 
# Clash of Cultures

Felix Pleșoianu

Copyright 2016 Felix Pleșoianu

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Peripheral  
Parole Planet  
Collectivity  
Distant Encounters  
Second Contact

About the author  
Connect with me  
My other books

## Peripheral

Hi, mom.

I've got to type this in 'cause my roommate is sleeping. He says we don't have the bandwidth for video here anyway. They're really low-tech, you know? They make their own power and capture rainwater. It's never enough to go around, but that suits me just fine. It tastes awful. They even warned me not to drink straight from the tap. Wish I could send someone to our favorite store for a bottle of soda, but they'd be arrested. And I can't go because I'm supposed to be hiding.

As if! A white face around here stands out like Slender Man at a gay parade. I was afraid to go out by myself at first. Did you know the police never come to this neighborhood? How can anyone feel safe like that? Then again, the first cop who saw me would probably ship me right back to dad, and we'd be back to square one.

When did the world become so complicated?

Did I tell you about my roommate? His name is Marius, and he's the landlord's son or nephew or something. Everybody's somebody's relative around here. And there's dozens of people just in our building. Marius says we're lucky it's just the two of us in the room. I don't see why. The larger buildings have been abandoned ever since the city stopped pumping water this far uptown. There's plenty of empty apartments to go around. But even the homeless would rather sleep in tents along the main street, where the farmers pass on their way to market. Marius took me there in the morning when he went to trade with them. I had no idea it takes so many people to feed a city. Guess industrial farming really died with cheap oil, like Professor Vultur said. They sacked him for saying that, too.

You know what else I saw this morning? Cyborgs. At least they had to be, with those eyes that sometimes glow and circuits tattooed all over. Creepy-cool. Didn't think I'd ever meet one. I mean, we buy contraband from them, like 3D printers, but they're supposed to live far from the big cities because what they do to themselves is illegal. Then again, who's going to notice if a few of them lurk around the periphery? They can probably hack drones just by looking at them. It's the rest of us who have to work harder at tricking cameras. Marius taught me how to cover my face and disguise my gait. It's kind of fun, too. But please don't ask me to attach a selfie.

I'd better finish this up. Sun's coming down, which means we can go out again, and there's always work to be done. Wasn't supposed to tell you this, because you're paying them a lot of money to keep me here, but I can't sit around all day doing nothing, especially with no TV and no fiber. Besides, it's good to feel useful, not just a trophy.

Love,  
Florian

* * *

Mom,

I'm so angry right now. Somebody stole my running shoes. It was too hot outside to wear them over the day, so I left them in the hallway with everyone else's. In the evening they were gone. It's pretty obvious who took them, too -- there's this Gypsy girl who comes over all the time. I wish they'd just lock the doors. Sort of watching each other's back sounds nice if you're one of them. Oh well, sandals it is tonight.

Marius is calling me outside. Gotta finish this later.

Back. What a night. Biking through parts of the city in the dark is like riding through a ghost town. There's no public lighting anymore, and you can't do much to avoid potholes when you're pulling a big-ass trailer behind you. We went down Linden Ave., then north across the river. Funny how century-old apartment buildings still stand, even deserted, while much newer shops and such are a pile of twisted metal already. It all looks quaint and mysterious from a limo by day, but when the wind is blowing through grass as tall as you are while dogs bark in the distance, and you only see shadows...

Anyway. I got nervous when we turned right at the overpass. The village guards know me from the time when dad was taking me to visit grandma. But we didn't go that far.

You know, it's funny. All those times I sat on grandma's porch, looking towards North Village Business Park, telling myself I'll work there as a lawyer one day, and never went close enough to notice those gleaming towers are only half completed. Another thing you don't see from the back of a car. We pulled into a driveway that led around the back to where the dumpsters were. Marius handed me a baseball cap with LEDs all over.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Infrared lights. Blinds the cameras."

I kid you not, there were cameras pointed at the platform. Had to force myself not to look at them. We could end up in prison for dumpster diving. Well, he could. I'm rich. You get the idea.

"What about the security guards?"

