiphany for him, this revelation of the outcome of a sound idea executed with cruelty. When Otto returned home, it was to a new world. The rich were growing richer on the backs of the poor, and everyone was seeking only to acquire more. This, too, was an epiphany. He saw that his simplified society could not be achieved either voluntarily or through force. There was simply no 20th century philosophy that offered a solution to 20th century problems, and he felt it would only grow worse in the 21st. So he chose to seek a more pragmatic solution. If he could not make society simpler, he would have to find a way to sustain it as it grew more complex. Thus, Rudra was born. My scientific concepts given life through his practical designs."

"Fair enough." Will stood up, brushing the antique dust from his clothes. "If there's nothing else, we should get moving before the rain starts."

"I have a question," said Sam. "Is Rudra as dangerous as everyone says?"

"A good question," said Dr. DuFresne. "When Dr. Richter drew up the specs for the first version of the Rudra Engine, we ran some computer models. It was a prudent move, given how radical the device was. What we discovered was that the device had the potential to unleash a catastrophic event. The effect could range from a simple conventional explosion to an uncontrolled reaction in the stratosphere, combusting the atmosphere and causing untold damage and death. Of course, this was only a possibility. It's also possible that it would work exactly as Otto had imagined. Unfortunately, our tests could not narrow it down past even odds either way."

"So you're saying that this is a coin flip?" said Will. "Jameson is betting it all on blind luck?"

"No, I phrased that badly. There is either a one hundred percent chance that it work, and a zero percent chance of catastrophe; or a zero percent chance that it will work, and a one hundred percent chance of catastrophe. But until we switch it on, we have no way of knowing which will happen." Dr. DuFresne leaned forward in his chair. "Perhaps I was getting overcautious even then. Dr. Richter was not a man prone to excess risk. And I do have faith in Otto, he was the only man I know who could truly understand me, and if he is willing to advance this project, then maybe he fixed the flaws in my original design. It could be that this terror is all for nothing."

"I can't believe that you're so calm," said Sam. "It's all so big. How do you keep going knowing that it could all be over tomorrow?"

"Questions I've grappled with myself." Dr. DuFresne rose from his seat. "I've spent my life striving to add a few decades, a few centuries to the lifespan of the human experiment, knowing full well that ultimately it was doomed regardless of what I did. Such is the nature of the cosmos. In the end, the fate of all things is dust, and at times my work felt futile. But this is the wrong way to think. It may be the fate of every human artifice to crumble, but what of our deeds? No matter what else, I have improved the lives of many people in some small way. This is a legacy that cannot be destroyed, not by Dr. Richter or Joshua Jameson or by the ceaseless ravages of time. In the end, each of us is only the product of what we have done, and nothing in heaven or earth can erase that. And that is why I am serene, and why you should be as well." He let out a cackle, a sound louder than either of the brothers could have expected the old man capable of. "But maybe the ramblings of a crazy old scientist mean nothing."

The room was silent for several seconds as the three of them pondered Dr. DuFresne's thoughts. It was Will who finally broke the silence. "I just don't know if I buy it."

"That is your right," said Dr. DuFresne. "Now, I have a question for you. Why would a man want so dearly to experience the end of the world?"

"How..." Will snapped his fingers. "Right, you're all-knowing. Well, then you know why."

"Because life is boring, yes?" said Dr. DuFresne. "How little must you have to live for that this is desirable?"

"Everyone thinks that they understand me," said Will. "That's not it, damn it. It's a unique thing, it's unfathomably big, I want to see it. Maybe I'm limited...hell, I know how limited I am, but I can't imagine anything more beautiful than what's about to go down at that laboratory."

"Not even life?" said Dr. DuFresne. "You would tell me that another year, even another day of life is not a beautiful thing? Better that it burn than experience the wonders in that one spare day of existence?"

"I...you just don't get it. And we'd better get going anyway. Come on, Sam." Will walked to the front door. "Thanks for your time."

"And thanks for yours, Mr. Apocalypse," said Dr. DuFresne. "May the fires of your catastrophe always burn with beauty."

CHAPTER 29

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

With the ruins of Westhigh, Archivist's dwelling place for years, quietly smoldering in their wake, Storyteller and Archivist traveled north in search of a new home. The road was a smooth one compared to Storyteller's previous forays, but the fire had extinguished much of their excess supplies and what they had was not adequate for two travelers. Storyteller filled the gap by gathering food from the riverside when he could find it and trading durable goods with merchants when he chanced to meet one. Every day or two they came across a new settlement, offering a new ray of hope. Some of the settlers knew Storyteller - they remembered him from his time with Lifebringer and were happy to offer what hospitality they could. What these settlements lacked was any space for Archivist. Storyteller quickly discovered a grim truth - absent any tangible proof of her skills, most people viewed Archivist as a liability. They had no choice but to press on, with the hopes of better opportunities in the larger trade centers.

In the meantime, life was a daily struggle as Archivist proved ill-suited to the rigors of wasteland life. She had led a sedentary life in Westhigh, sheltered from the hazards of the outside world by the obscurity of her home, and this had left her with a frail physique. She could scarcely walk more than a mile without needing rest and her inappropriate footwear made even that mile a sore one, traits which slowed their progress to a crawl. Nights were no less a challenge. Archivist had never slept outside, and the darkness and strange noises only magnified the fears she already held about the wastes. The food Storyteller found for them often disagreed with her stomach, accustomed as she was to a more stable and bland diet. She ate what she could, but if they couldn't find anything suitable she would simply go hungry. Between exhaustion and hunger, Archivist spent her days in a haze, fighting just to keep her feet under her.

Day by day, Storyteller watched Archivist's limited supply of hope dwindle with each whimper of pain. At first she could endure, drawing strength and joy from Storyteller's accounts of his life, asking countless questions. That enthusiasm faded with each settlement, with each week on the road, and she spoke less and less. The wordy girl from Westhigh was gone. Eventually she was consumed by an almost childlike timidity, clinging to Storyteller's sleeve as though she feared he might leave her behind at the first opportunity.

After one particularly ugly stretch, Storyteller and Archivist arrived at a large outpost, a settlement linking numerous other villages and camps - a trade artery for the less civilized reaches of the wastes. To Storyteller, this was cause for renewed hope, with the promise that a more prosperous and stable place would be more likely to take in someone of Archivist's unique talents. The center of town was dotted with ramshackle stalls, like a miniature version of what Storyteller had seen in the Common Market of Nexus. At one end was a large group of travelers energetically discussing some issue or another. Most of the men were redeemers, their capes faded and torn from their extensive time on the trade roads and beyond.

"This is a good sign," said Storyteller. "A redemption group would be fortunate to have you on their side. Surely one of these groups would be willing to give you quarter."

"Oh, what's the point?" Archivist slumped to the ground. "No one wants me. You should just leave me behind and go on your next journey."

"Nonsense." Storyteller knelt next to Archivist. "Guiding you along this road is my journey. I will not leave you behind."

"What's left to try?" said Archivist.

"Well...we haven't tried the direct route." Storyteller hopped onto a nearby stone and addressed the square. "Excuse me, friends. I know that I am but a stranger to you, but for those who will listen I have a most rare business opportunity. My traveling companion has a skill set that can be very useful to the redemption company with the wisdom to employ it. A special understanding of the devices of the old world, and a knack for recovering them. Now-"

"Storyteller!" There was a shout from the crowd.

"Ah! An offer already, and from one who knows me no less." Storyteller held his arm out to the crowd. "Would you come forward so that we may speak?"

A woman elbowed her away, shoving aside men twice her size. "Holy shit! I knew you were alive!"

"Pathfinder?" Storyteller stepped down from the stone. "What a blessing to find you! It's so good to see you again."

"Only you would be so calm in a situation like this." Pathfinder put a hand on Storyteller's arm and gave it a squeeze. "So you are real. After a few weeks chasing ghosts, it was getting hard to tell."

"I had heard that you were searching for me," said Storyteller.

"Everything from here to the edge of Conqueror's lands," said Pathfinder.

"Surprising," said Storyteller. "I'd think there were few willing to waste their time chasing a fool like me."

"Of course we did!" said Pathfinder. "Or at least I did. Those raiders grabbed two other men, and we found their bodies very quickly. The rest of the crew figured you were no better off and called off the search. I kept looking on my own, but all I found was a camp and a dead raider. What happened?"

"I ran into some trouble. It's a long story. But right now..." Storyteller gestured to Archivist, still sitting on the ground. "...right now, I'm trying to help someone I met in my travels."

Pathfinder took a step towards Archivist. "And who might you be?"

"Archivist, of Westhigh." She hopped to her feet, throwing out an awkward attempt at a salute. "...My home burned down."

"She has a remarkable range of abilities," said Storyteller. "Tinkering, bookbinding, an assortment of pre-disaster knowledge. Maybe there's someone in Nexus who could serve as her patron?"

"I'm keeping my distance from Nexus. Since I took off from the redemption crew, I'm not on great terms with them." Pathfinder looked Archivist over, her eyes landing on the backpack. "What do you have in the bag? If you have something you built that you can show the traders, that would be enough."

"Certainly not!" Archivist wrapped her arms back around the bag. "All that stuff burned up. These are storage discs for a computation machine. I had one working for a little bit."

"A computation machine?" said Pathfinder.

"A computer," said Storyteller.

"You had a working computer? Seriously?" Pathfinder crossed her arms and whistled. "Impressive. But if your old camp burned down, there's not much reason to carry that stuff. Outside of Scrapland, I can't think of any place that might have a salvageable computer."

"They have that kind of thing in Scrapland?" said Storyteller. "A complete machine? Are you positive?"

"If you want to believe the redeemers," said Pathfinder. "I've been to the edge of the ruin plenty of times, but I've never been inside. And those guys aren't necessarily reliable."

"Do you think you might escort me to Scrapland?" said Storyteller. "There are mysteries I have yet to solve, and the answers could be on these discs. If there is truly a computer there, then that might be the only place where I can find the answers."

"Are you crazy? The last time we went out there, you were kidnapped." Pathfinder shook her head. "I saw that stunt you pulled in Nexus, so I realize you're fearless, but I'm not going to let you get killed. Those raiders are getting too smart, and I can't promise that I'll spot them every time."

"This is very important." Storyteller scanned the square. "Perhaps I could travel with one of these groups? Surely there is one that is headed to Scrapland."

"That's where you'd be wrong," said Pathfinder. "These men are headed home, wherever that might be. Word is that a couple of active war parties were seen just south of here. Conqueror's men are on the march, and some of the redeemers claim that the man himself was with them. No one wants to be around here in case he's looking to expand his borders again. You need to turn around and head back west. Conqueror isn't interested in that area."

"But he can't do that," said Archivist. "Conqueror is after him because he broke out."

"That's no-" Pathfinder flinched and froze as she tried to process the absurdity that she had just heard. "He escaped from Pinnacle? That's not possible. No one's done that."

"One man has," said Storyteller. "I am a marked man, Pathfinder. I realize that the northern wastes are dangerous, but I am in far greater peril if I stay here."

Pathfinder stared off to the south, twisting her walking stick in her hands. "...Fine, I'll take you. We'll have to move quick and head for Scrapland. The raiders will have a harder time spotting two people."

"You mean three, right?" Archivist hopped up and down, trying to draw Pathfinder's attention. "Because I'm coming. I have nowhere else to go, and I have to see thing thing through."

"I can't take you," said Pathfinder.

"Why not?" Archivist ran in front of Pathfinder. "You're taking him. I've got the same motivation."

"But not the same endurance," said Pathfinder. "I can tell from here that you're no wanderer. Every day we're out in the wastes, we're at risk. I know that Storyteller can match my pace, but there's no way you can."

"You're not even going to give me a chance?" said Archivist. "Look, if I slow you down, just drop me off at the nearest settlement, and I'll wait like a good little girl. Okay?"

Pathfinder rubbed her face and sighed. "I don't know. Storyteller? You've been with her longer."

"As much as she's been through, I don't think it would be right to leave her behind," said Storyteller. "I will keep an eye on her. Consider her my responsibility."

Pathfinder gazed at Archivist. "You're willing to take that kind of risk?"

"Absolutely!" said Archivist. "I'll do whatever you say. I'm good at following orders, just ask Storyteller. Good little soldier, that's me."

"Fine," said Pathfinder. Get your things together. My camp is right outside of the settlement, we'll leave from there."

"Righteous! You won't regret this!" Archivist grabbed her bag and sprinted for the settlement gates.

"Wait a second! I haven't even told you...never mind." Pathfinder turned back to Storyteller. "Do you actually think she'll make it the whole way?"

"Probably not, but she has lost everything she ever knew. She gave me a glimpse into my past, and for that I owe her a debt."

"A glimpse into your past, huh?" Pathfinder chuckled under her breath. "Funny. You always seemed like you remembered better than any of us."

"Were that the past so clear," said Storyteller. "Lately, I've had some doubts. There are things that I thought I knew that now seem hazy, even alien."

Pathfinder tapped her finger on Storyteller's temple. "Then I take it you don't trust this anymore?"

"Oh, I still do. But only a fool trusts his mind fully." Storyteller rotated to the path leading out of the settlement. "The full story is a long one, but I suppose we'll have time on this trip. Perhaps I can explain it."

"I'm looking forward to it," said Pathfinder.

CHAPTER 30

_~_ T-minus _32:20~_

The skies finally burst open late in the afternoon, with Will and Sam still several blocks from home. The rain fell heavy over the barren streets of Patmos, overwhelming the inadequate drainage and flooding several intersections. The rain gave Will some comfort, obscuring their lonely walk back - enough to almost make up for the squish in his shoes. Both of them were soaked to the bone when they finally reached the Scarborough residence, clothes saturated to the point that the downpour was doing little to them. Mrs. Scarborough, paging through a novel and quietly awaiting their return, nearly fell out of her seat when they entered.

Mrs. Scarborough stared at the pool of water gathering just inside of the threshold. "What happened to you two?"

"It's raining," said Will, brushing back his wet hair. "What did you expect?"

"You look like you walked through it," said Mrs. Scarborough. "Didn't you drive? Where's your car?"

"I did, but I'm gonna have to pick the car up later. Long story." Will gave Sam a hard nudge. "Go hop in the shower. No fun being cold and wet."

"Pick it up later?" Mrs. Scarborough watched Sam sprint off down the hall, then turned back to Will. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine," said Will. "You got something to help me dry off?"

"Well..." Mrs. Scarborough tossed Will a ragged old towel, something she kept lying around for the odd project. "...The car?"

"Like I said, it's a long story. You're just going to have to take my word for that."

"Uh...Well, how was it?"

"What? Oh, the day out. It was good." Will wrapped the towel around his shoulders. "I'd even call it enlightening."

"Enlightening?"

"Yeah. You'd be surprised what you can learn about a person in a day, even someone you've known for years. And you'd be surprised what you can learn about a town. That one especially. So much I didn't know about Patmos"

Mrs. Scarborough could only shrug in exasperation. "Well, as long as you enjoyed yourself, who am I to question? I'll get the kettle on for tea." She peeked out of the window. "Someone on the porch. Another friend of yours?"

"Is it Sara again?"

"No, this one's a man."

"A man?" Will caught his breath. "...Just the one?"

"Yes."

Will tried to peek through the window without revealing himself. "Big guy, maybe Asian?"

"No, a short kid who...Will, what is going on?"

"Never mind, I'll see what he wants. And if the water gets done early, I'll take some oolong."

Will eased through the door, sneaking a glimpse through the crack before emerging quickly onto the porch and shutting the door behind him. He had expected an army and found only a damp rat - sad little figure in a wet green blazer propping himself up against the side of the house as though his legs might betray him. He'd clearly spend a while in the rain himself, looking less the confident madman he'd been the night before and more an unkempt purse dog drowned in grain alcohol.

"You?" Will seized the man by the lapels of his blazer. "You come here to intimidate me, Aaron? You got some new weapon to test? Speak up, I'm feeling like a very angry peasant right now."

Aaron blinked at Will, as though he weren't immediately sure what to make of this new situation. "Is that how you welcome someone who's got a gift for you?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" A stale, pungent odor hit Will's nose. "You're drunk."

"And you're perceptive." Aaron batted Will's hands aside and pulled a small bottle of cheap scotch from his blazer. He took a drink, then coughed for several seconds. "Holy hell. How can people guzzle this shit?"

"You know, getting drunk off of brown liquor is a really stupid idea," said Will. "Scrawny brats like you should stick to vodka."

"Oh, shut up," said Aaron. "I didn't come here to take your shit. And after the day I had, I think I'm justified in self-medicating a little."

"Oh, _you_ had a bad day?" Will laughed and knocked Aaron on the shoulder. "I ought to tell you what the last twelve or so hours have been like for me."

"Don't you ever shut up, Scarborough? People like you never shut up. You talk, and you talk, and do you have anything to say?" Aaron leaned against the side of the house. "Let me tell you what happened today. I get this call from ol' Apollo Liston. Little asshole who used to think he was better than me when we were kids."

"Oh, he was definitely better than you."

"Shut your face. They never proved that, he never beat me, did he?" Aaron pressed the scotch bottle to his head. "So my point is that Apollo, Paul, whatever he wants to call himself, he calls me up and tells me that I gotta talk my dad into talking Jameson into stopping the Rudra test. I tell him he's full of shit. So he puts Jameson's kid on, the one no one's seen in years, he tells me that Dr. Richter was crazy and if I don't talk to dad, we're all going to die." He held out the bottle. "You might want some before this next part."

"No thanks," said Will.

"Fine." Aaron swallowed another shot, cringing and gagging as the liquid ran down his throat. "I decide I'm going to prove the Jameson brat wrong, so I do something very stupid. I break into Dr. Richter's office. Couldn't tell you why, really."

"You broke in," said Will. "You're a master criminal now?"

"No, I'm head of security, numbnuts," said Aaron. "Point is, if you'll let me make it, is that I found something really awful. I know something I can't un-know. I'm probably going to go jail when they find out about it - and they will, they know everything, there are no secrets from Jameson. Course, there might not be a jail in a couple days."