He snerked. "Who do you think tipped us about those?"

There was a bunch of big flat packs leaning against the bins. Had to look from very close to realize they were solar panels. That's when my coin dropped. Professor Vultur taught us that everyone pays lip service to recycling, but in practice they throw out goods with even minor defects. That keeps the suppliers in business, the workers busy and the economy rolling. Do you suppose he was being sarcastic?

Long story short, we loaded everything we could on our bike trailers. Had to leave behind the best stuff, too. It's not like we could have come with a truck, even if there was one available. Too conspicuous. I was jumpy enough already; a close thunderclap nearly gave me a heart attack. Did I mention the thunder? Between that and the cold wind, we didn't exactly need to see the weather forecast. Thought we were hearing steps all the time, too, but nobody showed up. Must have been a loose banner or something.

I was sweating bullets by the time we left. Just the recipe for a cold. Marius kept telling me to move faster, and damn it, I was trying! We pedaled like maniacs until the office tower was out of sight. Now it was all a race against the storm.

Or rather, it would have been, if the bridge across the river hadn't been blocked by ambulances and fire trucks. You know that stretch is supposed to be a favorite of drag racers. And we had to go really close to the whole light show so we could turn left into an alternate route.

Luckily, that's when the rain started. There's no way anyone saw us through _that_.

I thought it had been spooky on the way in, when the moon was high and I knew the places. Ha! We were rattling down a narrow street, through a torrent of water, ruined factory buildings on either side poised to come crashing down on our heads whenever lightning flashed. Can't have been longer than two klicks, but at the time it seemed more like twenty. We did come to the other end, just as the downpour eased up, and Marius pulled over next to a barrier of shrubbery, broken fence and barbed wire.

"What's wrong?" I asked. It sounded awfully loud. He just groaned and tried to dismount.

He couldn't.

With some help he managed in the end, gritting his teeth and favoring one leg. The capacitors on the bike headlights were already winding down, but you couldn't miss the gash on his calf.

"Let's get you inside, man."

"It's dangerous," he protested.

"I know."

"No you don't. There are _things_ in these ruins."

"Like what? Come on, you have to sit down."

It wasn't hard at all to find a hole in the fence, and the nearest building no longer had most walls, let alone doors. The trick was to find a corner where the ceiling didn't leak too badly. There was a lamp post right outside; by how pale it was, nobody had cleaned the solar panel in years. I took out my own torch.

"Now let's see that leg, man."

Marius snorted at me and rolled up his pants. They were already torn lengthwise, so that was easy. Less fun was that his sock was swimming in blood.

"You're not getting home like that. Better call your parents."

"With what? I don't have a mobile."

"... You don't?"

"What are you, five? You need ID to get one. 'Sides, how'd you like to be tracked 24/7, wherever you go?"

He got me there. That's why I left mine with you in the first place.

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know..." He sounded really scared and in pain. I sat next to him, 'cause my legs were about to give. And that's when I felt something in my pocket.

It was a pack of wet wipes, and my CutsBeGone pen. Must've picked them up without thinking when I left home.

Marius didn't need much convincing to let me use both items on him.

"It's warm..." he sighed with relief as I moved the pen back and forth. It buzzed loudly, spreading the antiseptic glue over the wound. I prayed that the battery would hold. The device wasn't rated for a cut this size.

"There," I said, "Take a look." He did, and made a face. "It's not pretty, but you almost won't need a doctor after this."

"What's the bad news?" he joked.

"The wound will reopen as soon as you try to walk, let alone pedal."

"How do you figure?"

"Experience."

He nodded, and proceeded to tear a strip off his pants that was already loose. He used it to bind his leg tight.

"Problem solved." He grinned, then winced.

We lied down together for a moment and listened to the water dripping through countless unseen cracks in the reinforced concrete.

"Wait until your mother hears you're a thief now," chuckled Marius. I hadn't really thought about it until that moment. Scary.

"Wait until your mother sees that wound," I countered.

"Shush. Hear anything?"

I started saying no, but then I heard it too: a kind of skittering sound outside the light cone of our torch. He snatched it out of my hand. "Gimme that." Clearly he was feeling better already. The beam swept over the debris-covered floor. There! Something moved. Many somethings. And they were coming closer, climbing over each other to get in front. One nearly bumped into my foot and stopped.

It was a box the size of a Big Mac packaging, with a solar panel on top and six insect legs. I swear, all it lacked was a pair of wriggling feelers. As me and the robot stared at each other, Marius reached over to grab it.

The machine dashed between his fingers, grabbed one of the bloodied wet wipes we'd discarded and ran away, down a deep dark pit not one meter from us. Now I could see that the piles of garbage in the room were too neat: a tower of broken glass against a column, nuts and bolts in a corner...

I've no idea how we got to our feet and started towards the nearest gap in the wall, swarmed by the metal bugs all the way. Many were missing a leg or just acting oddly, and I bet they hadn't seen a human being in way too long.

"Turn off the light," I breathed, and for once Marius did what I told him. It worked, too. The few robots that followed us outside seemed more interested in the dying lamp post. We walked straight past, shuffling noisily through the wet grass. And that awoke something else. Mechanical tentacles unfolded around the base of the pole, writhing in our direction. I started running before I remembered that Marius couldn't. We settled for sort of hobbling along the fence hand in hand, trying to find the hole we'd entered through.

Through sheer dumb luck we did. All the shadows were coming to life around us. We rode away like mad.

"I told you so," puffed Marius after a while.

"Could those things really hurt us?"

"Do you want to find out?" he retorted. I really didn't.

The rain stopped entirely at some point along the way, but the damage was done. The river was roaring furiously when we finally crossed it back. From there it was a short trip home. I was looking forward to a dry bed, but having to explain why Marius was injured? Not so much. You see, I'm pretty sure it was my fault, back there at the business center.

Turned out, his folks were more worried about me being soaking wet than him needing medical attention. Was it because I'm white? Or because you're paying them well? Either way, it didn't seem fair.

Talk to them about it, will you, mom?

Florian

* * *

Dear mother,

If I'd known you'd be so upset, I wouldn't have sent you the last e-mail. I'm _fine_! A few cups of hot tea were all I needed. Marius on the other hand... His leg started swelling, not to mention the fever, and we all feared tetanus. Luckily there's a doctor of sorts in the vicinity. Now, they have rules here. One doesn't simply walk into another neighborhood. But for going to see the doctor there's an exception, because he attracts gifts and prestige for his local community.

Anyway, we got Marius to take the shots. He's afraid of needles, the big hero, so I got to hold his hand again. (Mooom... Stop worrying!) But that took care of his leg. Well, apart from the scar he's going to end up with. Then again, girls dig that sort of thing.

Speaking of girls, I was right about my running shoes. The next day I saw that girl around again, and she was wearing them! But when I asked for my things back, she claimed they'd belonged to her all along. Can you believe it? Because everyone here did. She even showed us her initials carved into the soles as "evidence". As if she couldn't have done that after taking them.

Marius says I should have made secret marks on my shoes first. That's barbaric. I don't like the way property works around here...

Damn Gypsies. Why can't they do anything like everyone else?

I know, I know... Marius is Gypsy, too. But you wouldn't guess just by being around him. Or his parents for that matter. Did you really use to work with them? I wonder how they ended up on the periphery.

They're calling me downstairs. I wonder what they want this time. Don't feel like leaving my stuff unattended after what happened.

Aaand I'm back. We went down by the lake to pick up some fruit and relax. Water's still high, way over the old concrete rim. Ironically, I would have ruined my shoes if I still had them. Why did the city stop regulating the river? They could operate the dams remotely if paying someone to make the rounds is too expensive. Guess nobody who matters lives close to the water anymore. Marius says there used to be a public park here, which they converted to fruit trees to fight the food crisis. Or so his grandparents told him. But now it's more like a nature reserve from the History Channel; there are gulls, frogs, ducks, turtles... I even saw someone catch a huge fish, as big as my forearm.

On the minus side, the insects are scary big too, and they walk on water.