"All right," said Will. "Good story. Now why are you telling me?"

"Because I thought you should know about this, too. You're the one who started all this with your party and your rabblerousing, you should know, too. So I'm making you a little gift." Aaron pointed to a small table on which a shoe box sat. "Enjoy."

Will picked up the shoe box. "This is the thing I can't un-know?"

"Yep," said Aaron. "I even threw in fresh batteries."

"Okay," said Will. "But why me? Why not take this to your dad, or someone else at the lab? Someone who can actually do something about it?"

"Oh, my dad's not doing anything to stop this. Look, Jameson called a meeting of his top people for a little tete-a-tete. Dr. Yang - the engineering guy, old man Zhang's guy - he says we should put the project on hold for a month and run more tests. My father, who does not like it when people tell him what to do, says to hell with the plebs and barrel ahead. Dr. Richter...who the hell knows, no one seen him in weeks, but I'm damn sure I know what he'd say. Point is, other than Yang, no one's worried."

"Well...go to Jameson, then. His name's on the damn thing, they have to listen to him."

"Jameson can't stop Rudra anymore. The town can't stop Rudra. Hell, I don't think the President of the United States could stop Rudra at this point. It's an entity, got its own momentum now. It'll happen no matter what we do." Aaron screwed the cap back onto the scotch bottle, opened the shoe box an inch and shoved the bottle inside. "You're going to need that. Trust me."

"Hold on..." Will tried to stop Aaron, but he was already stumbling off down the road, heedless even of the torrential rain. Will pulled the lid off of the shoe box. Inside was an old microcassette recorder, a pair of headphones, and several tapes. He quickly slammed the lid on the box and crammed it under one arm before darting back into the house.

"Is everything all right?" said Mrs. Scarborough.

"Yeah, sure. Dealt with it." Will cleared his throat. "I'm actually going to pass on the tea for now. There's something my, uh, friend thinks I should check out, and I should really get on that."

"Okay." Mrs. Scarborough stared blankly at Will. "What exactly did you do today?"

"Went for a drive and met some very interesting people. Fascinating people." Will took off down the hallway halfway through his comments. "I'll be out for dinner."

Droplets fell from Will's hair as he jogged back to his room, pulling down the blinds and pulling a chair against the door. He did not touch the lights, gripped by some strange fear that any flicker might give away his deeds; instead, he felt around blindly in the box, the recorder sliding around in his damp hands. Slipping the headphones on, he inserted a random tape into the recorder and pressed buttons until the device woke up. Then there was a voice - a restrained, wavering timbre - speaking to him from the darkness:

"End of the first day of phase III of the AEV panel, regarding potential alternatives to atomic energy. It is clear that there are few people here who have any viable ideas. Of the presentations I watched, only Dr. DuFresne's seemed plausible, and even he obviously has little confidence in his theory. Oh, how I wish he would let me see his notes, but he has become a very private man as of late, a far cry from the man I saw battling protesters when I was in college."

Will hit the pause button, a smile creeping onto his face. Here Dr. Richter had been this mysterious, inscrutable figure, always out of reach and out of view, and here his grand idea had been hand-delivered right to Will's doorstep. The fear slowly fading from him, Will flicked on the table lamp and studied the contents of the box more closely. There were around a dozen tapes, all marked with dates and brief descriptors in a rough and zealous scrawl. He pulled out the tape already inserted - "AEV, 1980" it read. Sifting through the tapes, he found one marked "Travel and Philosophy, 1982" - apparently the next in sequence - and inserted it into the recorder. The voice returned, but this time it seemed weary, with the slightest hint of a hard edge:

"I'm not sure if I can put into words exactly what I am feeling now. It's been three days since I returned from my trip through the Soviet satellites. At the time, I was too tired to express my thoughts. They call what I saw a 'stagnation.' No, it's so much more than that. Is this what I've been trying to accomplish? I mean, I tell myself it's not true, but...the Communists, their goals and mine are the same. They tried to create a certain existence for their people, and all they did was cover half the world in some sort of twilight. These people exist, but they're not truly alive. They call it an enlightened, even scientific form of government. Maybe we should leave those formulas out of people's lives, but if that's true, then how are we supposed to fix anything? Surely every problem has a solution, I...uh..."

"...Damn it, this place is so loud. I forgot how insane cities can be in this country. It's not just the noise, it's the colors, the images. It's like New York is screaming at me. These ads...how did everything I own become obsolete or out-of-style in just a few months? I'm looking at this recorder, and it's all I need, but it's so junky. It's not, but...Geez, that noise, I can even hear it up here. Even with the doors closed, it's everywhere. That hum, it's going to drive me mad..."

As he listened, Will sorted through the tapes. They covered Dr. Richter's life from the start of his tenure on the AEV panel to Joshua Jameson's announcement of the project. There was one tape that was unusual - marked "1996," the latest date in the box, but with no title. He popped out the travel tape and slid in the mystery tape, reclining on the bed as Dr. Richter returned. The voice on this tape could have belonged to a different man altogether. The weariness was gone; he spoke with confidence, without a tremble in his syllables, without hemming or stumbling over his words. This was the voice of the man that Joshua Jameson had met, the Dr. Richter who had convinced the world that he could solve all its problems:

"There is an essential truth at play here, one I've been resisting for many years, one which I must acknowledge if only to this tape recorder. For months now, I have been drafting models, running computer simulations, all in an attempt to eliminate or at least reduce the risk of an uncontrolled reaction in the Rudra terminus. However, it appears that Dr. DuFresne was correct all along. The risk simply cannot be overcome. I have come to accept this fact and, beyond that, to embrace it.."

"I came into this life, into this profession, with a fundamental belief that tomorrow can be a sunnier day than today. But there was always something hollow about it. Each passing year has chipped away at this belief, and now I have finally realized why this belief was so hollow. For the first time in our history, we are in a position to meet everyone's needs. There is no requirement for us to compete, to struggle over land and wealth as we did in ages past, and everyone can lead a satisfying, healthy life. By all means, we should be at an end of an age, the age of strife, and the beginning of an age of enlightenment. But sufficiency...this is no longer enough, if it ever was. We are programmed by nature and society alike to want more and more. As a result, this world of plenty is no longer good enough. When we met the people's basic needs, they responded by demanding more, until more became their new basic need. The only way to fill that new need was to deprive others of their needs. We, who enjoy so much, steal from those who have so little because what we have is never enough. And as scientists...no matter what miracles we produce, we can only keep up with this change, only keep that cycle going. It is a terrible loop, and it leads only towards oblivion."

"Once, I believed that society could overcome this primitive need to acquire, that we could, as a people, achieve enlightenment. I was lying to myself. Man's goodness produces only a withered and bitter fruit. Maybe it is only science, the sweeter fruit of man's wisdom, that can save us, but I have lost faith even in this. There is always a price to be paid for progress, something I have learned all too well. But this truth no longer haunts me. In fact, I have decided to view this conflict not as a price, but as a trial. Science, after all, is not good or evil. Its essential quality matches the society that uses it, and soon we will test the character of this society."

"I leave Rudra to the world as my final judgment. If it works as Dr. DuFresne had originally speculated, it will give a thousand years of prosperity to the world. It will be up to the people to determine if they will use this to further the cause of humanity, to reach for enlightenment and that new age, or to chase their hedonism into the abyss. If, on the other hand, it malfunctions as Dr. DuFresne feared, it will terminate all human need once and for all. It no longer concerns me which one transpires, and the choice no longer lies in my hands. Once they thought the end was the domain of God. Instead, I have taken the tools of creation and destruction and handed them to his most foolish creation. Let us see what they do."

The tape threw off an unexpectedly loud click as it reached the end. Will stared at the recorder as though it was an arcane device holding some mystery that his brain could not process.

There was a knock at the door. "Will? Sam's done with the shower. Maybe you'd like to get cleaned up before dinner? We'll be ready in about twenty minutes. Will? Are you okay in there? Hello?"

Will didn't answer. He was lost to reality, staring at the recorder with eyes that saw little. Unconsciously, his hand reached for the bottle of scotch and twisted off the cap.

CHAPTER 31

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

The long autumn crept towards the outer edge of winter as Pathfinder's exploratory group worked its way north. Under her leadership, they traveled an eclectic route, often departing the guidestone-marked path in favor of a detour through a ruined town or a high patch of brush. It slowed their process considerably, but Pathfinder insisted it was necessary - the raiders in the area had acquired an inexplicable knowledge of scouting techniques, and they couldn't take chances. As difficult as it was, there seemed to be some truth in what she said, as they encountered no danger on the first stretch of their journey. For her part, Archivist put up an admirable effort, keeping to Pathfinder's brisk pace without complaint, ignoring her pain and exhaustion and learning to keep down whatever food they found on the trail. With each morning she found new strength, and the group was able to move a bit farther and faster than they had the day before.

Then came the day, after a solid week of slow advancement through rugged terrain, that Scrapland at last revealed itself. The rising sun unveiled the silhouette of the ruin, the skyline of the great graveyard that had once been a metropolis. Pathfinder, without explaining her rationale, slowed her relentless pace and ceased the constant detours, allowing the group to travel over the easiest and most direct route. This led them through an old ruined town, little more than a footprint that had long since stripped of anything of worth. Pathfinder was at ease here, and for the first time on their journey she allowed herself the opportunity to converse with Storyteller.

"Middle Market's around here somewhere. The raiders know enough to stay away, so we're safe for now." Pathfinder slung her walking stick over her shoulder. "So what did you see in Pinnacle, exactly?"

"Something I can't explain." Storyteller sighed and hung his head. "Tell me, what do you remember of the world that was? I remember you mentioning your family, but was there anything else of note?"

Pathfinder paused for a moment. "Our house. That's what I remember. My mom and dad. One day, dad got a call from someone, and then he was talking about danger and how we needed to be safe. They put me into some kind of shelter after that. That's about it, really. Just faces and voices and fragments of this and that."

"You were just a child, so you remembered what a child would." Storyteller pulled out his notebook, resting it in his hands. "But I was there, at the heart of the beast. The source of the flame that consumed it all. And yet...What I saw in that place didn't fit. What I saw made me out to be a liar."

"Is that such a big deal? No one's memories are perfect." Pathfinder glared off into the distance. "Tell me, what do you remember? Please, share it with me."

"I remember..." Storyteller closed his eyes, inviting the ghosts back into his head. "...My town. My school. Main street. The hill outside of town. I remember when it all changed, when the place I knew became alien to me. I remember being watched. I remember the lies they told us, the anger I saw in everyone's eyes when it came out." He tightened his grip on the notebook, twisting it in his hands. "I remember how they treated my brother. I remember how he cared for me when our father died. I remember how he saved my life." He eyes were moist when he opened them. "Oh, look at me. I've lost my composure."

Archivist tugged at Pathfinder's arm. "Okay, I don't mean to be a pain, but do you remember the old world too?"

"A bit," said Pathfinder. "Like I said, I was a very little girl then."

"Did you have a name?" said Archivist.

Pathfinder smiled coyly. "Rebecca. That's what they called me."

"Rebecca..." Storyteller studied Pathfinder's face. "I remember being introduced to a young girl with a name similar to that. It couldn't have been you, though. That girl surely perished in the disaster. Tell me, did your parents ever take you to a town called Patmos?"

"I can't remember anything like that," said Pathfinder. "What about you? What was your name? I guess it's possible I might recognize it."

"Samuel. Samuel Scarborough."

"Scarborough...Maybe? I just don't know, I might have heard that name once. It was so long ago. Just fragments now." Pathfinder took a deep breath. "We should keep moving. Standing around in the open isn't smart."

"I can't wait to get to Middle Market," said Archivist, walking backwards as she spoke. "It's weird, I've lived alone for so many years, but now I just like having people around. It's great! I don't have to talk to myself anymore! And they're all so different, aren't they? What are the people like there?"

"Different than the ones you're used to dealing with, definitely," said Pathfinder. "They have their own culture, a holdover from the old world. They have their own language, too, and some of them don't speak ours. If we get into trouble, let me deal with it."

"Of course," said Archivist. "That's the right thing to do. You wouldn't expect me-"

Suddenly, Archivist disappeared in a cloud of splinters, leaving barely enough time to scream. Pathfinder bolted to the space where Archivist had stood, Storyteller following close behind. There was a gap there, one bridged by a few rotten-through planks laying just at the edge of a steep incline - one of which had given way at an unfortunate time. Archivist was just visible at the bottom of the incline, laying in a ball a few feet out.

Storyteller vaulted over the edge, sliding down the incline and reaching Archivist in a few seconds. "Are you all right? What has happened?"

Archivist winced and clutched her knee. "I twisted it. It hurts so bad."

Pathfinder hit the ground next to Storyteller. "How is she? Can she walk?"

"I spent some time traveling with an itinerant doctor. Maybe I can figure out what's wrong." Storyteller crouched down next to Archivist, hands floating above her injured leg. "May I take a look?"

"Okay," squeaked Archivist, drawing back her hands.

"Let me see." Storyteller rested his hands below the girl's knee, the flesh already swelling at the joint. "It doesn't look broken."

As Storyteller's fingers came into contact with Archivist's knee, she let out a cry of pain and pulled back, hands wrapped over the joint. "No! It hurts!"

"I see." Storyteller returned to his feet. "Sorry. We need to take her to a place where she can get proper care. You mentioned that Middle Market is in this area. How far?"

"Close, within a mile I'd say." Pathfinder leaned over Archivist, hands resting on her knees. "What do you say? Can you walk at all? What if Storyteller helps out?"

"I don't know, maybe? Help me up." Archivist leaned heavily on Storyteller, who helped her to her feet. "Okay, I think I can walk a little."

"Can you walk for a mile?" said Storyteller. "I can see the pain in your eyes from here."

"No choice, we've got to get there. It's closer than the last settlement, that's for sure." Pathfinder scanned the horizon - for the first time she seemed disoriented, taken aback by the sudden change in her plan. "Oh, hell...not my best showing today."

"Surely you're not lost?" said Storyteller.

"Not exactly," said Pathfinder. "The Great Lotus traders put up false markers and change their routes, makes it hard to find the place. It's around here, but I might have to leave you two for a few minutes to find the exact location. You okay with that?"

Then there were sounds from the ridge above the group, dark blotches moving against the fading light. Storyteller barely had time to take stock when he noticed more movement, this time to their flank. There was no immediate attack - the assailants took up positions among the rocks surrounding the trio, hiding for a moment and then bolting forward again. Any escape was fully cut off - they were surrounded on all sides, at the whim of whatever group of bandits had chosen to target them.

"Damn it, of all times..." Pathfinder covertly nudged Storyteller. "You have a knife, right? I know you don't want to fight, but we need to at least look like a threat."

"The knife was taken from me," said Storyteller. "I have nothing."

"Damn it." Pathfinder grabbed her walking stick firmly in both hands, brandishing the heavy end before her. "We'll have to try and run. Wait until you see a break, then grab the girl and get out."

Pathfinder scarcely had time to take a breath when the men stormed the group, swooping down onto them with terrifying speed. They were visible now - half a dozen at least, all well-armed with weapons drawn and ready. Pathfinder, dazzled by the fast assault, was barely able to put up a fight at all. One of the men was upon her in seconds, knocking the walking stick clear, dropping her to the ground with a kick to the shin and pressing the flat of a machete against her shoulder. Storyteller could only stare in awe, oblivious to the man at his own flank. There was a blow between his shoulder blades and he was on the ground beneath a heavy boot. Archivist, now lacking support, fell to the ground with a whimper as more men surrounded them.

Storyteller could see little from his position, but he could hear barked orders: _"Ni shi shei? Ni cong nali?"_

Archivist screamed and curled into a ball in the dirt. "Augh! We can't understand you! You can't kill us just for not understanding you!"

"Damn it, we're not raiders," said Pathfinder. "We're here to see Fanghuo. Can anyone understand me?"

_"Shenme?"_ The men glanced back and forth at each other. _"Nimen ting de dong ma?"_

_"Tingzhi."_ The men stepped back, lowering their weapons while still keeping all eyes on the three intruders. Another figure approached, gesturing for the others to hold their ground. He was a lean, dusky man with short dark hair, small in stature but covered in ropey muscle. His garb was similar to that of the redeemers, topped with a short cape embroidered with a large flower - a symbol not familiar to Storyteller, who had previously assumed that he had a reasonable knowledge of trading companies. He holstered a small revolver as he approached, tucking it into his belt alongside a large knife. "Outsider, how do you know this name?"

"I'm a scout, I've been in the Market before," said Pathfinder.

"Most of your people know our empress by another name," said the man.

"I've met her. I once made a personal delivery to Middle Market and your people introduced her as Fanghuo Huangdi. Now, we have an injured woman here and we would appreciate some aid." Pathfinder peered down at her feet. "May I pick up my stick?"

The man glared down at her, his iron features displaying little emotion. "You are called?"

"Pathfinder."

"I see." The man crossed to Storyteller, crouching next to him, letting his stern eyes scan the prone man's face. "And this man?"

"Storyteller, sir." Storyteller tried not to tremble. "I assure you, I am no threat to anyone."

" _Gushiren? Bu keneng..._ " The men returned to his feet. "I am called Lieren. You say that the girl is injured?"

"She can't walk much," said Pathfinder.

"Very well." Lieren took a step back, then signaled for one of his men. They spoke for a moment, then Lieren turned back to Pathfinder. "We will take you to Middle Market and you will see _Huangdi_. If you lie, then you will burn."

Pathfinder picked up her stick from the ground. "Come on, let's get moving."

"What's happening?" said Storyteller. "I don't understand."

"We're heading to Middle Market, and that's all you need to know," said Pathfinder. "Now don't speak, just walk."

Storyteller, not eager to return to his place beneath the foot of a hostile guard, meekly complied, and the group resumed its trek in silence. They were joined by an armed retinue that flanked and surrounded them, Lieren at the front casting glances back as though he still didn't fully trust his captives. Archivist kept up as best as she could, but the pace was relentless and Storyteller was forced to carry her part of the way. Finally, with the light growing dim as the sun fell beneath the towering ruin, they neared a settlement - if, indeed, such a term could be used to describe a place so developed. There were signs of construction here, visible plainly even from outside of the city's high walls. A single narrow passage, barely wide enough to accommodate two men walking shoulder-to-shoulder, provided the only passage into the bastion and through to the settlement.

"We are here." Lieren dug into a nearby pile of scrap, pulling out a rickety but still usable wheelchair. "For the injured woman."

"How could you know that an injured person would arrive at your gates?" said Storyteller.

" _Huangdi_ prepares for all things," said Lieren. "We must go."

Storyteller helped Archivist into the chair, and the group proceeded through the gates of the city. The passage was dim - Storyteller could see little but the man ahead of him and the polished walls to either side, walls that amplified the sound of footsteps and the rusty creak of the wheelchair into a deafening cacophony. His thoughts drifted back to Pinnacle, his escape - if things went badly here, there would likely be no similar opportunity, no flight against all odds through such a tiny egress. Pathfinder, at least, did not appear tense at all, marching confidently in step with Lieren and the guards.

Gradually the darkness of the narrow corridor gave way to an city square, the streets filled with an unexpected illumination. As Storyteller's eyes adjusted, he saw before him a place truly unlike any that he had seen since his childhood in the world that was. The light came not from torchlight but from electric lights, strings of bare bulbs strung high over the scene and powered by some unknown source. It was as bright as day and, despite the late hour, there was ample activity. The footpaths were lined with stalls selling everything imaginable - commonplace goods food and scrap material, but also books, artwork, furniture, and exotic products that Storyteller had dared not imagine could still exist. Most of these things were salvage, but there were also plenty of hand-crafted goods for sale, created in the workshops just visible in back of the stalls. At the center of it all was a massive stone obelisk, no less than thirty feet in height, its surface completely blank.

Archivist looked about in awe. "You have electricity here."

"We have many things." Lieren stepped towards a guarded gate leading deeper into the city. "I must consult with _Huangdi_. You will wait here until I return." He vanished through the gate, leaving the rest of the group to wait.

Storyteller surveyed the square. "Such a place...I hadn't imagined that anything like this might be in the wastes."

"Few do," said Pathfinder. "You're standing in the home of Great Lotus company, the biggest trading concern in the known wastes."

"I've not heard of this company," said Storyteller.

"That's all in the plan," said Pathfinder. "They send traders and envoys to Nexus on occasion, but the rest of the time they keep a low profile."

"So you know the person who runs this place?" said Archivist.

"Everyone knows her. The question is if she remembers me." Pathfinder took a seat on a set of stairs. "Most of the world...well, the people who know about Middle Market call her Orchid, but the people around here have a different name."

"Fanghuo?" said Archivist. "What kind of title is that, anyway?"

"It means 'fireproof' in their language," said Pathfinder. "The story is that Orchid was in an airplane when the disaster hit. The plane goes down, killing everyone on board - except Orchid, who emerges totally unscathed - no burns, no broken bones, nothing. I don't buy it, but they take it as truth around here. They worship her, she's more like some kind of goddess than a trader. And every year, a few more people find their way here, all of them looking for a place where their language and culture are better understood."

"I've heard of enclaves like that in the wastes. I've just never seen one." Storyteller gazed down the well-lit street. "And I can't imagine that many of them are this spectacular."

"The Fireproof one brought the gift of cold flame," said Pathfinder. "At least, that the way the people around here see it. Now, the city's split into three wards. This is the outer ward, where business takes place. The middle ward is only opened up for special visitors, and the inner ward...that's Orchid's place. Couldn't tell you anything about it because it's not for our kind."

The gates swung open, and Lieren emerged. " _Huangdi_ has made a decision. You may stay here. She wishes to speak with the scout and _Gushiren_." He pointed to Storyteller. "We will take the girl to the living quarters for rest."

"She wants to talk to both of us?" said Pathfinder.

Lieren swung back to the gate. "Move quick, do not wait."

The guards wheeled Archivist toward a residential section, and Pathfinder and Storyteller shuffled through the gate. "This is unusual," said Pathfinder. "She shouldn't need to talk to you."

"Is this perhaps a positive type of unusual, or should I worry?" said Storyteller.

"I don't know." Pathfinder took a deep breath. "But you should be very careful. The people here worship this woman, remember. And Orchid herself is...not always so pleasant to deal with. Just watch what you say and do."

The gates to the middle ward were broader than the entrance, the guard heavier, their eyes filled with suspicion as they tracked the outsiders. This area was more organized than the outer ward, with buildings reconstructed with both tremendous skill and a remarkable eye for detail. This place was still crowded, but it was not the barely restrained anarchy of the markets they had just left but the peaceful transit of a neighborhood at night. In many ways, it reminded Storyteller of his old neighborhood, with the walkways cast in the secondhand glow coming from the windows and cracked-open doors. Here, the Great Lotus was impossible to miss, with the symbol emblazoned everywhere \- murals, banners, carvings, etchings - but there were other symbols as well, figures that Storyteller dimly recalled from some presentation on world cultures a lifetime ago. At the heart of the street was a dais, some ten feet high, constructed from the wrecked fuselage of a jumbo jet. Somewhere above the dais was another building with another gate, this one with no windows and only a single massive gate granting entrance.

The gate made a grinding sound as it slid open, and immediately all eyes on the street fell on the dais. A figure appeared above him, slowly emerging into the strobing twilight. She was but a silhouette, all in shadow from the electric lights behind. Storyteller could sense a change in the very atmosphere, a sensation he had not known since his arrival in Pinnacle. It was not just him - all around, people fell to their knees and cast their eyes penitently to the ground.

"Follow me." Lieren led the pair to an unseen ramp leading to the top of the dais. "You stand before _Fanghuo Huangdi_. Offer your respect."

The lights before him dimmed, granting Storyteller his first true look at this figure. She was an older woman, Storyteller's elder by a significant gap, though lacking the wear and age of the wasteland. Her icy eyes were framed by a river of jet-black hair, broken by strands of silver, leading to her waist. She wore a long robe, finer than any he had seen since the disaster, embroidered with the flowers that symbolized her trading group. Perched atop her head was a crown painstakingly wrought from an aquamarine stone that Storyteller could not identify, adorned with symbols of birds and dragons. She possessed a certain cold beauty, but with a hint of cruelty that made her more terrifying than alluring.

She scrutinized Pathfinder for several seconds before speaking. "You are a trail scout, correct?"

"That's right, Orchid," said Pathfinder. "We met before. I delivered a parcel from Nexus."

"I don't recall you, but it is acceptable for you to be here," said Orchid. "I understand that you have an injured woman in your party. We will care for her until she can walk again. After that, her destination is her own to make."

"Thank you," said Pathfinder.

Orchid turned her gaze to Storyteller. "And this one?"

Storyteller withered before her stare, but maintained the strength to answer. "I am known as Storyteller, ma'am. I have come in search of answers."

"Storyteller..." Orchid fell silent, her eyes drifting to his satchel. "What have you brought into my city?"

"Merely my personal belongings," said Storyteller. "Surely, there is nothing that would be of value to a woman of your obvious power."

"I prefer to make those judgments myself," said Orchid. "Open the bag and pour the contents onto the ground."

Storyteller did as he was asked, spilling his belongings onto the floor in front of Orchid. "As you can see, I am no threat to anyone. I am merely a traveler, and I have every intention of departing once we are finished here."

"The notebook." Orchid extended an open hand. "Present it to me."

Storyteller grasped the notebook in both hands. "Please don't take this. I've sacrificed much to keep it safe."

Orchid's expression did not change. "Present it to me."

Lieren appeared at Storyteller's shoulder. "Do as _Huangdi_ asks."

Storyteller took several deep breaths before resting the notebook in Orchid's hand, willing himself to turn it loose. "Please be careful with it."

Orchid flipped open the notebook and traced along the text with one finger. "Yes...I have heard about _Gushiren_ and his notebook. The traders speak of this as though it were magical, a rare treasure. They also speak of its owner, who offered his life that the notebook not be damaged."

"There is some truth to this, yes," said Storyteller.

"Interesting," said Orchid, continuing to flip through the notebook. "This doesn't look like a journal. A work of fiction?"

"Not as such," said Storyteller, staring tensely at his notebook. "It's an account of the world as it was, dramatized for effect. I've been working on it for years. Perhaps you can understand its value to me."

"Yes, I can." Orchid flipped the notebook shut. "You'll get it back once I've had a chance to read it."

"Well, I had not planned to stay very long," said Storyteller. "I don't think anyone could read it so quickly."

"I can." Orchid rotated back to the inner gate. "They're your business, Lieren."

Lieren walked down the ramp, gesturing for Storyteller and Pathfinder to follow. "We go to the living quarters."

Pathfinder grabbed Storyteller by the arm. "Don't worry. You'll get it back, I promise."

"That's not what worries me," said Storyteller. "I don't know, something here haunts me."

"Well, maybe we can put our heads together, narrow it down," said Pathfinder. "After we check on Archivist, I'll show you around the city. There's plenty to learn here. You'll enjoy it."

"I can only hope," said Storyteller. "Maybe the ghosts bring good news this time."

CHAPTER 32

_~_ T-minus _14:32~_

There were many who had Sunday the 16th marked on their calendars and awaited it with the eagerness of youth. It was to be a day of great fanfare and celebration in Patmos - the dawn of a new era for the town, the nation, even the world. Instead, the sun rose over a town, a nation, a world smothered in a pall of fear and foreboding. The police were still out in force in Patmos, running checkpoints at every road leading into town and stopping cars at numerous intersections to check for suspicious behavior. In spite of the lockdown, though, there was life in the town, albeit of a much more grim variety. Few people stayed home - everyone found someplace to go, someplace to belong, if only for the day. Every church was packed to the rafters with lapsed and repentant sinners, praying desperately for a miracle. For those of less faith, the restaurants and bars of Icaria Street quietly opened their back doors for patrons eager to numb themselves to the world. Parents took their young children to any building with any sort of shelter or cellar, hoping that these structures would provide some measure of safety. Those with nowhere else to go barricaded themselves in each other's homes, gathering in groups to watch what news the lab allowed to pass through to the public.

Will was out as well, his own thoughts clogged with paranoia. There he stood on a side street near Amos, staring at his car and strategizing his next move. There was nothing obvious to arouse his suspicion - no men in dark glasses watching him, no unmarked cars circling the block. Then again, Jameson wasn't always so obvious in his own tactics, and there was something troubling about the whole situation. After everything that Jameson's men had done to interfere in his life, it seemed unlikely that they'd just let him drive off.

Finally, fed up with waiting, Will walked to the car, keys held over his head. "All right, I'm sure you guys are watching me somehow," he shouted. "If someone's going to swoop down, put a bag over my head and take me to secret jail, now's the time to do it." No response met him. "Oh, and if the car's going to explode when I turn the key, that's going to be really hard to explain in a town like this. So if that's your scheme, now would be a great time to stop me." Again, he was greeted by silence. "Okay, then I guess I'm off."

Will sprinted for his car, tossing open the door with a rusty groan and vaulting inside with his keys at the ready. To his delight, the car did not explode when he turned over the ignition - the thing ran exactly as badly as it had when he drove it there. Wasting no time on idle thanks, he pulled the car out onto the barren street and made for home. Again he readied himself for an attack, and again he was glad to learn that none was planned. He hastily gathered the supplies he'd purchased, piled them into his backseat and set off for Kiyama. This was a mundane task turned into a mission - with the city under a virtual police state, crossed over with checkpoints to supplement the revitalized cameras, travel was slow and risky. Will took all due care - A bag full of groceries or a cooler wouldn't normally be considered suspicious, but it was hard to say how the police would act given what had already happened and was coming.

As he pulled onto Icaria Street - minded still by Jameson's eyes, now increased in number - he spotted Sara Mills sitting on the curb outside of Mills Printing. He slowed as he drew near and leaned out of the window. "Morning, Sara. What, you got nothing better to do than sit around?"

"I'm watching the store while the folks are out," said Sara. "I suppose you're on another little quest, huh?"

"Yeah, but it'll keep for a little bit." Will pulled into a parking space in front of the print shop. "I suppose I can keep you company for a bit."

"I'd just as soon you didn't," said Sara. "You're bad news."

"Oh, don't be like that. Without me, your life wouldn't be nearly as interesting."

"All I keep thinking is that this whole story would have been a lot easier if I hadn't had the wise idea to chat with the crazy guy in the diner. Too late now, I guess." Sara walked over to the car. "At least now I know you're okay. I'm surprised they haven't disappeared you yet."

"Hey, I'm slippery," said Will. "How's the project going?"

"Incomplete. Hard to gather information with the cops all over the place." Sara peered into the backseat. "Geez, how much does your family eat?"

"It's for the party. I'm planning for a hundred and fifty people, but that's just to be on the safe side. Realistically, it'll probably be under a hundred."

"Yeah, that'd be my guess," said Sara. "Aren't you doing this on the hill? How are you getting up there? They've got security all over the place."

"I have my ways," said Will. "The tough part's gonna be setting up all the equipment without being seen."

"Equipment? What are you taking up there?"

"A bunch of stuff I rented. We've got a big grill, the sound system, portable generator...oh, and a bunch of chairs, but I might pass on those. Blankets are a lot easier to carry, and I've always liked that picnic feel anyway." Will snatched a small notepad off of the dashboard. "Am I forgetting anything? Let's see..."

Sara peered into the back of Will's car. The backseat was completely filled with grocery bags, a pair of coolers sitting awkwardly on the floor. "Holy shit, how much food do you have?"

"Well, let' see..." Will flipped back through the notepad. "We've got...twelve pounds ground hamburger, eight packs of franks, four of Polish sausage, five packs of veggie patties...fifteen bags assorted potato chips, eight bags pretzels, four vegetable platters with dill and ranch dip, ten bottles of mustard, six of ketchup, twelve jars-"

"Let me see that." Sara grabbed the notepad from Will. "Shit, Will. Twenty-four two-liter bottles of soda? Twenty-four? Eight pounds of macaroni salad? Five sixty-four pack cubes of...Will, do you realize how much beer this is?"

"Hey, if there's ever a time to drink, it's now. Not like there'll be any morning after regrets."

"How much is this costing you?"

"Like four hundred dollars, give or take." Will snatched the notepad and tossed it onto the passenger seat. "Of course, there are a few more things I need to pick up. I need a whole bunch of ice, for one. Also, I should really swing past the liquor store and get a few bottles of rum. Maybe whiskey too, I'm not sure. Oh, and the grocery store is making me a bunch of kebabs, providing they're still open, of course. So, let's add...I don't know, a hundred dollars onto that."

"And renting all that equipment?"

"About seven hundred, not counting deposits. You know, they make you rent that stuff for a minimum of two days." Will's expression descended into a rare frown. "What's your point?"

"My point is that you're a grand into a party that was never going to attract...what? A few dozen people tops? And that was before the lockdown. What do you do for a living that lets you spend like that?"

"Well, nothing at the moment, given that I quit a few days ago. But I have enough in my bank account to cover everything."

"Enough to cover..." Sara broke out into a morbid cackle. "Have you ever stopped and thought about how much you have invested in this? And I'm not talking money, I'm talking your whole life. What exactly are you going to do if you wake up tomorrow and everything's still here? What if the machine works exactly like they said, or it doesn't work at all? What if they decide not to turn it on? Then what?"

"Well...then I'll deal with it. Hey, it's not like it's the end of the world or anything." Will's chuckle faded to an awkward silence. "Look, I know that's not what you want to hear. I know that everyone is expecting me to be some kind of hero here, but that ain't me."

"I'm not expecting anything," said Sara. "Except trouble for you. Will, think about this: You're going to be up there on the hill in a spotlight of your own making, full view of lab security and the cops, no one around to watch your back, with a soundtrack to announce your presence. Even you can see what's going to happen."

"I ain't a martyr, either," said Will. "I guess I just don't care what Jameson does now. This party isn't a celebration anymore, Sara, it's an act of defiance. Jameson and Richter and all of them want us to sit down and accept whatever they decide to do. Well I, for one, am not doing that. I'm going to be up there, spitting in his face, and God willing I'll have a crowd to help me out. This is how I'm going down. This is my legacy, and they're not taking it away."

"This party is your legacy?"

Will was silent for a moment. "...I have to take Sam to the bomb shelter, that's first. Then the liquor store, electronics place, and the grocery store. But first things first." Will put the car into reverse. "By the way, I have a present for you."

"Take it back. You can't afford to buy anything else."

"Don't worry, this cost me nothing." Will pulled the microcassette recorder out of his pocket and passed it to Sara. "Enjoy."

Sara studied the device. "...A decades-old voice recorder. Will, that's just what I've always wanted."

"Not the player, the tape in it. Let's say we luck out and the world's still here tomorrow. That tape will make your project. You'll be famous." Will pulled the car out of the parking spot. "Oh, be sure to listen to it a few times. It's short, but it's intense."

"Thanks," said Sara. "Good luck with the party and all."

"Hey, I don't need luck. I just need to be crazy." Will threw Sara a salute - an odd gesture, but the only one that sprang to mind. "Have a good life."

Will took off like a bolt for Kiyama Hill. There was never enough time to do everything that needed to be done, and not a second to waste.

CHAPTER 33

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

It was the nature of the wastes for most commerce to shut down at nightfall, as trade by firelight was, if not difficult, then certainly hazardous. Traders made themselves welcome targets for thieves when they could not easily see, so they favored transactions in the bright of day. Middle Market, with its abundance of artificial light, was decidedly different. The locals took full advantage of the opportunity to take their dealings into the early hours, and many even preferred it. The market stalls of the outer ward remained open for citizens, redemption crews, and the rare traveling merchant stopping to purchase needed supplies or acquire rarities for resale elsewhere. On that particular evening, Storyteller and Pathfinder were the only outsiders present, the usual crowds braced by raids which shook them even within the secret city. Storyteller felt highly conspicuous, but Pathfinder showed little apprehension.

"Do you speak their language at all?" said Storyteller.