Anyway, I'd better hit send and hit the hay. Night, mom.

* * *

We need your help, mom.

You're going to be upset again, but Marius' parents made me write you anyway. This is big, and I don't mean like biking through a rainstorm. Remember those solar panels we picked up from the trash? Most of them were the ordinary sort, good quality but nothing special. Broken, of course, but we have a workshop here that can fix all kinds of things, even cars. And power sources are always in demand.

But there were a few oddities in the pile -- the size of my palm, and a color I can't describe. Me and Marius were there when the mechanic hooked them up. You should have seen his face. He started muttering about cars that can go on forever without a recharge, and relaunching industrial civilization. In the end he calmed down enough to explain these particular solar panels have 99.5% efficiency, an order of magnitude more than the regular kind. Must be some sort of secret prototypes, 'cause that's basically sci-fi. I wonder how they ended up in a dumpster.

You won't believe what happened next.

See, Marius immediately said we can't just sell them. For one thing, these prototypes are too small to be a game changer. So instead he and the mechanic started asking around discreetly on the Darknets. They also shipped a handful of them to folks from other neighborhoods who might know more. Too bad most of the really smart ones have already moved to the cyborg cities. Maybe that's where we should send the prototypes.

While we waited for answers, the little thief invited me over for a visit. Imagine that! I had no intention of going at first, but curiosity killed the cat. She's older than I am, nearly an adult, and has two younger brothers to raise. Didn't have the guts to ask where their parents are. Must be hard for her. She works at the market on weekends, and I think she barely makes a living, 'cause she doesn't have any nice things. Well, except for my shoes. Wanted to talk to her about them, but didn't know what to say. "You could have asked nicely", yeah, right!

Anyway, not long after, someone started poking us on the Darknets, asking all kind of questions about the solar panels. Very suspicious. And we couldn't easily find out who it was, like you can on the Internet. So we set up a meeting in Gristmill Square and watched from a distance to see who showed up.

Sure enough, they were private security. Not in uniform, mind you, but these guys all look the same. Dumb, but street wise. No way we could have gotten close without being seen. But after a while they got bored and left, and we followed them to their car. It was unmarked, but we wrote down the license plate. That was something we could look up online.

It belongs to dad's company.

I was puzzled at first. What could they want with solar panel tech? Dad used to tell me all the time how he made a fortune selling bioethanol to the military -- they can't exactly fly the big drones on electricity. And with arable land being so scarce, that stuff costs a fortune.

Of course, if you _could_ power a drone with solar panels, the business would go down the drain...

If dad was angry with you before, imagine his face if he finds out who's throwing wrenches into his shady plans.

So anyway, we need some help here. You used to have contacts within the company. Think you could maybe ping them discreetly and see if they can find out what's going on? We need to figure out what to do about the whole story -- it's too late to pretend it didn't happen. I promise to stay safe. Marius and his parents will handle the dangerous stuff.

Thanks,  
Florian

P.S. _Now_ we're in trouble. One of the prototypes has made it to the cyborgs. That's the good news. Turns out, those super solar cells are made of a metamaterial that's mildly radioactive. Not enough to be bad for you, but it has a distinct signature. And we've already spread them around.

* * *

Mom,

Yes, we heard about the arrests. Word travels fast on the Darknets. But we didn't know the details until you wrote us. Thanks, by the way. Sorry to hear that the guy who snuck out the devices was caught. He's a hero.

What I can't understand is why he did it.

At first I thought dad wanted to bury these new solar cells in red tape. You know the method: research the technology before everybody else does. Take out a patent on it. Lock it up in a safe and lose the key. Ta-da! No more innovation threatening your core business. But we ran a search, and it turns out there's already a web of patents covering this stuff. Nobody could market them if they wanted to. The license fees would cost them more than they could sell the goods for.

Okay, so maybe the leaker wanted the prototypes to end up in a cyborg city. After all, the cyborgs didn't get a century ahead of everyone else by respecting intellectual property. But he couldn't be sure whoever took the trash would follow the script. It would have been a lot quicker and safer to just leak the documentation via darknet. It doesn't make sense...

Sorry. I'm thinking out loud here. Well, typing out loud. You know what I mean.

Ugh. What is it this time?

I just had to ask. It was the police. In full combat gear and escorting a bunch of corporate investigators with radiation detectors. Who needs a warrant? Luckily it's market day, and the street is busy. Word got to us way before the suits did. But we needed a plan, like, yesterday.

You'll never guess what we did.

Actually it was the guys at the workshop who saved our asses. They had us bring them all the remaining devices, hid them superficially and closed up. The cops broke the locks and made a mess, but couldn't find anyone to talk to. It was the prototypes they wanted, anyway. They left without even trying to come deeper into the neighborhood. Guess they didn't want to push their luck after the reception they got in the street.

How ironic. A week ago I was afraid of a neighborhood without cops. Today I was relieved to see them go.

Whoops, somehow I never finished this draft. Something else happened tonight. The hackers who were arrested have been released. Turns out the people who interrogated them weren't from dad's company, but various rivals. Funny how everyone is suddenly interested in the prototypes. How did the secret get out so fast?

More importantly, who's got the damn things now?

I know, I know, it's not my problem anymore. Besides, corporate espionage isn't on the list of recommended vacation activities. Speaking of which, school starts in a few weeks. Have you made any progress on the legal front? Because the moment I go back, dad will know where I am.

Take care,  
Florian

* * *

Mother, what did you do?

The dust was still settling over the whole story when Marius' parents went out to meet with you one morning and only returned after dark, in bad shape. They had us pack our bags without any explanation; I thought you'd asked them to move me elsewhere. It made sense, with everything that happened lately. But they packed a bunch of their own stuff too. We loaded everything into one of those trailers pulled by a two-wheel tractor. You should have seen me, hanging for dear life at every pothole. My bikes have better suspensions than that. Worse, I don't think the driver was entirely sober.

They told us the whole story while we drove up River Road towards the city limit. I didn't like it one bit. But by the time we were at the corner with Bottom Road, I knew what had to be done.

Marius was nervous as we dropped off his parents.

"You should go with them, man," I told him. "I'll be perfectly safe. You, not so much."

"Someone has to be there to embarrass you," he retorted.

We entered North Village from the other end this time. The driver waited for us in the driveway of a corner store whose owner he knew. There was even some fresh produce in the trailer, in case the police wanted to know what he was doing there. Sure enough, we walked past a patrol car on the way from the store. Marius almost lost it, but nobody looks twice at a boy with brown skin being dragged along by a wasted girl. I warned you not to ask for a selfie; even the guard at the gate didn't recognize me. Luckily the code was unchanged.

Grandma's house was surrounded by armed security guards.

Well, okay, they were patrolling all the alleyways equally, but there were more of them than I remembered, and packing more heat. Funny how we keep adding more defenses yet we never feel any safer. No way we could pass without talking to one of them.

"Try that one," pointed Marius, "He's green."

"How do you know?"

"Experience."

For what it's worth, he was right. I asked for directions to the house behind grandma's, and the guard patiently pointed us at the perfectly visible building, what, with the party going on inside. My faked high must have been pretty convincing. But if that's what stage fright feels like, I don't want to become an actor.

The back door had grown a camera in the mean time.

"Let me," said Marius, and proceeded to throw sticks at it, timing them to coincide with gusts of wind. About the third or fourth smacked the lens out of our way, and it was my turn. I'm hardly a hacker, but the best NFC locks aren't worth much if you have a rooted e-reader and the right software. Just like that, we were in.

All the tension left my body, and I hugged the nearest door frame to remain standing. It smelled of vinyl and strange cosmetics; old wood lacquer, too. The grandfather clock was tick-tocking away in the living. Someone else must have been in the house within the last week. You know how much grandma loved her antiques. But ghosts don't wind clocks. I stared at the windows for a while to figure out what was missing: the houseplants. It broke my heart. Those plants were the reason she never had any pets, and you know how much she loved animals.

"What are we looking for?" whispered Marius.

"I don't really know."