"Not really," said Pathfinder. "Well, I know when they're cursing at me, but that's about it."

"How does one make deals without a common tongue?" said Storyteller.

"It's all gestures. You put down what you're trading, you point at what you want. Tomorrow, we'll go to a food stall and..." Pathfinder suddenly stopped, clapping one hand to her forehead. "Shit! I dropped everything when they took us here. I have nothing to trade." She looked at Storyteller's satchel. "You have anything?"

Storyteller dug through the satchel. "Merely my writing utensil and a few scraps of paper that were once a story. I doubt they are worth much, and I'm not willing to part with them anyway."

Pathfinder crossed her arms. "Hell. Maybe I can beg some supplies off of Orchid."

Storyteller's eyes fell on the obelisk. "Where did they ever find a stone that large?"

"Hard to say. They could have traveled five hundred miles to find that thing and done it without complaining. Anything for the glory of their Empress." Pathfinder nudged Storyteller and flashed him a grin. "You want to see more?"

"More of what?" said Storyteller.

"More of what they made for her," said Pathfinder.

Storyteller rubbed his chin. "You are speaking of art this time? Nothing grotesque?"

"You could call it art."

"They have such things here?"

"And lots of it."

"Such an opportunity..." Storyteller fell silent and shoot his head. "Perhaps we should go to the living quarters and investigate in the morning. Archivist is no doubt waiting."

"You're in luck, because what you want to see is on the way. Orchid thought it was important enough that she wanted her subjects passing it every morning. Quite a lady, huh?"

"On the way?" said Storyteller. "Very well. You've certainly done an able job of leading thus far, I'll continue to follow."

"Glad to hear that. Come on."

Pathfinder led the way through the back streets, past the dense hedges of trading stalls and into what had once been a manufacturing district. Unlike the rest of Middle Market, there had been no attempt to reclaim any of the warehouses or factories for any practical purpose. Instead, the denizens had left those still-standing walls to serve as canvases, each one bearing an intricate mural that covered every inch of clean space. A salvaged bench sat before each mural, the better to study it in comfort, and carefully spaced hooded bulbs cast right of light onto the walls such that they would always be visible. It was more museum than street, an open air exhibition of the splendor that Middle Market had to offer.

"Each of these murals depicts a moment in Orchid's life," said Pathfinder. "You can see how obsessed they are. These things probably took hundreds of hours each, and there are dozens of them. No burden too great for a god, though."

Storyteller himself was overtaken with awe - over the art, not the divinity - as he approached the first mural. It was a simple image featuring three people in a carefully stylized scene. A man and a woman, unkempt young people not yet out of their twenties, stood before a podium, hands together as though in prayer. Hovering above the podium was Orchid, not the human woman Storyteller had met but rather a deity, wreathed in sacred flame, a golden book floating before her. There was an odd character to it, a sense of a place out of time, a mist-enveloped reflection of a memory.

"Remarkable," said Storyteller. "Where did they ever find paint that had survived the disaster?"

"They didn't, they made it. It's a mixture of a dye and some kind of resin. Hell of a thing, isn't it?" Pathfinder stepped to Storyteller's side. "This one depicts Orchid, before the disaster, counseling her students. She was a teacher once, or at least that's what they say."

"I remember when they would have called this sort of thing propaganda," said Storyteller. "There was a time when I would have mocked this. Now, I'm just taken aback by its beauty."

"Well, there are plenty more. Come on, I'll show you." Pathfinder took Storyteller by the arm and led him down the path. "I was going to ask you if any of this was familiar, but maybe that's a silly question."

"I don't know. There's something about this place that haunts me." Storyteller's eyes drifted down the silent streets, probing the shadows. "It's not something I can put to words. Just a feeling that there is a deeper significance to what I'm witnessing."

Pathfinder drew Storyteller closer to her. "Well, maybe we can figure it out together. Let's look at the rest."

The next mural was even more sublimely grandiose than the first. It again featured a deified Orchid, this time endowed with animal characteristics - a pair of magnificent violet wings emerging from her shoulders, a smaller set encircling her brow as though it were a crown. Before her was a great crowd of people, almost uncountable in number, stretching into the far horizon. Behind her was a dragon with a long slender body covered over in pallid scales, stroking a wispy gray beard with its massive claws, its coils wrapped loosely around Orchid as though to protect her. There was another figure, decidedly different than the rest of the crowd, huddled in the shadow cast by the dragon - a young man bearing a walking stick, his face drawn and weary.

"This one, I think, is the next in sequence. It depicts Orchid's travels. They say that before the disaster, she journeyed to an ancient place and blessed it with her wisdom. You know, this stuff sounds just preposterous when I say it out loud." Pathfinder pointed to the mural. "I'm not sure why she has wings in this one. And I'm not sure what to make of the guy standing next to her, either. He doesn't fit at all."

Storyteller stepped towards the mural. "She loved him."

"Excuse me?"

"Haven't you traced her eyes? Notice where she looks. She does not look out onto the crowd but to this man. Even in her moment of glory, she is lost, bound by the only thing for which she truly cares."

Pathfinder peered at the mural. "Wow, you're right. How did I never see that?"

"Perhaps you weren't meant to. Even a god deserves some secrets."

"I wonder who he is?"

"A tragic figure. Clearly he perished in the disaster. This is her memorial to him."

"You're a real romantic, aren't you?" said Pathfinder. "The girls must have loved you."

Storyteller chuckled nervously. "Not at all. They would never notice one such as me."

"Maybe they did and you didn't notice," said Pathfinder. "Men don't always notice these things, you know."

Storyteller face grew warm. "Pathfinder?"

"Come on, we've got more. This next one...it's not so pleasant, but it's important."

The third mural was awash in red, orange and sooty black - a sea of flame beneath a sky choked with smoke. In the midst of the blaze was a monument of scrap metal jutting forth from a field stained maroon, the deep cast of blood flowing into soil. There were people as well, or the remains of people, bodies twisted and distorted as the wreckage, their lingering screams almost audible through the painting. Orchid was in the center as always, but this time looking far more fragile, more human - and yet also beyond humanity, shielded from the flames by a halo of light.

"This is the day of the disaster, the day Orchid survived the end of the world." Pathfinder sighed and tipped her head away. "I never liked this one. Yeah, I know they had to depict this, but it's still grim how much detail they put into it."

"It reminds me of my brother," said Storyteller. "I remember hearing him speak of how amazing it would be to witness the disaster, how it was the most incredible thing any person could see. I wonder if he spent his last moments like this, and ended up like these poor souls."

"You mentioned him before," said Pathfinder. "Tell me about him. What kind of man was he?"

"His name was Will. I owe him my life." Storyteller took a deep breath. "He knew all along that our days were numbered, down to the very minute the fires would come. Right before the end, he brought me to a bomb shelter, just in case the worst happened." He chuckled morosely. "He was just a fool to most people, someone to mock or ignore. But I suppose he had the last laugh."

"Sounds like he was really important to you," said Pathfinder, putting an arm around Storyteller's shoulders. "Why don't you talk about him more often?"

"I suppose I don't want to remember that he's gone and never coming back," said Storyteller. "Our father died in an accident when I was very young, so Will was more than a brother to me. No one else truly understood him, or even made an earnest attempt. He was a man of dreams and ambitions too great to realize in our flawed world. I was not deaf to what they said, everyone in our town thought him a failure and nothing but. But he's the one who encouraged me to express myself. Without Will, there would be no Storyteller."

"You should talk about these things more often. Helps keep the memories alive."

"What of your family?" said Storyteller. "You mentioned your mother once, but little else."

"Well, my grandfather was a very powerful man. I'd rather not speak of him, though." Pathfinder pulled away. "He wasn't a bad man, but he's still someone I'd rather forget. His name caused me nothing but pain."

"A powerful man?" Storyteller's hand fell into his satchel, wrapping around his notebook. "...Then I was correct in my assumptions! I know exactly who you are-"

Pathfinder pressed a finger to Storyteller's lips. "No. Don't say it. That name is nothing but a curse. You might want to remember, Samuel, but to me it would be a blessing to forget."

"Of course," said Storyteller. "I shall not press the issue. However, you should not feel shame. The guilt of your family is not your own."

"Oh, if it was that easy," said Pathfinder. "...There's one more mural. After that, we'll go see Archivist."

The fourth mural was an oddity in many respects, most notably that it did not feature the expected object of worship. Orchid did not appear here at all, not in any recognizable form. Rather, the image was one of an endless meadow, a field of rolling hills covered in flowers that sprouted from every inch of the earth, their petals rising skyward on unseen wind currents. The field was empty, void of sentient life, save a single figure - indistinct and blurry in shape, the abstract shadow of man \- lurking far off in the distance.

"Oh, mercy." Storyteller ran to the mural, his mouth agape.

"It is striking, huh?" said Pathfinder. "This was based on something Orchid mentioned. Minutes before the disaster and the crash, she had a vision of this place. When it passed and she woke up, she was on the ground, alive and unharmed \- if you believe that kind of thing, anyway. I figured you might respond to this one."

"No...that's not it," said Storyteller. "I've seen this place."

"Before the disaster, you mean?"

"No, since the disaster...in the Shivan Desert, after my flight from Pinnacle." Storyteller fell back from the mural, hands before his eyes to blot out the torments of color and memory. "After several days, fatigue overtook me, and I collapsed. My earthly senses went dark, and then this appeared before me. It was a world...it was the world before, but more beautiful, more pure. And then this place faded from my vision, and I awoke in the presence of Lifebringer and his people, and I was safe again."

"That's incredible," said Pathfinder. "What, do you think the two of you are linked somehow? I mean, I don't really believe that stuff, but...it is possible, right?"

"All things are linked. All life, all events...there is a string that ties one to another." Storyteller drew his hands close to the mural, craving the touch but fearful of what might come next. "This field is our hell's heaven, or maybe the space beyond it. It is the beauty we do not willingly allow ourselves to consider until we have fallen into the jaws of death. It can't exist, because we won't allow it to exist, and yet the soul craves it."

Pathfinder crossed to Storyteller. "You've thought about this, I can tell. So this is what people reject?"

"Forgive me, I'm rambling. It is an unfortunate habit, developed over years. The people I knew in the old world, they seemed to crave ugliness and horror, and yet from time to time I would hear a tale of someone who had seen a place much like this. Could it be real? Is it even possible?" Storyteller pressed his fingers to his temples. "I'm so confused. There are things here that feel more real than anything I can remember from before the disaster, and other things that seem like fictions even when they are standing before me. I'm sorry, I shouldn't burden you with this."

"It's not a burden." Pathfinder took Storyteller's hands in her own. "You might not believe this, but you've done as much to help me as I have to help you. Maybe more."

"I don't understand," said Storyteller. "What might I have done to help you?"

"Samuel...For a smart man you're very slow, you know that?"

Pathfinder drew closer to Storyteller, entwining her fingers in his hair and locking his gaze with hers. Storyteller was enraptured, lost in those eyes that spoke to some memory he had long since sealed away, some other life that never was. He was frozen, watching her move closer, spotting each detail in her face - the flecks of brown in her eyes, the high cheekbones that even the desolation couldn't claim. Then their lips met, a moment of warmth and joy framed by the ring of dim light and the glory of that eternal field.

Storyteller, reeling from shock, stepped back and tripped. "Rebecca...Pathfinder, I don't think you-"

"Please call me Rebecca," said Pathfinder. "I like that."

Storyteller hadn't time to think of a response before the two of them were joined. A group of guards rushed through the streets, Lieren at the front, pausing before Storyteller and then fanning out to surround him. For a moment, he could feel their boots on his head once again, but they caused him no harm this time, merely staring down in frigid silence.

"You are summoned," said Lieren. " _Huangdi_ wishes to speak with you. Come with me."

"She wants me?" said Storyteller. "Why?"

"No more questions," said Lieren. "You must come now."

Pathfinder helped Storyteller to his feet. "Look, you don't have a choice in this. If Orchid wants to speak to you, you've gotta go. I'll keep an eye on Archivist. Meet me back at the living quarters when you're done, okay?"

"I...we..." Storyteller stumbled over his words, his normal gifts paralyzed and his tongue doing nothing more than filling his mouth. "...Okay."

A pair of guards moved to flank Storyteller while Lieren approached him. "You will follow me. You will not wander. You will not touch anything. Clear?"

Storyteller glanced at the guards who were surrounding him. "Very clear."

CHAPTER 34

_~_ T-minus 0:49 _~_

The time of judgment was drawing near - one hour to midnight, one tick of the cosmic clock until that grand event. The campus of Jameson Labs was putting its best foot forward as it rolled out the carpet for the gala to precede Joshua Jameson's moment of truest glory. A row of searchlights illuminated the road leading to the laboratory, a stretch dotted at regular intervals by checkpoints. The abandoned shops and run-down apartments that lined the road (the ones that were meant to be reinvigorated by the money the lab would attract) had been given a hasty makeover to conceal the blight that marred the otherwise pristine thoroughfare. The parking lot was filled with news vehicles and luxury cars, the reporters and VIPs waiting for their admission into the facility. Then there were the guards - stone-faced men in green body armor, armed with shotguns and automatic weapons, positioned through the crowd in such lopsided numbers that a casual observer might mistake them for the honored guests. It was a curious atmosphere, less a scientific milestone than a happening somewhere between an exclusive film premiere and a military procession in a failing state.

Meanwhile, a short distance away, Kiyama Hill was decked out in its own party best, ready to greet the final conflagration. What was normally an inconspicuous incline covered in buffalo grass was shining in the dark, wrapped over many times with lights, its own overpowered floodlights carving an unmissable path through the night sky. Beneath the lights was a fifteen-foot banquet table bearing food enough to last a solid week and flanked by a sizable charcoal grill and a pair of large coolers. Opposite the lab, a pair of speaker towers - supported by a ring of smaller soundboxes - belted out a steady mix of radio-friendly music, loud enough to be audible down on the street and beyond. At the edge of the lights in the deepest part of the shadows a collection of blankets and mismatched lawn furniture encircled a ring of stones and ash, the surrounding brush cleared in preparation for a bonfire.

Everything was set for a party, lacking for nothing except the people. There was no crowd here - not a hundred-fifty people or a hundred, or fifty, or twenty, or even ten. There was but a single figure on the hill, the lone man who had planned the entire event - the Prophet of Patmos, the loser crowned a hero, now nearing the moment of his own triumph. He sat in the midst of it all, surrounded by the fruit of his labors, a bag of potato chips in one hand and an ever-growing pile of crumpled beer cans by the other. His eyes drifted to his watch, then around the empty hill, then to the town, and with a heavy sigh he reached for another beer.

Will seethed whenever he looked at the town, those rows of lights completely overwhelmed by the brilliance of Jameson's folly. For the first hour and a half, he convinced himself that people would still come, that they were biding their time, putting their own houses in order, following through on their plans to arrive fashionably late. Now, with the zero hour so close and the streets devoid of life, there were no doubts left. No one was coming. So he sat, attended to by his sound system and unused fire pit and mountains of food, and cursed at the town - silently at first, but growing ever louder with each drink, with each tick of the clock.

"Yeah, they'll show up. Just give 'em a little longer. It'll be a blast. They'll show up just to spit in the old man's eye, just like before." Will turned his eyes to the heavens and screamed. "Cowards! Hey, isn't the town supposed to back its hero? Isn't that how this movie always ends, you flock out in support? Oh, what's that? I'm supposed to swoop in and save you all? The loser? The moron? Your last hope? Well, that ain't me! But at least I have the goddamn nerve to come up and look death in the eyeball! You assholes just want to watch it on TV, but I'm here, just like I promised!"

Stumbling to his feet, Will pulled the last beer from a six-pack and tossed the plastic rings aside. "Did you see that everyone? I just threw that away! I'm shitting all over nature! Don't you care? It's your world I'm trashing! Don't you care? Don't you care about anything?"

Will leaned heavily against the table, the lightweight plastic shifting from his weight, and watched the road below. A single car appeared on that road, effortlessly clearing each checkpoint in the blink of an eye. There was no doubt who this was - Joshua Jameson, the emperor himself, arriving to inaugurate his latest world-disrupting project.

"Oh, look at that. Look at all the peasants stepping out of the great Josh Jameson's way. Bet you're real proud of browbeating everyone, huh? You got your way, just like you did every time you had one of your super-good billionaire ideas." Will opened the beer can, pouring half the liquid down his throat and swallowing in one loud froggy gulp. "Well, I'm winning too, you know. I'm getting my way. What did I say? I said, I'm gonna have a party and watch the world blow up, and you made fun of me, but I'm here, and I'm watching this thing. I'm watching it all go boom. And it's gonna be great! You'll see! You'll..."

The can slipped from Will's slackening grasp and he buried his face in his hands. The solitude, the enormity of the situation - they had settled upon him at last. The spectacle, no matter how tremendous it might be in the moment, was hollow in light of what was transpiring at that very moment - life, in all its varied and vivid forms. It would be gone in an hour, nothing left to take its place but ash and ghosts and memory.

A mad laugh tore out from Will's mouth. "This is why you did it, right, Derek? Oh God, this is why you took all that time. It took that much time to find what was pretty here, but you did it, right? You did it. Goddamn, it was a glorious thing. A glorious thing."

Will lurched to the sound system console. "Goddamn it, where's the radio tuner on this thing?" After a few seconds of fumbling, the music faded, replaced by a reporter's steady, even voice:

"...forty-seven minutes from now, the promises of Project Rudra will be put to the test. Five minutes ago, the project technicians announced that they had formally finished the last round of safety checks and the activation awaits only Joshua Jameson's order. It is unusual for a businessman to have such a personal level of involvement in a scientific test, even one of this magnitude, but Mr. Jameson has taken a personal hand in guiding this project since the beginning. He has described it as his legacy, what he hopes to be his great contribution to civilization. Some of the lab personnel, speaking off the record, told me that they hope that Mr. Jameson's presence will help calm the controversy that has haunted this project for the past week. Certainly, the security here suggests that lab personnel are prepared for an act of violence, although I am assured that no specific risks have been identified."