It was a lie, of course. They were all there as expected, under the basement stairs, neatly stacked on a shelf: the confiscated prototypes. No, don't reach for the phone app. By the time you're reading this, it's too late. I know you were awarded grandma's house at the divorce proceedings. Dad hasn't been there in ages.

We found an old suitcase and started packing the damn devices. Not sure why. It just seemed wrong to leave them, after all the trouble. We were almost done, too, when we heard steps creaking on the rubble outside, and voices. Someone at a control panel must have noticed the camera pointing at the sky. The guards rattled the back door, and shone flashlights through the basement windows. Never thought I could fit so well under a shelf.

It felt like hours until they left.

By the time we could climb back upstairs, I was jumping at every little noise from outside.

"You look awful," Marius said grinning.

"Well, you look exactly as usual," I countered. He punched me in the arm.

"So, how do we get out with the goods?" I asked after a while.

"First we have to wait for the new guard shift," he pointed out.

So we turned on the TV. Internet was working, so we could play a few games and watch funny videos. There were also breaking news (in rerun) about a mysterious research project at a well-known company having attracted government attention. It explained some of the rumors that had been circulating on the streets after the raid. At one point, when Marius was in the bathroom, I checked the local services on a whim. The corner store where our ride waited was actually listed.

"This is our ticket," I told Marius. He agreed.

The rest of the night passed slowly. We cleaned ourselves up a little and nibbled at some chips we found in the kitchen. I showed Marius the rest of the house. He pretended to be unimpressed. When dawn came, we called the corner store and asked for our driver. The man grumbled, but there was no arguing with logic. Not unless he wanted to go back without us. The guards let him in with the trailer, ostensibly to deliver groceries, and we opened the garage door. When it closed again, it was on a timer, and it was us under the tarpaulin.

So yeah... We're headed out of the city now. Going to stay with other relatives of Marius. I don't know the details yet, and frankly I'm too sleepy to care. Speaking of which, I'd better finish this in case we find an access point we can borrow along the way.

As for the solar cells? We threw them back next to the dumpsters behind the business center, where we picked them up in the first place. They were too hot to keep, in more than one way. And frankly, mom, your involvement in the whole story is more easily proved by the call logs from your TV.

I'm sorry,  
Florian

* * *

Hi dad,

Sorry for taking so long to get in touch. Mom had me convinced that you wanted to separate me from her. You know the story by now. She had me stay with a family who used to work for her as housekeepers after the last schools on the periphery closed down and put an end to their teaching jobs. But that was before I was born. Ironically, I'm still staying with them, in a farming community far enough out of the city that the _cyborgs_ come to buy from us. It's a little like that one time when we went camping, except crowded and smelly. At least the water tastes good.

But you know what hurts the most? Knowing that me, Marius, his parents... all of us were peripheral to mom wanting to get back at you. Even the deal with the new solar cells was more so that you get in trouble for letting a secret government project leak out to the public. She used them to convince your rivals to help her, but you caught her spy before he could finish the job. Let me guess: the prototypes were useless without knowledge of how to mass-produce them cheaply.

I just hope the investigation finds you innocent. Maybe it's not a bad idea for you to stay out of public life for a while.

Anyway, I'd better get back to work. Been learning how to build and fix bikes. It's almost as fun as riding them. I even made my first sale. Got a nice folding knife out of the deal. Remember how much I wanted one? Could never figure out why they're banned. Too bad I'll have to give it up for a new pair of shoes. Autumn's coming.

Speaking of which, they're not exactly big on formal education around here, and I don't plan to spend the rest of my life in the country. Urban boy is urban. I keep wanting to run back home. But since that's not an option...

Do you think they have good high schools in the cyborg cities?

See you there,  
Your son

THE END

Bucharest, 12 September 2014

## Parole Planet

The teenager stood in the middle of the road, shaking with both fear and cold, his clothes barely adequate for a night in the mountains even in late summer. Straight ahead, shiny eyes stared at him from the pre-dawn gloom; a long, low building blocked his way to the right, and the forest to the left was darker than his darkest dreams. But it was what lay behind him that scared him the most: the castle wall with its open gate, a patch of light in which floated robed and hooded silhouettes. He was trapped, and it was his own damned fault too.

* * *

He had jumped at the chance, of course. What teenager would pass up the opportunity to visit another planet? Especially now that the magic of hyperdrive had cut down the trip to no more than a few weeks. And his father had money; it wasn't like they were going to travel packed like sardines in economy class.

There were plenty of reasons for people to travel between Earth and its extra-solar colonies: tourism, science, cultural exchanges, visiting relatives or simply emigration. The boy's father had yet another. Common wisdom maintained that there was no way to make interstellar commerce profitable -- basically anything you could manufacture, you could manufacture in any star system. And if any man could prove everyone wrong, that was the most illustrious business administrator in the world. So, after the extensive research that was his modus operandi, he had loaded his son and wife on a starliner bound for Mir. It was going to be a long stay.

Now, Mir wasn't just any colony; one of the original three founded before faster than light travel had become possible, it was also one founded on the ideal of freely embraced cooperation, and it showed. Even NuShan, the oldest and most straight-laced polity on the planet, was a libertarian paradise compared to Western Europe, something the teenager's new friends insisted on demonstrating.

Oh, it had been exhilarating to climb on top of the city's geodesic dome -- useless now that the terraforming process was in its final stage -- and the police hadn't even seem very angry when they brought everyone back down. A mad speeder race around the base of the same dome had resulted in a mere warning when it turned out nobody had actually been hurt in the multiple collisions. But he should have known they were pushing their luck when the little island they had discovered right off the coast turned out to house a disused military base. The explosion of whatever was left in those fuel tanks had nearly sunk several boats and downed an unlucky tourist shuttle.

At least he had been alive to hear the dreaded words: "Patrick Lee El-Sabra, you are under arrest for trespassing, destruction and criminal negligence."

Oh, his father's influence had been enough to ensure a discreet and speedy trial. But the sentence was another story. Patrick had been in a daze as the judge announced his decision: five years in a work camp on the yet unpopulated eastern subcontinent. Five years?! His parents were going to be on Mir for six months! His ears were buzzing; he saw his father's Mirian partner conferring with the judge, and when the latter asked him something about accepting a deal, the boy nodded automatically, head swimming.

The same night, a small police suborbital dropped him on a small plateau, high in what his mobile indicated as the MonShaar mountains, about six timezones to the west. He looked up... up at the fortress that seemed to grow out of sheer rock, and his heart sank. A gate opened, through which people in uniform-like robes filed out to meet Patrick's escort. They led him in with few words; his father had been too tired to come, as for his mother, she had refused to even see him since the arrest. For the first time in his life, the boy was alone.

* * *

Patrick stood in the middle of the road clutching his little backpack, while above him Mir's distant moons paled. No, not moons, he corrected himself; _siblings_. His feet were freezing on the cobblestones, but he didn't dare move: from further down the road, half a dozen huge dogs watched him. On the right was a kind of long house, with a high-pitched roof and a porch all along its side. From the left drifted in the smell of pine needles and the call of an owl. And... there was someone there, too.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a feminine shape peeled off from the shadows and came very close to him. She was about his age, with short slick hair and big eyes, wearing a necklace made of tiny daggers over a rough, airy tunic and matching skirt. She carried a heavy cleaver in a hand with thick, pointed fingernails, and her sandal-clad feet sported toes that were unusually long... and webbed. Her eyebrows were nearly invisible; her nostrils, he realized, could close.

Then she grinned, revealing two rows of small pointy teeth.

"Come with me if you want to live," she said.

He turned. The suborbital was just taking off again, its positioning lights shooting off into the sky, and the robed people were coming their way, faces still hidden. The girl turned on her heels and ran into the forest, Patrick stumbling and tripping after her like a puppy.

* * *

It was a chalet build on sloping terrain, under a cliff that loomed darkly over the treetops. The light was still growing when the girl led Patrick in through a side door, directly into a kitchen adjoining a small dining room. The floor was cement, and exposed pipes coiled around each other like ugly snakes just waiting for him to come close.