"Mr. Jameson has just passed through the outer perimeter and met with Dr. John Bellamy, the administrator of this facility. In a few minutes, he will deliver a short address, and..."

Will flicked off the sound system. "All of this over a generator, huh? My ass. Yeah, I know you news parasites. Probably hoping for a riot, get some nice footage of a bunch of hicks getting shot to bits. That'd be perfect, right? Just what you want, huh? You can carry it live. Death and mayhem, right to your home, right to your pocket. Next best thing to the end of the world. A nice little appetizer." He reached for one of the whiskey bottles, twisting the cap free. "Yeah, death and mayhem. Always makes things nice and exciting."

"William Scarborough?"

At the sound of the voice, Will spun around, thinking for a second that the crowd had finally arrived. Instead, he found himself face to face with a four-man Jameson Labs team, all of them toting high-powered firearms. "Yeah?" he said, eyeing the men closely. "What did I do this time, huh? I was just standing here."

"Mr. Scarborough, please-"

"Seriously, why can't you guys leave me alone?" Will turned from guard to guard, wagging his finger at each one. "I never tried to stop you. I didn't leak anything. Why can't you just keep out of my life and knock off the harassment, huh?"

"Mr. Scarborough!"

"Sorry, I was being a jerk there. Just the booze talking, you know how it is. Sure, you can join the party. You want something to eat? I didn't bother with the meat, but we got pretzels and cupcakes and liquor...well, let's start with the liquor." Will waved the whiskey bottle at the armed men. "How do you boys want it? Straight or with cola? And how much ice? I've got a ton."

One of the guards took a cautious step forward. "Mr. Scarborough, we aren't playing around. You need to come with us."

"Or what, you'll shoot me?" Will slapped his open palm over his heart. "One shot, one kill? What, you got a gun you're gonna shove in my hand afterward?"

"Mr. Scarborough, we've got your confederate. He's talking to us already."

"What confederate? What are you talking about?" said Will. "I just wanted to have a party, you assholes started this."

"We're talking about Dr. Yang Yizhen."

"I don't know who that is!"

"Don't play dumb. We already knew that he was leaking information to you, plus you're using his devices to circumvent our security protocols. Now, we're done negotiating." The guard pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Mr. Scarborough, you're to come with us. Now will you come voluntarily or do we have to subdue you?"

"Take me where?" said Will.

"To the laboratory," said the guard. "Dr. Bellamy's orders."

"Are you kidding?" screamed Will, so lost in outrage that he barely noticed the weapons trained on him. "You're no cops! You can't arrest me! And you damn sure can't lock me up. I have rights."

"Mr. Scarborough, we have police powers. In ten seconds, you're going to find out just what we're allowed to do. Now, you are to be brought to the laboratory to be detained and debriefed. Dr. Bellamy is taking this very seriously, as is Dr. Richter."

Will staggered back, the whiskey bottle slipping free from his hand. "Dr. Richter is here?"

"Yes, he is. Now..." The guard nodded to the others, who quickly moved to flank Will. "...are you going to come willingly, or do we have to subdue you?"

"No, I'll go," said Will. "But if I'm not back to watch the show in forty-five minutes, I'm going to be very mad."

"Extend your hands."

"You're going to handcuff me anyway?"

The guard stared coolly back at Will. "Your hands."

Will sighed and dutifully extended his arms, wrists together. "You're not going to put a bag over my head, are you?"

"Shut up." The guard slapped the handcuffs on Will. "You make a scene, we'll shoot you. That's a promise."

Will let out a morbid laugh. "Won't that look funny with the cuffs on?"

"You want to find out?"

"Hey, it's your game," said Will. "You wanna drag me past the cameras with a gun in my back, knock yourself out."

"We're not going in the front."

"There's a back route?"

"Shut up." The guard signaled to the rest of the team. "All right everyone, quickly and quietly. They gave us eight minutes to get him in."

The guards led Will to the perimeter wall, cloaked in the gloom cast by the hill. One guard lifted his hand to an unseen panel - there were a few muted electronic beeps and a hidden door opened. Out front, just within earshot, Mr. Jameson was beginning his address.

"Ladies and gentlemen, natives of the Midwest, from the coasts, and from around the world, we stand now at the gate to a better world..."

CHAPTER 35

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

The sound of the final gate opening was deafening, the grind of the rust-choked gears producing a muscular noise that reverberated in Storyteller's ears. The space beyond was filled with a blackness that seemed beyond nature. Somewhere on the other side of that wall of shadows was Middle Market's inner ward, the seat of the Fireproof Empress, the heart of her power. Storyteller could see none of that - only a collection of hazy, spectral shapes that defied his ability to comprehend them. So consumed was he by the darkness that he barely noticed the hand on his shoulder, spurring him onwards, beckoning him to advance.

"Why do you wait?" said Lieren, giving him a gentle shove.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand this at all," said Storyteller. "Have I broken some law, some rule? I merely wish to know."

"No more questions," said Lieren. " _Huangdi_ will tell you what you need."

"Could you at least tell me what waits beyond these doors?"

Lieren didn't speak a word in response, instead seizing Storyteller by the arm and jerking him through the gate. A moment later, there was a thunderous noise as the gate slammed shut behind them, plunging them into the heart of the shadows with only a single point of light in the far distance to provide guidance. All Storyteller could make out in the darkness was Lieren - more a sense of his presence, a figure standing to his side and guiding him through unseen halls. Lieren was hardly bothered by the lack of light, and Storyteller did his best to keep pace.

As Storyteller's eyes adjusted, he could make out more details of the space around him and before him. The hall was a massive one, far too large for the area's sole occupant and stretching so far into the distance that Storyteller took it for some manner of illusion. Every surface - walls, floor, even the ceiling - was covered with murals or carvings, but until the ones in the other wards there were strange, almost mystical images. There were dragons in flight, scarring themselves with their claws and bleeding dense mist that settled into the valleys below. There were armies of women clad in brilliant red garments, some holding rifles aloft, others swinging massive scrolls unfurled to the skies. There were great ancient trees, their branches heavy with deep purple apples, masked monkey-like creatures darting through the branches to snatch them. Storyteller wished to pause and study them, but even a moment's hesitation brought a rebuke from Lieren.

After one break too many, Lieren grabbed Storyteller by the arm and yanked him forward, nearly pulling him to the ground. "Move, _baigui_. We do not have time."

"Why are you so incensed?" said Storyteller. "Surely I have done nothing to harm any of you?"

"Yes you have," said Lieren. "Now I know you, yes, now I know your name. _Zhengfu Zhe_ marks you. You are his prize! You will bring war to our city!"

"Is this why Orchid summoned me? She is afraid?"

" _Huangdi_ fears no man. She is a slayer of beasts like _Zhengfu Zhe_. No, this is my anger. She does not tell me why she wants you." Lieren stopped at a narrow passage in the hallway, the source of the light. "Here. Go in."

Lieren delivered one final shove and Storyteller stumbled through the passage and into the dazzling light of the chamber beyond. This room was a great cylinder, the ceiling brushing against the sky. Whatever tiny electric sun was illuminating this room was suspended somewhere above, shining with a steady, clean light. An old spiral staircase ran around the edge of the room, terminating at a nook halfway up the chamber. The place was curiously empty, no one apparently present save Lieren who stood just inside the doorway, watching Storyteller's every move. The room itself was opulent by Storyteller's standards, but it seemed that it saw little use. There were tables and chairs enough to serve a banquet for dozens of people, all of them white from layered cobwebs. The only part that was clean was the wall along the staircase, which - as with the hallways before - was covered in murals. These were less abstract, more like the ones outside, but the story they told was incomplete. Part of the wall was concealed in a moth-eaten curtain - another mural, Storyteller thought, perhaps unfinished.

Storyteller mounted the stairs, not climbing them but merely drawing nearer the walls to study the murals, but there was little time before his thoughts were interrupted by a sound at the top. Orchid appeared at the edge of the nook, staring down at Storyteller, the cold fire in her eyes palpable even at a distance. The crown and robes were gone, replaced by an outfit more conductive to movement - a close-fitting robe, exquisitely made from what could have been genuine silk and embroidered with the mark of the lotus. Her left hand was wrapped tightly around Storyteller's notebook, fingernails digging shallow gouges into the leather binding.

"Who the hell are you?" said Orchid, waving the notebook at Storyteller. "Well? Answer! Who are you?"

"I don't understand," said Storyteller. "I am but a wandering storyteller of no importance, you know this."

"Enough of your games. You will come clean now or I will extract the truth from you and believe me, I will have it." Orchid stomped down the stairs, stopping just above Storyteller. "How do you know who I am? Who told you about me, who fed you these lies, who spreads this slander? Answer!"

Storyteller was dumbstruck, but he forced himself to speak. "I afraid I don't understand. Do you speak of the notebook? It's but a dramatized record of my own memories."

"Bullshit!" Orchid's royal composure fell away, replaced by sheer rage. "How do you know my name? How do you know my father?"

"Your father?" Storyteller paused as he searched his mind. "Of course, I've been blind. You must be Lidia Zh-"

Storyteller was interrupted by the back of Orchid's hand, a blow strong enough to drop him to one knee. "Don't you dare use that name as though you knew me!" she screamed. "Don't you dare speak as thought we have a history, as though you know a goddamn thing about my life!"

"I'm sorry," said Storyteller, holding up a hand to protect himself.

"You're sorry?" Orchid's words were fire, her porcelain flesh turning a fierce crimson. "Don't tell me that, don't you dare, not after what you wrote here, not after what you said about me, about my family!"

"I swear, I have invented nothing!" said Storyteller, grasping blindly for something to steady himself.

"How dare you! You wrote that my father had my fiance killed! You made him out to be a criminal and a murderer!"

"It was only what I heard, I swear! I never meant my words to cause harm, I only wrote those things to deal with my own loss!"

"You want to speak of loss? Do you want to know what I gave up?"

"I know," said Storyteller. "The man in the mural. I understand."

Orchid lifted her hand to strike Storyteller again, but stopped. "How did you spot that?"

"I notice things that others overlook."

Orchid put a hand over her face. "Don't act like you understand. That was just the start of it. You couldn't possibly fathom what I lost."

Orchid lifted the notebook above her head and swung it hard at Storyteller's head. Storyteller flinched at the blow, grabbing the edge of the curtain as he fell backwards, drawing it back by a foot. He could make out a few details of the mural beneath, spotting three incomplete figures on the other side. One was Orchid - or rather Lidia, the woman, not the deity, lacking the divine fire or wings. The second was the man he had seen in the earlier mural cowering beneath the dragon's coils, here standing proudly alongside Lidia. Between then was an infant, a girl, a child of another time.

"I'm sorry," said Storyteller as cowered. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't say that, not again, not one more time. You're sorry? I lost everything on that day, more than a worm like you can fathom. I lost my family, my love, my..." Orchid's free hand curled into a fist before her abdomen as she fought back tears. "Who the hell are you? What's your name?"

"Samuel, ma'am. Samuel Scarborough."

"You wrote yourself into this trash?" Orchid placed a hand against her face. "No...no, I do know that name. Will Scarborough. The trivia contest, that was it. How could I ever forget him? He was like a child, making a scene, acting out, shouting, screaming. And you're the brother? I should have known. Who else would try to cast that buffoon as a hero?"

"He wasn't a buffoon!" said Storyteller, his voice cracking. "He protected me, he even saved my life! I lost everything that day too!"

"You lost nothing," said Orchid. "You lost a dead weight who would have pulled you down your entire life."

"No..." Storyteller pressed his sleeve to his face to dry his skin. "...Don't say that, please don't say that."

"Or maybe you were the dead weight," said Orchid. "Such a pathetic liar. You claim that this is the product of your memories? Then why am I even in this? I was never in Patmos."

"But you were," said Storyteller. "I was there."

"Then you are a bigger imbecile than your brother. I was headed _into_ the country on that day, not leaving it. Look around you. The plane crashed before we touched down in O'Hare, while I was coming in. You couldn't have seen me."

"But I did..." Storyteller ran his fingers through his hair, clutching his scalp. "...I remember it. It had to be..."

"I could have you killed for this insult. By all rights I possess, I should have you strapped to a stake and kindle the pyre with your pages of lies." Orchid tossed the notebook at Storyteller's feet. "But because you are clearly as much of a failure as your brother, I will show you far more mercy than you are owed. You are no longer welcome here. The scout and the girl can stay, but you're gone by daybreak. I see you after that, you will regret it." She gestured to Lieren, still standing just inside the doorway. "Out of my sight."

Lieren did not wait for Storyteller to regain his footing, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him away with such force that it nearly pulled his arm loose. Storyteller only had time to snatch the notebook from the ground before his unplanned departure, cramming it back into his satchel. Then they were moving again, Lieren always at Storyteller's flank, twisting or squeezing his arm in an undisguised attempt to cause pain. The hallway gave way to the gate, and then the middle ward, the murals, and the old apartment buildings that made up the living quarters.

Lieren stopped before one of the buildings, flinging Storyteller to the ground before the main entrance. It had been a respectable if not luxurious apartment once - now it was merely one of many places for the denizens of Middle Market to sleep. The electric bulbs were finally dimming as night closed in, with only a single light visible in the building that rose before Storyteller.

"Sam!" Pathfinder dashed from the building, kneeling to help Storyteller back to his feet. "What did you people do to him?"

"By dawn, he leaves." Lieren moved in close to Storyteller. "You hear me, dog? I find you here, I will cut out your tongue!"

"That's enough!" Pathfinder wrapped her arm around Storyteller and walked him into the building. "Don't tell me that you just got kicked out of another city? What happened?"

"I must depart immediately," said Storyteller. "There is no time."

"Not yet. Come on."

Pathfinder guided Storyteller back into the building, down a shadow-traced hallway and into a small room at the back of the building. The decor was utilitarian but comfortable - a bed with a threadbare comforter, a few chairs, a small desk and a single light bulb, the controls wired into a panel somewhere outside of the room. Archivist reclined on the bed, her bandaged leg elevated by a pile of straw, a half-burned textbook resting on her chest.

Archivist broke into a smile as Storyteller entered the room. "You're back! This place is amazing., isn't it? Look, they have books here too! Oh, I wish I could walk around and see more. Hey, when I can walk again, will you show me around?" Archivist's smile faded. "Is something wrong? What's wrong?"

"I have to be gone by morning," said Storyteller. "Now might be a good time to make our goodbyes."

"I don't understand," said Archivist. "What happened? Why do you have to leave?"

"Something Orchid saw in my notebook upset her. She thinks I'm a liar. She..." Storyteller turned his face away. "...No, her assessment is true. I am a liar."

"Don't take what she says so personally," said Pathfinder. "Look, give her a few hours to cool down. I don't think you're a liar."

"Then you're a fool!" Storyteller slammed his hand against the wall. "It's all bullshit. Everything I've said, everything I am. It's all a lie."

"What are you talking about?" said Archivist.

Storyteller pressed his face to the wall, sheltering himself from the judging eyes behind him. "I couldn't even admit it to myself until now...that's why I never figured it out, because I didn't want to. It was all another story, I talked myself into believing it."

"You're talking nonsense," said Pathfinder. "Look at me. What did Orchid say?"

"It was the kids...the children in the shelter, that's how it started," said Storyteller. "They lost everything, they even lost their identities. They had...they had so many questions about the world that they'd barely had a chance to explore. So I started to tell them stories, stories based on things I heard, about people I'd met. But that's all they were, just stories, not real life. How many years did I do it? I just...after all that time, after telling those tales hundreds of times, I believed them myself."

"But that doesn't make any sense," said Pathfinder. "You had to know something. Your brother told you-"

"He was the source," said Storyteller, wiping tears from his eyes. "Everything I knew came from him, I believed him - why wouldn't I? But I didn't see it all, I must have started filling the gaps with rumors and fiction, and...oh God, how much of it really happened? What's even real?"

"Sam, I'm sorry." Pathfinder rested her hand on Storyteller's shoulder. "What now?"

"I'm going on to Scrapland," said Storyteller. "Please keep an eye on Archivist until she can walk."

"You're going by yourself?" said Pathfinder. "You don't even have any supplies!"

"I'll be fine." Storyteller looked down at Archivist. "I'm sorry I couldn't take you the whole way."

"That's okay. Hey, you should take these." Archivist shoved the backpack towards Storyteller. "The discs, remember? I know you'll find a computation machine out there. When you do, you'll come back and get me, right?"

"Of course I will." Storyteller shouldered the backpack. "...There's no point in wasting time. It's as fine a time as any to go."

"Like hell you are!" Pathfinder jumped in front of Storyteller. "Don't you get it? If you go there alone, you'll die. The raiders there are all heartless killers, and there are lots of them, and they're coordinated! Even a scout wouldn't have a chance alone - Wayfinder didn't even manage it! Not to mention Conqueror is still after you! What you're doing is suicide."

"The risk doesn't matter. I've defined my life by a lie. If I want redemption, I need to learn the truth." Storyteller laughed bitterly. "I've owed a debt to Thanatos since I escaped from Pinnacle and the desert. If my fate is to repay that debt on the end of a raider's knife, so be it."

"What about me?" said Pathfinder. "I lost you to the wastes once. I'm not doing it again."

"You don't need a wretch like me."

"Don't talk like that!" Pathfinder embraced Storyteller, whispering into his ear. "All those years in the wastes, I lost part of myself, an important part. I was numb until I met you. I know you don't believe this now, but you have something that everyone else threw away years ago. You can't let that die."

Storyteller pushed Pathfinder away. "You don't need me. You lost yourself in a moment, fell in love with a phantom. Nothing more. Goodbye."

Storyteller walked out of the building, the hazy twilight greeting him. The sun would rise in a few hours over what he was sure would be his last day.

CHAPTER 36

_~_ T-minus _0:_ 39 _~_

Few souls in Patmos had the opportunity to see the inner workings of Jameson Labs, and under different circumstances Will may have even been excited, though the handcuffs and the gun in his back did an excellent job of deadening the thrill. Even so, he took advantage of the opportunity, fleeting as it was, to study his surroundings. There was a waiting room, a cold and uninviting place that had clearly welcomed few visitors - more of a front administration office and final checkpoint. At the end of the tiny room was a security door made of dense, bullet-resistant plastic, metal shutters on either side ready to snap shut at the first sign of an emergency. Beyond that, there was a hall, stretching off for what seemed like a mile. The area looked abandoned, filled only with the persistent hum of the equipment.

"Whoa, where is everyone?" said Will. "Hey, are they all in the big lab? Can we go there? Front row seats!"

"I'm not going to tell you again." The guard pressed his hand to a plate next to the security door, which slid open. "You'll have plenty of time to talk once we get to the security section."

A rush of air greeted Will as the security shutters rushed open, the sound of the door followed by the gentle click of security devices scrutinizing him for risks unnoticed by human eyes. Beyond was another soulless room, a smaller one, crowded with armed men. There was one odd figure out, a researcher by the looks of him - dark-haired and complected, his slight build vanishing into his lab coat. "Yang Y." read the badge affixed to his lapel. The guard gave Will a nudge and he fell into the seat next to the researcher.

"Hey," said Will. "You're the guy, right? The engineer? Were you the one sending stuff to me?"

"I don't know," said the engineer, his speech so hushed that the drone of the air conditioning nearly overwhelmed them.

"What are they gonna do?" said Will.

"Enough talking. Eyes forward." The guard took his place by another door. "Dr. Richter wants to see you. Try anything and you will be dead before the thought leaves your head, clear?"

The door whooshed open, greeting Will with _wait, this isn't right. None of this makes any sense._

I couldn't have heard about this from Will, I was already in the shelter. It's not like he could have called me from inside the lab, not with their security measures, not with me underground. I had to have made this part up. That means I couldn't have seen them take Will away, either. Why didn't I see this? What's wrong with me?

How much of this was fiction? Come to think of it I never saw Will get harassed at all. Those were just rumors I heard from the other kids. For that matter, the stuff about lab and Rudra being a threat was just another story floating around out there. How much of this was rumor? I didn't actually see most of it, but I'm sure Lidia was...that's right, I never went into that room, they kept me outside. I never saw Lidia, or Aaron Bellamy for that matter, or Ben Jameson, or his father. That was the story I told so that it would make sense. But it was also to make Will look better, wasn't it? Putting him in contact with all of these significant people, front and center at all these events, standing in the way of this doomsday plot? How much of this is my own fantasy?

A fantasy, that's what it was. I wanted to remember Will as this great protector, as a crusader, even a savior. I listened to all of his conspiracy theories and big schemes and I believed it all because I wanted it to be true. This little world that I described in those pages was there to make him look heroic. I wanted everyone else to see how great his was, just like I always did. But he was never a hero, was he? Maybe Will really was the loser they always said he was.

Maybe I'm no different.
CHAPTER 37

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

The sun rose over a frigid, uninviting morning, the hazy rays wriggling through the ruins that dominated the skyline outside of Middle Market. Somewhere in the chilly blackness, a single figure emerged from the settlement, heading north. He was a marked man and a hated man, but there was no spectacle, no sendoff, no flight, no pursuit. It was merely another day, another departure from another trading center - but not for the man, marching on toward an unknown fate at the end of his road.

Storyteller, on his own once more, kept a steady pace as he advanced north, eating what he could find and going without sleep so that he could travel farther. The raiders wouldn't dare touch him - not so close to Middle Market, anyway, likely not until he reached his destination. That destination was a wasteland legend, a sprawling ruin with no equal, a vault endless in both wealth and danger. In the old world it had been a great city, a center of wealth and culture crowning the otherwise unassuming Midwest. That city was long gone, its true name rarely used - the name no longer suited the skeletal husk that remained of it. The skyscrapers that had once been its skyline now lay in broken piles in the desolate streets, the remnants covered in moss and vines as nature struggled to reclaim the land. Rust-choked car chassis sat here and there, most of them ripped apart by redeemers looking for valuable metals and oils. This was the city's current state - a place dubbed "Scrapland," the most valuable redemption site in the known wastes. The redeemers had been picking through it for twenty years, and yet only a tiny fraction of its bounty had been recovered.

The first thing to greet Storyteller was a street - an endless thoroughfare, empty and quiet save the constant howl of the wind rushing through the buildings and down the desolate urban corridor. The wind was an omen, one that sent a bracing shudder through Storyteller's bones. It was not Pathfinder's warnings that frightened him, as much as he believed that they were accurate. Rather, it was the feeling of history overtaking him. He had been to this place - or rather, the place that once was, now just a specter - in the old world, and it had left him in awe. This was not the small town that he had always known but a great living thing, and they moved through the arteries with a sense of awe. Now the thing was dead, the city just a necropolis haunted by memories.

Passing by a set of storefronts, Storyteller spotted movement on the other side of the street. A pair of redeemers, their garb too ragged and worn to identify a trading company, darted through a broken window into a store. Storyteller crept up on the building, close enough to overhear their conversation.

"Shit. It would take at least two more men to move the valuable stuff out of here."

"Knock it off and find something we can swap."

"You know damn well that this street's been stripped. We want anything, we have to travel further in."

"That's where the raiders hang out. I'm not getting killed for a haul."

"There's a good chance we'll get killed on the way out, anyway. Come on, let's do something to justify the risk."

"You can do that if you want. I'm staying right here." One of the redeemers leaped through the window, stopping dead still as soon as he saw Storyteller. "Who the hell are you?" he screamed, brandishing a knife.

"I'm not here to attack you," said Storyteller. "I'm neither redeemer nor raider."

"Then why the hell are you here?" said the redeemer. "Taking in the sights?"

The second redeemer appeared in the window. "Are you crazy? Don't just stand out there in the street!"

"Why is that?" said Storyteller. "There is no threat."

"Are you stupid? You'll draw them right to us. The hell with this, I'm gone." The first scavenger dove back through the window, ducking out of sight. His friend followed suit.

Storyteller bolted for a nearby alleyway to await the carnage that he was sure was to come. Five seconds passed, then ten, then twenty; there were no war cries, no boots stamping on the fragmented asphalt, no sickening crunch of weapons against flesh. The only sound was that same haunted whistle that had snaked through his ears since he had neared the city. Storyteller took one cautious step out of his hiding spot, peering down the street for a solid minute before working up the nerve to resume his trek. The paranoia of the redeemers was understandable given how many of their kind had been murdered, and he certainly shared their outlook, but it was no time to be ruled by fear, not with his destination at hand.

The sun continued its advance as Storyteller proceeded north - it had been an hour, perhaps, and the increased visibility was giving him a new sense of calm. He was steeled enough to take stock of his surroundings, noting that there were no signs of recent human activity present. Surely this was as far in as the redeemers had reached, or at least as far as they'd been able to salvage. They had started from the easily reached sites at the edge and worked their way inwards, but the uptick in violence had given them cause to halt their advance. This gave Storyteller an odd sense of hope - it was more likely that he could find an intact computer in a place that hadn't been recklessly stripped for trade goods. That hope swiftly waned as he moved from store to store. Nearly every building was filled with debris or burned beyond recognition, leaving little chance that any of the more delicate relics within might have survived. By the tenth building the fear had returned and his self-doubt was already overshadowing his desire.

Suddenly, Storyteller caught a faint sound over the wind - something barely audible, the last echo of a whisper somewhere far away. There was something menacing about it, and he was torn between curiosity over the source and a dread of what he might see if he pursued it. He could feel a knot growing in his stomach, but he tried to push his fears aside and continue the search. The sound came again a minute later - closer this time, with greater clarity. It was a voice, a dull rasp coming from one of the innumerable alleys. Storyteller began to run, not even fully understanding his own fear, only knowing that he had to escape.

Pausing at an intersection to catch his breath, Storyteller glimpsed a figure out of the corner of his eye. It was another redeemer, this one bound by exhaustion and pain, a spark of terror in his eyes that Storyteller could spot even from a distance. He tried to scream out but the sound stuck fast in his throat and he fell to the ground, revealing a cluster of arrows protruding from his back. Twenty paces behind him were two men in piecemeal body armor, one of them wielding a bow, both of them smiling and cheering as they sprinted to examine their prey.

"Great shot! I'll strip this one." The second raider dug through the dead man's belongings. "Score! This one's got an assload of jerky. We can eat for two weeks on this, at least. Hey, you made the score - what do you want?"

"I call his boots." The first raider spotted Storyteller, standing paralyzed in the middle of the street. "There's another one."

The second raider smiled and advanced on Storyteller, a long blade in one hand. "Scavs go home! Scavs go home!"

Storyteller was in motion before his mind was able to fully process his jeopardy. It was simple instinct - he was less a man than a frightened deer, fleeing faster than he thought himself able. There was a sharp whistle as the first raider loosed his bow, the arrow sundering the air an inch from Storyteller's left ear. Storyteller ducked into an alley, frantically searching for a hiding place, but there was no time - the second raider was right behind him, a look of sadistic glee on his face. Blinded again by instinct, Storyteller smashed through the nearest door he could find, charging blindly through rooms heedless of what was around him. Passing through the third door, he tripped and fell into a pile of debris. With the raiders soon to catch up, he did the only thing that he could, digging into the pile in hopes that he could conceal himself well enough to fool the raiders. From his position under the debris, he could see little except a sliver of the hallway before him and the two men in search of blood and treasure.

"Where the hell did he go?" said the first raider. "You see him leave the building?"

"No. Shit, this building's too big to search it ourselves. Let's get some help, huh?"

"Is it worth it to get one dude?"

"Hey, no one gets away from us. Besides, Farseer will be pissed if we let any more scavs leave. We don't want him to stop helping us."

"That's true. Let's go, don't wanna waste no more time."

Storyteller remained motionless for a minute after the raiders left, holding his breath, terrified that their departure may be a ruse. When the footsteps did not return, and he could no longer hear the voices, he cautiously slid out of his hiding spot and examined his surroundings. By the looks of it, this building had once been an apartment building or hotel - one whose glory days were coming to a close even before the world crumbled to ash, the great fire only speeding along the hand of time. A redeemer might have seen some value in the structure, but to Storyteller it was just another memorial to a time gone by, another faint memory damaged beyond recognition.

Nudging open the main doors, Storyteller emerged from the ruined hotel and into an open plaza. The wind had abated for the moment and everything was still and placid, an illusion of serenity that couldn't last for too long. This place showed obvious, undisguised signs of recent human activity, though whether they were left by redeemers, raiders or some other unknown group was hard to say. Following those traces of life, Storyteller arrived at a scorched and barren expanse, the remnant of an old world park. Whatever had once grown there was gone - the flames had left only a few slender pillars of carbon that were threatening to crumble to the ground. There were sculptures, though, all of them damaged but still remarkably intact. Storyteller stopped before the largest - a concrete statue of a robed man carrying a scythe, its surface concealed beneath countless layers of char. Here there was a camp, and a sizable one - numerous cots ringing a watchfire, piles of satchels, even clay pitchers and grinding stones, signs more of a settlement than of wanderers. A few stray embers still smoldered in the heart of the fire, suggesting that the occupants were close at hand.

"Scavs go home."

Storyteller rotated on his heel with deliberate speed, afraid to confirm that which he suspected was true. There were raiders, four of them, positioned such that they could cut off every avenue of escape. Storyteller pressed his back against the statue, counting his last breaths as the men drew closer. The raiders could plainly sense the tension, and they relished it - approaching with small and steady steps, running their fingers along their weapons, flashing each other odd expressions, drinking deeply the draught of Storyteller's fear.

"You lost, scav?" said one of the raiders. "Lost your friends? Don't you know it's dangerous to come out here alone?"

"I am not a redeemer," said Storyteller. "And I possess nothing of value."

"And you're not leaving with anything, either, lying scav." The raider rubbed his blade against his own skin until it drew blood, smiling as Storyteller cringed. "What's the matter, you got a weak stomach? Maybe we'll let you live, would you like that? Maybe we'll just send you back to your company with a few bits missing. Pack them up real nice with a note to stay out of Scrapland."

"I don't have a company, I speak the truth!" said Storyteller, his eyes shut.

"Let's show him where we put his friends," said another scavenger with a laugh. "He can take back a few souvenirs for his bosses."

"Halt." This voice was new, a thundering bass that filled the air in the park.

Storyteller nervously opened his eyes, scanning the area for the new arrival. He strode out from around the statue with slow, deliberate steps, marching to a cadence that played in his head alone. He was dark-skinned with a clean pate and eyes of polished stone, passionate and yet stoic, blazing with intensity and yet devoid of mere human emotion. A well-traveled trench coat, reinforced with salvaged leather, hung over his stout frame, running down to the stout boots that resembled those favored by the trail scouts. He had one hand raised to the sky as he stared down the raiders.

"This man is not yours," he said. "Leave us."

One of the raiders laughed. "What's your problem? You told us we got to kill any scavs that got in here."

"This man is not a scavenger. He is not your prey, but there is prey close at hand." Without turning his eyes from the raiders, the man pointed off into the distance. "There is a group of three scavengers to the west, newly arrived and laden with supplies. You may take them."

"All right, fine. Let's go." With that, the raiders lowered their weapons and departed for a fresh hunt. There were no threats, no arguments, no profanity, not as much as a grumble or slouch - they simply left obediently at the stranger's words.

The man bowed his head. "Be at ease, traveler. No harm will come to you here."

Storyteller looked over at the man in amazement. "Who are you that the raiders respect your words? They have no leaders."

"I am not their leader. I am Farseer." He spun on his heel to face Storyteller. "You may not understand this, but I have been awaiting your arrival for a long time now."

"You...know me?" said Storyteller.

"I do not know you by name, but I knew that one would come, and it could be none other than you." Farseer gestured for Storyteller to follow him. "Come. We have much to discuss."

Without an utterance, Farseer proceeded deeper into the ruins, Storyteller following close behind him. Storyteller's panic was gone, faded in this man's presence, calmed by his precise movements and demeanor. The sounds did not go away, nor did that sense of the presence of others, and at times Storyteller could even see raiders standing about, yet none of them even approached the two of them. As incredible as it was, Storyteller felt that he was safer there in the heart of raider territory than anywhere he had been in months. It was a conditional calm, though, one that brought up new questions - questions not answered by Farseer, who remained silent as they walked.

It was Storyteller who finally broke the silence. "Excuse me, but you said that you had been waiting for my arrival. Could you elaborate further? This is all very confusing to me."

"I am certain that it is." Farseer continued his steady pace as he spoke, eyes locked forward. "You may not understand it now, but you are a very important man. Unique in the wasteland, in fact."

"In what sense? I am not a significant man, nor a powerful one."

Farseer paused and turned to face Storyteller. "Yes. If you were powerful, it would mean that you too had succumbed to the corruption. And then you would be of no value to me." His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "For your sake, it might be best that I give you the story in its entirely."

"I would appreciate that," said Storyteller.

"Very well, but maintain your pace. There is much for us to do." Farseer resumed walking, the pause barely breaking his stride. "I suspect that the two of us have certain things in common. We are likely the same age. I suspect that we shared a similar status in the old world, with similar families."

"Then you remember as well?"

"What I remember is a life wasted," said Farseer. "Where I could have spent my days exploring the splendors of the world, I squandered them on feeble pleasures and distractions. Where I could have spent my nights walking the path of mastery, I wasted them by mindlessly spreading chaos in pursuit of popularity and thrills. I had paradise, and I discarded it. This was my first sin."

"A sin?" said Storyteller. "We were just children. There is no sin, no crime in enjoying a carefree youth."

"I suspect that your spent your time more wisely than I did. Ah, but in the grand scheme, this is not important. As is so often the case, my first sin was a venial one." Farseer hesitated, standing perfectly rigid. "We are being followed. This is no scavenger, the movements are too fluid. I believe our pursuer has trained as a scout."

"...Rebecca?" muttered Storyteller to himself.

"I know well of their ways, for their skills are my skills," said Farseer. "When I emerged into the new world, I made my way north in search of other survivors. I found the place now known as Nexus, then nothing but a ruin providing shelter for a few wealthy children. They saw some special talent in me, for I had survived the trek across the wastes where so many others had become lost and perished. This was my gift, as it was in the world before \- when I wish to reach some location, I can always find a way. In time, I bestowed this gift upon the others there."

"That means..." Storyteller's words faded away, dissolved by awe. "...Are you Wayfinder?"

"This was the title I once adopted, yes."

"Wayfinder! You are nothing short of a legend...I am gifted just to stand in your presence. My own voyages would have ended in death were it not for the paths you carved."

"Do not speak of me with such reverence." Prophet flinched, his hardened facade giving ever so slightly. "Yes, many of the paths you have walked on your journeys were first charted by me in that previous life. Indeed, the trading companies as you know them would not have existed were it not for my actions. They were foolish scavengers when I found them, drawn by canned food and baubles. I showed them that they could do more, that they could do more than survive, that they could use my paths as the foundation for a new world built from the rubble of the old. All of this is true, and I say it with no pride, only shame."

"The scouts and traders all take you for a dead man," said Storyteller.

"This was my intention. You see, despite my mastery, I was never pleased with what I was doing. My revelation came the night after my greatest achievement, the road that led to what the small minds of Nexus call Scrapland. That evening, I had a dream that made everything clear. I saw the world as it once was, the glory and the magic, the splendor of my youth. Then I saw the scavengers, the men with whom I worked every day - and I saw what they were doing, carving chunks from that old world, destroying it to fuel their own ambitions. When I awoke, I realized why I was so displeased. I had helped these men chip away at a great and sacred ruin in the name of easy wealth. This was my second sin, and a far greater one."

"A mortal sin," said Storyteller. "Then you came here to redeem yourself in some way?"

"You are very perceptive, just as I had anticipated. Yes, I traveled here to study the past, that I might uncover and preserve its secrets. The past is all we have that's real - the present is an illusion, the future merely shadows of what may be. But my hopes were soon dashed." Farseer gestured to a group of raiders. "One moment. I should see to the elimination of that scout."

"Please, don't." Storyteller grabbed Prophet's wrist. "I believe that I know this scout. She means us no harm, and she is not here on behalf of any redeemers. Please spare her life."

"Very well, but I hope your judgment is sound." Farseer waved the raiders away.

"Thank you," said Storyteller. "Now, what was it that ended your hopes? The raider gangs?"

"No, the scavengers. The thieves who dare call themselves 'redeemers' even as they gouge the soul from the land." Farseer gestured towards a gutted building. "Do you see? This structure was intact when I arrived. No sooner had I begun to explore it than the scavengers came, a large team of them, and picked it clean. They broke through the walls, crudely tore away fixtures, and reduced to splinters that which offered them no profit. This building is no longer of any use to me. As I watched them ruin the structure, I decided that I could not achieve my goals as long as those men were allowed to steal from this place."

Storyteller stopped in his tracks. "So you used the raiders to stop them."

"Indeed," said Farseer. "I taught them everything I knew. I showed them how to find the paths used by the trail scouts, and I showed him how to set an ambush to take advantage of the weaknesses in their defenses. It has only taken them a few months to master these arts."

"Are you mad?" shouted Storyteller. "Do you have any idea how many people they have killed? They have turned your gift into an assassin's art. Doesn't that bother you?"

"I have lost no sleep over it," said Farseer. "These men who came to Scrapland knew the risks they were taking, and I simply could not allow them to destroy this place before I had been given the opportunity to study it. You may think that I am cruel, but since I began my education of the raiders, the number of scavengers here has dropped to a mere trickle. This has given me time to more thoroughly pursue my true goals."

The two of them drew close to a body of water, separated from the path before them by a short barrier of rubble. The water was as clear as it had ever been, a rare piece of nature left untouched by the end of civilization. At once it summoned a memory for Storyteller, a moment in the past when all had been peaceful. "This is Lake Michigan, isn't it? Remarkable." Storyteller surveyed the clearing. "I remember this place from my childhood. In the old world, there were many museums in this area."

"This is why I have brought you here," said Farseer "In my dream, I was told to build the Cathedral in a seat of historical knowledge. This was the only suitable location."

"The Cathedral?"

Farseer pointed to a clearing ahead. "Witness."

Before them stood a structure unlike anything Storyteller had seen in the wastes - a bizarre tangle of concrete, wood, metal, piping, and wire rising up several stories into the sky, daring gravity to bring it low. The foundation sprang forth from the remains of a great museum, now just a mound of earth and stone that merely hinted at what had once been. As they grew closer, Storyteller could make out more details of the new structure. It was decorated with things that he had not seen since before the disaster - television sets, medical diagnostic machines, diesel engines - all of them picked clean of valuable materials, leaving only plastic and metal shells. The building had no obvious purpose, could not serve any practical end - it was more like a memorial, a tombstone for the old world, the lonely grave of a tortured specter.

"The Cathedral of History. The thing I was called to build." Farseer closed his eyes again. "I had another dream, one stranger still and even more enlightening. This time, a figure came to me. He had the shape of a man, but there was a strangeness about him. When I looked in his eyes, I saw places beyond Earth, saw civilizations brought to ruin, saw a trillion lives on a hundred worlds brought to an end. This being told me to build the Cathedral, and he showed me how. For months, I labored to construct the Cathedral. It is built from the past itself, to contain what I was able to save."

"You did this all by yourself?" said Storyteller, approaching the entrance.

"It was my penance that I receive no aid," said Farseer. "The outside is merely a shell, and no one has stepped inside the Cathedral since I finished it. It has awaited one worthy of its treasures. You see, the dream figure told me one other thing: Most men would not be worthy to pass through its gates. I knew at once that this included me. I was to wait for a pure soul, untainted by the violence and greed of the wastes. He would be the one to enter, and claim his legacy."

"You think that I am the man from your prophecy?" said Storyteller. "How could you know?"

"As I said, it could be no other. He wouldn't be a scavenger or a raider or a scout. He would come with an intent that I might not understand, but it would not be pursuit of greed or power. It was my mission to find him and guide him to his destiny." Farseer opened his eyes, locking them onto Storyteller. "You think I am reckless for forging an allegiance with the raiders, but I am not a fool. To redeem myself of my first sin, I committed my second. Had I allowed you to fall to my raiders, or perish in the wastes, it would have been my third and greatest sin, one placing me beyond salvation. But here you stand, ready to accomplish your true goal."

Storyteller turned away from Farseer, dabbing back a guilty tear. "I'm...sorry, but I can't be the pure soul you're looking for. I am a lifelong deceiver. I have lied to strangers and dear friends alike. A man like this could never be a savior."

Farseer grabbed Storyteller by the shoulder. "Do not doubt yourself. Every wastelander I have met bears the stench of blood and the look of avarice. I see none of these things in you. I do not know what you have done before, but I know that your sins are insignificant compared to ours. Please, will you do this favor?"

Storyteller glanced from Farseer to the Cathedral and back. It was an exercise in madness to work with this man, legend or no, but there was something different here. He sensed not insanity but zeal, a trait he had once admired in his own brother. "What do you require of me?"

"Do as destiny guides you," said Farseer. "I can go no further."

Storyteller stepped past Farseer and through the bent metal arch that led inside the Cathedral. The inside was lit only by stray sun motes breaking through gaps in the structure, but this was enough to paralyze Storyteller with awe. There was a collection of old world artifacts, uncountable in number. They lined metal shelves that reached dozens of feet toward the ceiling and covered tables that filled all but a precious few inches of floorspace, but this was not what had taken him aback. Dead center in the room, on the largest of the tables, was a collection of electrical devices, all of them in near perfect shape. Sitting in the center was an old ruggedized laptop computer, a few scuffs on its case but otherwise fully intact.

"Do you know if these devices still work?" said Storyteller.

"I gathered only the least damaged machines for the Cathedral," said Farseer. "But I am not worthy to use them, so I never tested them."

"And...you have a source of power?"

"I have a generator. It, too, is fully intact."

Storyteller pointed at the computer. "This one. I must turn it on."

"Very well." Farseer flipped a hidden switch on the outside, and a gentle hum filled the chamber. A few seconds later, there was a ghostly sound as the generator powered on. "It is ready. The rest is up to you."

Storyteller pushed the power button and then knelt by the table, digging through his bag for one of the Westhigh discs he'd been given by Archivist. The disc was unlabeled, an anonymous artifact of unknown worth, but he could feel that there was something of value here. Once the computer booted up, Storyteller inserted the disc and waited. There was a whine as the machine struggled to read the disc, replaced seconds later by voices and instruments. It was music, but not the simple melodies that had filled the night sky around the fire, the kind that had kept Storyteller company for so many years. This was a lost style, something he had never expected to hear again in all his days.

"What is that sound?" said Farseer. "Is the machine damaged?"

"No...it's music," said Storyteller. "What was this band called...Stephenson Syndrome, that's it. A local band where I used to live. There were never really my cup of tea, either, but I guess I do miss them in a way. My brother listened to all the local bands, told me I had to support the town. He used to take me to shows all the time, buy CDs, t-shirts, vinyl records...we didn't even have a player. But he just had to pitch in. It was how he was, he just had to..."

Storyteller shut his eyes.

CHAPTER 38

_~_ T-minus 8 years _~_

The skies were clear and violet with the fading sunlight, with but a hint of dew and a trace of breeze to cool the summer air - a perfect evening by any standard, and an especially welcome one in Patmos. The normally sedate little burg swelled with activity as people poured in by the hundreds, converging on Kiyama Hill to partake in Main Event Patmos. What had once been a tiny local music festival had turned into a rite for area musicians, either as their formal premiere or as one last farewell before moving on to a grander stage in Chicago and beyond. The western field was filled with tents and vehicles, the temporary homes for people who either couldn't get a room or wanted to be as close to the stage as they could. Others sat on Kiyama Hill, watching the show from a comfortable height. The crowd had a decidedly strange character, a reflection of the eclectic acts that had become a mainstay for the event.

Then there was the pair perched at the very top of the hill, two normal boys standing out for the strange crowd that surrounded them. One was very young, not more than six and small even at that, carrying a little backpack, staring earthward with misty, red eyes. The other was in his teens, a portly, shaggy youth sifting through a sizable pile of band merchandise.

"How you liking the music, Sam?" said the older boy.

"It's okay, Will." Sam sat on the ground, staring sullenly over the merchandise.

"I went a little overboard with the swag, but you gotta support your locals. Real important." Will grabbed several large rolls of paper. "Check it out. I figure we get these posters signed after this thing's done, and then if any of these guys hit it big, they'll be worth hundreds of dollars. Maybe thousands. That would be cool, right?"

"Yeah."

"You okay, bro?"

"Yeah." Sam began to sob, his entire body quaking as his face turned red.

Will wrapped his arms around Sam, holding him tight. "It's all right, buddy. It's okay! We don't have to stay here. You want to go home? Let's go home." Will looked around the field. "Wait, I got a better idea. You have that notebook with you? The one the doctor told you to carry?"

Sam dug in his backpack, pulling out a spiral-bound notebook. "I don't want to write about it."

"Yeah, I get that. Who wants to write about his thoughts? Writing about thoughts is stupid. You gotta write about real things, right? Things you can see." Will lifted Sam onto his shoulders. "Hey, look at all those weirdos down there. We don't usually see people like that around Patmos, do we?"

Sam sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Yeah. They sure look strange."

"No kidding." Will pointed to someone in the crowd below them. "Look at all the piercings people have here. Hey, check that guy out, the one with all the stuff sticking out of his face. Man, that must have hurt. Hey, why do you think he did that to himself?"

"I don't know," said Sam. "He's a stranger."

"Well, make something up," said Will. "A story doesn't have to be all real, just a little."

"Maybe..." Sam studied the man, ideas bubbling in his mind. "Maybe it's armor."

"Yeah, that makes sense!" said Will with a broad grin. "I bet that guy gets punched in the face a whole lot. So he says 'Yeah, well now if you punch me, you'll get your hands all cut up.'"

Sam giggled in reply. "Yeah. I bet no one ever tried to kiss him, either."

"Yeah!" Will set Sam down on the ground and knelt next to him. "See? You can make up a story anytime, wherever you are. And if you're real good at it, you can become famous. You can be Sam the big-time storyteller."

"What about you?" said Sam.

"Oh, not me." Will tapped on the side of his head. "I don't got it in me. But maybe you do. Hey, will you do something for me? I want you to write a story about all these crazy people. Just tell a story from what you see."

"What if it's no good?"

"Don't worry! You're just writing it for me." Will put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Just jot something down, and after that, we can get ice cream. Come on, do this for me? As a favor?"

Sam inspected the notebook in his hands, lost for the moment in thoughts of possibility. The crowd was roaring around him as the next band took the stage, but he could barely hear the music and he saw only the faces of the crazy people beneath him. Taking a seat on the crest of the hill, Sam dug a pencil out of his bag, flipped open the notebook, and let his fingers fly.
CHAPTER 39

_~_ Date Unknown _~_

"Samuel!"

The memories departed Sam's mind, scared away by the sound of his name. He was back in Scrapland, back in the Cathedral of History, the tinny music still playing but blotted out by a voice calling to him.

"Samuel!" came the voice. "Run! He's here! He found you!"

"Who is that?" said Sam, still slightly disoriented.

Farseer turned his head back to the clearing. "Our pursuer has found us."

"Our pursuer? Of course, Rebecca..." Sam placed a finger to his temple. "...Then who is it that has found me? It couldn't be..."

Rebecca's cries were lost amid the cacophony that followed. It was a thunderous roar, a chaotic mingling of voices and noises that rolled down the streets leading to the clearing. At times, a single distinct sound could be heard over the bedlam - always a sound of pain, a lost soul falling to the blade, the anguished scream of a man fleeing for his life, the war cry of a bloodied victor. And still that thunder grew louder, closing in on them, moving with ever greater momentum.

"Someone is trying to desecrate this place." Farseer sprinted into the clearing. "I will handle this. Be safe."

"Wait! Don't leave me here!" cried Sam as he chased his benefactor.

From outside of the structure, the sounds were even more grim, more gruesome, more haunting. There was the sharp sound of steel striking steel, the crack of gunfire, the damp crunch of breaking bones, punctuated at times by the dying gasps and gurgles of the fallen. This was not an ambush, not a robbery - this was war or at least a battle, a true melee happening mere yards from where Sam stood, a melee drawing ever closer. There was movement as well, the blur of someone running along the tops of building but only watching, never taking any action. Then, without warning, there was silence. The guns, the screams, they all vanished, hedged out by the howl of the wind - a silence that was far more terrifying, far more grotesque in light of what he had just heard.

Sam followed Farseer around the corner, dreading what he knew was there but drawn by morbid curiosity all the same. What he saw froze him dead in his tracks.

The street was lost beneath a living sea of red and black that rose up along the buildings and toward the umber sky. They were warriors, their numbers beyond counting - angry eyes peering out from every side avenue, dozens of pairs of them at least, each last one locked onto Sam. They carried their weapons proudly, blades and cudgels moist with the blood of the foes whose remains lay beneath their boots. The raiders - Sam never imagined that he could have sympathy for such jackals, but there could be nothing but pity for anyone who wandered into the path of this war machine, no reward but a handful of sand tossed onto a pile of mangled flesh left to rot. And there, at the vanguard of the grisly display, was a man Sam had hoped never to see again. He wore the same helmet, freshly polished for the expedition, but now also sported a dense cloth tunic, metal breastplate, thick leather arm guards (tinted orange from the melee), a revolver holster and a familiar-looking knife just emerging from his belt.

Sam took a step back. "Conqueror..."

"Names, Samuel. I thought that we were closer than that." Leroy tapped his hand on the grip of the knife. "You left this behind in Pinnacle. For a precious piece like this, I had to return it in person."

"Leave this place at once!" howled Farseer, marching slowly toward Leroy. "This is sacred ground, and I will not have you defile it with your tainted presence!"

"Who is this man?" said Leroy. "Yes, I've seen you before. You are a man of some repute, correct?"

"I am Farseer, a condemned soul sentenced by fate to protect history against those who would exploit and destroy it," said Farseer. "I was placed here to stop the ruiners. I was placed here to stop you."

"Ah, another with a passion for speech!" Leroy flashed a brief smile which quickly sank into a scowl. "But there is a time for poetry and a time for honesty."

Farseer drew in a deep breath, defiantly staring Leroy in the eye. "I am Farseer, once known as Wayfinder, who wandered the breadth of this land."

Leroy pressed two fingers to his lips. "The man who blazed the first trail through through the wastes? Ah, a conqueror in your own right! Under other circumstances, I may enjoy this, but my patience for zealots is limited, and I have business here which does not concern you. Therefore, I will give you one - just one - chance to leave of your own volition."

"Everything that happens in this place concerns me," said Farseer. "Especially if you plan to bring harm to this man. I shall not be cowed by your brutality. A righteous man has no fear from a corrupted-"

The first bullet caught Farseer off guard, striking him in the abdomen and producing the same look of shock that might accompany a sucker punch. The second bullet, which penetrated his lungs, silenced any potential last words. He stood still and quiet as the third bullet hit, then the fourth, the fifth the sixth. Life had departed him before his body came to rest on the ground. It had happened so quickly that Sam couldn't quite register it until he traced that invisible line from Farseer to the gun in Leroy's hand.

"Now, perhaps we can finish our discussion." Leroy casually opened the cylinder and extracted the casings as he spoke. "You've wronged me, Samuel. You've wronged me, and payment must be made."

"I did not lie to you, at least not intentionally," said Sam, each syllable trembling as his tongue formed it. "I remember everything now. It was all another story, one that I invented to give the others hope. I told it so many times that it became real for me, as real as any of my actual memories. I deceived myself as surely as I deceived any other."

"Were it such a simple matter," said Leroy, fishing a fresh cartridge from his pocket. "Unfortunately, your escape complicated matters. A man is his reputation, and your actions have harmed mine. You have made me look foolish, and now I must recover what you took from me."

"How did you find me?" said Sam. "Your own men could not match my face to the target of your wrath."

"Ah, there is that. You are quite elusive, and finding you here required me to tap some rarely used resources." Leroy slid the cartridge into one of the cylinders. "Your friend the healer was most helpful."

"Lifebringer spoke of me?"

"Do you feel betrayed? You shouldn't." Leroy snapped the cylinder shut. "It took ample inducement for him to divulge your destination. From there, it was a simple matter of tracking you from settlement to settlement."

"Inducement? Spare me your euphemisms. You threatened his people, didn't you?"

"I did what the situation required."

"Then you are a beast after all." Sam's voice trembled again, this time with outrage. "Whatever sins the world committed, it did nothing to warrant such a devil."

"Words. In the end, the only thing a self-righteous man possesses." Leroy held the revolver by the barrel and took a few steps toward Sam. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, Samuel, a lesson you should have learned long ago."

"I have nothing to learn from you."

"I don't make martyrs. I'm going to kill you, but first I need you to understand why." Leroy flicked his wrist and the revolver flew through the air, landing a few feet away from Sam. "I respect you, so you get one chance to save your life. One shot."

Sam stared at the revolver, afraid to even approach it. "I don't understand."

"One bullet, that's what you have. If you can kill me with that..." Leroy waved his arms across his army, each man bowing his head as Leroy's gaze crossed him. "...then my men will acknowledge you as the better, and they will let you go."

Sam shook his head frantically and turned his eyes away. "No. I'll not use this. I'll not make myself a party to your crimes."

"Still speaking of pacifism? Merely a cover for cowardice born of privilege and ease." Leroy drew the knife from his belt. "I know well of what men do when death is on the line. Principals are such fragile things."

"I've never..." Sam clasped a hand to his face as a wave of nausea set it. "...My brother told me not...he always handled such things."

"But your brother is dead, isn't he? He's a memory. He doesn't even exist. A man of integrity and courage who sacrificed so that his kin could keep a feeling of unearned superiority...the wrong brother survived I think." Leroy ran his thumb along the edge of the knife. "Unless I'm wrong. Go ahead, prove me the fool. Die with your honor intact."

The least bit of forward movement from Leroy was enough to send Sam lunging for the revolver, his body acting without thought or conviction. The weapon was in his hands - he could feel the scuffs in the metal, see the cartridge sitting ready in the chamber.

"That's right, boy," said Leroy, suppressing a laugh. "Now, pull back the hammer."

Sam pressed his thumb to the hammer - heavier than he thought, or perhaps his hands would not make this an easy task. The gun make a ragged click as the cylinder moved, advancing the bullet one more step toward its destination.

"What do I do?" muttered Sam. "Will...what am I supposed..."

"Now is the moment of truth." Leroy cut the straps holding up his breastplate, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter. "You think I'm a beast? Then put me down like one. Would you hesitate to shoot a rabid wolf with his teeth closing around your neck?" He patted his chest right above the heart. "Go ahead, teller of tales. Tell me the story of a devil's death."

Sam's finger trembled as it found its way inside the trigger guard. The weapon might have weighed a hundred pounds, might have had a sentience of its own that resisted as he held it. His vision was blurred so much that he could hardly imagine the shot landing, but there was no other choice. "...No!" He twisted his hand away, pointing the gun to the ground next to him. The air exploded - for a moment there was no sound except his own pulse. The weapon tumbled from his hand onto the dusty street. "No."

Leroy glared at Sam with disdain. "So you've made you choice."

"I have," said Sam. "I'll not give you the pretext. If you wish me dead then so be it, but know that it was not an act of honor by a warrior, but mere murder."

"I'm growing weary of your tales," said Leroy. "Little songbird, I think this is your final day."

"Maybe it is," said Sam. "Maybe I'll never touch the sky again, but I have one song, one tale left in me - and this one you'll not silence! You'll listen to every syllable, every word sounding in your head forever more until your own turn comes at last!"

Sam broke into a dead sprint, headed back down the path leading to the Cathedral of History. Leroy took off first, waving behind him for his men to join the pursuit. The entire force was on Sam's back, a flurry of scarlet and jet swarming down the street. Sam was exhausted already, spent from his journey and his flight from the raiders, but the pain was a fading illusion against the backdrop of what awaited him. The Cathedral rose before him, but there was no other path, no exit with the river and the rubble surrounding him - the only way to go was up, toward his final exhibition. Pressing his body to the surface of the Cathedral, he began his ascent, scrambling hand over hand up the wall of detritus. Behind him, he could just spot the warriors stripping off their armor to pursue him up the tower. Death was here, its hands just feet away, closing their reach quickly.

"With my last breath, I make an offering to Leroy, the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, king of demons," shouted Storyteller as he climbed up a length of pipe. "Once upon a time, there was a place called planet Earth. It was home to a magnificent group of creatures, the human race. The land was beautiful and vast, providing everything the humans needed. They built wonderful things, chronicled the nature of their world, crafted things of great beauty, and mastered the art of the miraculous. It was a paradise."

One of the warriors stretched as far as he could, his fingers brushing against Sam's foot. Sam grabbed a bundle of wires and pulled himself up, briefly losing his pursuers as they struggled to regain their grip. A bullet glanced off of the structure next to Sam, so close that he could feel the air part before the bullet. He almost released the structure from shock, but his own grip held true enough to let him reach the next terrace.

"But it wasn't enough," continued Sam. "The humans wanted more. And when they got it, they decided that it still wasn't enough, and they needed more, and more, and still more. In the name of their avarice, they began to destroy their paradise. They stole from their neighbors, and then made slaves of them. They made war on each other, stealing by the sword. They built machines that filled the world with poison. In the end, they became terrified, afraid that their pursuit of more would bring tragedy and death. But they were more afraid that they would have to give up their wealth."

Sam's footing grew precarious, the metal and plastic slick beneath his boots. He tightened his grip on the facade, holding his breath, keeping his eyes skyward, speaking just to blot out the fears invading his mind. He leaped across a gap to the next terrace, dodging even more grasping hands. More projectiles filled the air - spears, arrows, all clattering off the Cathedral around him. The loudest sound, though, game from the structure itself, the metal groaning as it buckled beneath the weight of the men. It didn't matter - there was only one path, and it led higher.

"When the night was at its darkest, a man appeared offering the greatest miracle of them all. He said that he had a machine, a very special machine that could fix all of the damage and bring their paradise back, all without sacrifice. So great was the avarice of the humans that they believed him without question, and gave him everything he needed to build his machine. But his promises were lies."

At last, Sam reached the summit of the Cathedral, clinging precariously to the side of the narrow steeple. The warriors were inches away now, well within reach. There was no more time, no more space, no more hope of survival.

"In the end, the humans destroyed both the paradise and the miracles they had wrought. Pursuing of more, they ended up with nothing. If only they had acknowledged the beauty that was around them, and the beauty within, perhaps the conclusion would have been different." Sam took one last breath and closed his eyes. "That's it. I'm ready...maybe there's yet a garden for me."

There was a mighty groan from the Cathedral, then a bone-vibrating creak. The entire structure pitched forward ever so slightly, hung suspended for a moment as the makeshift foundation faced its final moments. Some of the warriors, their instinct self-preservation overwhelming their loyal rage, jumped back to the ground and tried to flee, but there was no time. The facade was already falling, shedding bits in a great hail of plastic, kicking up clouds of dust and exploding into dust as they hit the street. The supports splintered, the metal bars bent, and at last the foundation surrendered. Most of the men had only enough time to scream as the Cathedral collapsed upon them.

Storyteller only had time to fall.

#####

From her perch atop a nearby building, Rebecca was positioned to watch the entire fracas - the arrival of the tyrant's army, the death of Farseer, the chase, the climb, and the final fall. All she could do was watch - there was time enough to warn Sam of the coming massacre, but not enough time to stop it. She scurried down the surface of the building, holding her breath as dust rose up around her. Her hand slipped from the final handhold, but it slowed her only for a moment before he regained her footing and began the search.

"Sam?" Rebecca choked on mouthfuls of dust as she shouted for Sam, blinking back tears from the particles as she searched. There was little movement on the ground - most of Leroy's men were dead, and the rest were beyond saving, not that she had any urge to save them. There was only one face she wanted to see, but with each pile of rubble she cleared with her walking stick, with each mortally wounded warrior she unearthed, her hope faded. Then she spotted movement, agonized movement but movement all the same. "Sam? Are you alive over there? Say something!" A pained groan was the only response.

The rays of the sun returned as the dust settled back to the ground, revealing a man who was clearly not Sam Scarborough. He had been an unknown figure before the melee, when she watched him lead an army on a mad rampage and execute an unarmed man without a trace of emotion. He could be none other than the fiend of the south, the one the scouts murmured about when none were listening. Here, though, he looked less a fiend than a wounded animal in the jaws of death. Most of his body was pinned beneath hundreds of pounds of metal and plastic, leaving only his left arm \- which was clearly broken - free to move. The weight on his chest made every breath a struggle, and he was clearly in immense pain. Despite all of this, he was not merely alive but conscious, watching Rebecca as she neared him.

"It's you." Rebecca dropped her stick. "The Conqueror of the Southern Wastes."

Conqueror smiled through his agony. "I am, for what it's worth at this moment. You did not catch me on my best day, it seems."

"I don't know. This seems like a good position for you." Rebecca peered down, spotting a gleam of metal laying on the ground just out of Leroy's reach. She knelt down and picked it up - a knife, a fine weapon and one she could sworn she'd seen before. "Where did you find this?"

"It was a gift of sorts," wheezed Leroy. "A present from an ingrate and a liar. I came to pay him his just dues."

"You came all this way just to kill him," said Rebecca. "A man who'd caused you no harm."

"He caused damage enough." Leroy groaned as the weight shifted atop him. "It seems that honor comes at a steep price sometimes."

"The steepest." Rebecca felt her hand curl around the grip of the knife. "Do you have any idea what you have done here? What you have taken from the world?"

"I claimed what was my due. Nothing more or less." Leroy twisted his head towards Pathfinder. "Now, allow me a question. Who are you that seems to know so much?"

You want to know who I am?" Rebecca advanced on Leroy, walking in rhythm with her words. "I am Rebecca Jameson. Granddaughter of Joshua, who tried to conquer the world in his own right. Daughter of Benjamin, who died to save my life. And the lover of Samuel, who died in the name of your ambition."

Leroy tried to laugh but only managed a series of painful coughs. "Then you knew the Storyteller as well? Can I assume that you were present for what happened?"

"I was."

"Impotent to do anything but watch the inevitable. You must be angry."

"I am."

"And so your thoughts turn to revenge." Leroy squirmed under the wreckage. "Against this broken shell of a man."

"It's not revenge," said Rebecca. "You've needed killing for a long, long time. Sam's final gift to me was the opportunity to end a great evil."

"You presume to kill me in his name?" said Leroy. "You didn't know him as well as you thought. Samuel would never approve of that. He saw all living souls as his kin. Even the fiends."

"I know," said Rebecca. "But I'm not Samuel. And I'm not so sanguine."

The words had but a moment to move the air before Rebecca lunged for Leroy, the knife tight in her hand. She grasped his chin in one hand, forcing his head backwards with a hideous crack. Leroy struggled against the attack, but in his wounded state he could manage nothing more than a feeble spasm. Rebecca lifted the knife and drove it between Leroy's ribs with one powerful thrust, the fine point biting effortlessly through his flesh. He let out a grunt of pain through gritted teeth, his torso bucking from the sudden shock, his eyes wide. A second later, Rebecca pulled the blade free, sending a spray of blood into the air. Blood erupted from the wound, slowing to a trickle as Leroy's eyes went dead, one last gasp trickling from his lips.

Rebecca's limbs were lead, her heart hammering in her chest. For a time, she simply sat frozen, and when she regained her strength she could only rise slowly. There were new sounds in the air, the reverberations of combat as the redeemers, raiders, and remnants of the Conqueror's army fought to regain control of the area - but these were distant, hazy, unreal. The square outside of what had once been known as the Cathedral of History was eerily still, as though it had come unmoored from the rest of the world. Rebecca looked down at her hands. hands. The ornate knife, wet with blood, slipped out of her hand and clattered on the dusty ground, a few crimson drops falling from her fingertips along with it.

She dropped to her knees again and wept.

#####

"Hey pal, you still with me?"

The first thing Sam could feel was pain - a universe of pain, dancing along every nerve. Slowly he willed his eyes to open, wincing even at that small act. This was no vision of heaven or hell he'd ever imagined, but nor was it Scrapland as far as he could tell. He assessed the situation as best he could with his pain-numbed senses. The ground was wood, and it was rocking - a boat of some sort. He couldn't be certain of that, though - all that was sure were the injuries which made themselves known anew with every breath.

"So you are alive?" There was a man here - thin, wiry, his face obscured by the dusty sun.

"Where..." A pulse of sickness pushed through Sam's lungs as he uttered his first word, but he pushed through it. "Where am I?"

"Lake Michigan, or at least that's what I think it is," said the man. "I'm not the man to ask, I'm new here myself."

"Boats on the lake..."

"Yeah, I was surprised, too. Pretty developed up here, given that the whole world caught on fire." The man took a seat next to Sam. "You're a lucky man, you know. We found you floating on the surface, but another minute and you'd be at the bottom of the lake."

"It hurts when I move."

"Hardly a surprise. We all saw that fall you took off of...whatever the hell that thing was. You must have broken half the bones in your body at least. Not much I can do for the pain, I'm sorry to say."

Sam bent his face into a smile. "I can withstand. Pain means that I am yet alive. I will gladly take it over the alternative."

"Good way to look at it." The man glanced off at the horizon. "Hey, I didn't ask you your name."

"Storyteller."

"That's right, I forgot that some of you guys dropped your names," said the man. "But what's your real name?"

"...Samuel."

"Nice to meet you. I let the guys around here call me 'Porter' just to be nice, but my real name is Roderick."

Sam tried to raise his head, sending a fresh shock through his body. "Roderick?"

"Lucky me, huh? I'm used to having an odd name at least. So what brought you to that ruin?"

"...My past."

"Me too. I came here from a really long ways away to find someone. Rumor I heard along the way was that she was running some secret settlement around here, but I never found it." Roderick let out a rickety sigh. "You'd think I would have stopped listening to stories like that by now. Funny thing to say to you, I guess."

"Maybe not." Sam looked around, moving his head as best as he could. "Damn, my bag isn't here. I must have dropped it in the melee."

"Don't worry about food," said Roderick. "We've got plenty, fresh water too. You can find a way to pay us back later."

"It's not that," said Sam. "My notebook was in there. There were years of my life there, my whole history, gone in a moment."

"Nothing I can do about that either," said Roderick. "The only thing to do is start again. Maybe you'll even write a better story next time."

"A better story..." Sam chuckled a bit. "...Right, I can always bring him back."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Perhaps at our next port, I can obtain a new notebook and new instruments, and write the story of this world."

"That's a good attitude," said Roderick. "Look, we've got a medic here. He's not great, but at least he can set those bones so they heal right."

"One more thing," said Sam, turning painfully on one side. "Where are we headed, exactly?"

"Far northern wastes."

Sam rolled back onto his back and breathed deeply. A single ray of sunlight penetrated the haze and fell upon his face.

"Northern wastes," said Sam. "Never been there."

#####

Rebecca walked without destination - for minutes, hours, days, she couldn't hazard a guess. She felt no hunger or weariness, not fear, not even sorrow but rather a haunted sensation. The world was lost around her, a distraction from someone that she couldn't quite glimpse. It was only luck that she did not cross paths with some hostile - she had neither the fortitude nor the willpower to as much as defend herself, not in that state.

It was the bag that finally restored her to some level of awareness. The thing was familiar, something she'd seen many times before, even if she couldn't quite place it. Samuel \- that was it, it was his bag, one she'd seen in his possession. She nearly tripped on thin air as she sprinted for it, falling on top it with her arms around it as though it were at risk of dying. When she was sure that it was real, she held it at arms length, studying it, scrutinizing it like one might with some ancient artifact. Then she opened the flap and reached inside with eager, frightened hands. Her fingers landed on a sturdy leather object - the notebook, there could be nothing else. There was a faint musty odor as Rebecca opened the thing, the pages faded but legible, covered margin to margin in Samuel's scrawl.

Laying it on the ground, she gingerly opened it to the first page and began to read.

CHAPTER 40

_~_ T-minus _8:02~_

The Patmos bomb shelter, that Cold War relic buried beneath the post office, was open for the first time in ages. It was the town's final attempt to soothe the town's terror in the face of a existential threat. Officially, no one acknowledged any real risk, but the powers that be knew that calmness was more likely to prevail if people knew their children were safe. By the time Will and Sam Scarborough reached the post office, the shelter was already nearly at capacity, the walls ringing with the fearful cries of children calling out for their parents.

As Will led Sam into the shelter, a reedy man in business casual stopped him. "Excuse me, can I have your name?"

"William Scarborough." He craned his neck, trying to look inside the shelter. "Look, I don't have time for this. I need somewhere to stash my little brother."

"Brother?" The man wrinkled his nose. "I'm sorry. We are reserving space for parents of young children. We're not going to have room for your brother."

"Are you kidding me?" Will stepped closer to the man, just inches between the two of them. "You're giving me the boot because he's not my son? I raised this boy, and you're damn well gonna take him in!"

Sensing trouble, a woman ran over to them, whispering to the man. "Maybe we can make an exception. An older child can keep the others calm."

The man took a step back. "Is your brother good with children?"

"Uh..." Will looked at Sam. "...Are you kidding? He's great with kids. Why, just yesterday...hey Sam, you're cool with kids, right?"

"I guess I can deal with them," said Sam.

"He's being modest," said Will. "This is the best storyteller in the world under the age of fifteen, right here. They'll love in."

"Very well," said the man. "We'll let him in."

"All right." Will gave Sam a gentle nudge. "Come on, bro, perk up. You're going to be fine."

The weeping of the children was even louder at the entrance to the shelter, each pitiful moan and whimper amplified in the small space. The town had brought in fresh supplies for an extended stay, a token effort to placate parental anxieties. What they didn't have was an adult on hand to care for them. Many pairs of wet eyes turned to Will and Sam as they stepped into the crowded space.

"This is where I'm staying?" said Sam.

"Look, I know it's not perfect, but it'll be safe. Whatever goes down, you'll be safe in here - just like I promised. Oh, I got some things for you." Will produced a bulging cloth satchel, draping the strap over Sam's shoulders. "Now, the sweets you're gonna want to share with the kids, and some of it's kinda boring and practical. But I also got something just for you."

Opening the satchel, Sam found a leather-bound notebook and a gold-plated pen. "I can't take these. Weren't they expensive?"

"Hey, don't worry about it. We were gonna get you something more durable, right? This notebook will survive anything, even the end of days." Will rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Look, I know you're scared. Just do what you've always done when you were scared. I want you to take that notebook and start a brand new story. By the time you've filled the last page, I'll be back, I promise." Will forced a smile. "Can you be strong for me?"

Sam swallowed back the lump in his throat. "I'll be strong."

"That's good." Will backed out of the shelter. "Just keep writing. I'll be back before you know it."

Sam leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor. He wanted to cry, to wail like the children around him, but he wouldn't allow it. He had to be strong now, not just for himself or for Will, but for everyone. He opened the notebook, revealing a pristine page, an expanse of white limited only by his imagination. There would always be plenty to write, and there was no doubt as to what story had to grace those pages. Gripping the pen tightly, he took a deep breath and let the words spill out onto the page.

_"It was the summit of noon, Patmos, Illinois_ , _the rays of the advancing sun glitter_ ing _magnificently in the lidless eyes of the cameras that lined Icaria Street..."_

THE END

## About the Author

Born in rural western Kansas, ANDREW JOHNSTON discovered his Sinophilia while attending the University of Kansas. Subsequently, he has spent most of his adult life shuttling back and forth across the Pacific Ocean. He is currently based out of Hefei, Anhui province. He has published short fiction in Nature: Futures, the Arcanist and Mythic and will be featured in the upcoming Bad Dream Entertainment Horror/Humor Anthology.

## www.findthefabulist.com