"So... what's your name?" he asked, dropping his backpack on a chair. "What is this place?" He ducked under a low beam in the nick of time. The aroma of fresh vegetables reached his nostrils, and his stomach growled. "What's for breakfast?"

She swirled and poked him in the chest with the cleaver. "You are, if you keep asking stupid questions. Now shut up and help me with these."

He took a step back, then another. One more, and he bumped into a wall that hadn't been there on the way in.

It was a young man, about as tall and wide as the door leading deeper into the house, dressed similarly to the girl and with random patches of skin on the left side of his body covered in big, golden reptilian scales.

"Caught yourself a new one, Carmen?" he asked in a deep voice. "Kinda scrawny." He towered over Patrick, staring down into the boy's eyes. "You do what she says. I'm Naran, by the way."

"P... Rick," stammered the teenager and tiptoed back to Carmen's side. "Tell me what to do," he said meekly.

* * *

He had expected to peel potatoes for hours, but it turned out there was in fact an autocook -- a clunky contraption that filled a corner of the kitchen, looking more Art Deco than interstellar age, complete with blinkenlights and puffs of steam, like a mechanical idol waiting to be fed. More people came in while Patrick cleaned up. A short, hairy guy growled at him and went straight for the coffee pot. Then twin younger boys with shaven heads, brightly colored tunics contrasting with their brown skin, stopped in the door, oblivious to his presence.

"I have got to finish the machine by tomorrow," whispered the one on the left, "or Master Rune will have my skin for sure."

"Fat chance," retorted the other, "you would need a blood sacrifice."

"That can be arranged. You know that black rooster who has it in for me?"

They clamped up and peered suspiciously at Patrick, then shuffled off to the far corner of the room, leaving him to sweat. He was almost done when the outside door slammed open and three cloaked figures entered. The new girls all had their hair in a different color, but the same bluish complexion to their skin, and a circuit-like network of silvery lines tattooed on their forearms, with a metallic sheen to it. The teenager blinked. Were they... cyborgs? But the practice was banned... surely on any civilized world?

"New guy," chuckled the first one.

"Yesss..." added the second.

"I'm hungry," stated the third. Right on cue, the autocook opened its iron maw, letting out a hiss and a blast of heat.

* * *

To his mild surprise, Patrick was still alive an hour later. Well fed, too. He even knew the names of everyone in the room, and it hadn't driven him insane. Yet.

Across the table from him, Carmen set her chopsticks on a paper towel.

"All right. The first order of business for today is to get Rick here a place to sleep. We're going to reopen the old cabin over by the stream -- this hovel is packed to the rafters already."

The hairy guy grumbled, and Carmen shot him a look that could saw bones. "Unless you want to bunk with me?" He squeaked and shrunk even smaller than he already was.

Like any disused building, the cabin in question had accumulated thick layers of dust, cobwebs and clutter. It was almost noon before Patrick could sit on a boulder, muscles trembling from the effort. No, not noon, he remembered; mid-morning. He still wasn't used to the length of the Mirian day. The stream gurgled happily at his feet, catching the sunlight that filtered through the trees and throwing it back into his eyes. Off in the distance, he could hear the sound of a waterfall... and footsteps.

Naran sat heavily on the ground next to him. "Can I ask you a question?"

The teenager nodded briskly.

"You're from off-world." It wasn't a question. "Let me guess, Earth?"

"H... how do you know?"

The giant pinched his biceps. "Hardly any muscle on you. Lower gravity and all that."

"O... okay. Yes, it's true."

Naran nodded. "So, how did you end up here? You're a long way from home."

"I... er..." What was he supposed to say? I nearly killed scores of innocents? The words stuck in his throat. "I don't even know what 'here' is..." he managed to say.

"You don't?!" Naran scratched his head. "Well, we call it..."

He cut off. Someone was coming towards them from the other side of the stream, dressed in a robe that was equal parts monk's cloth, military uniform and badass longcoat, with a hood draped over his back. Patrick watched frozenly as the newcomer crossed the water on a log no wider than his foot without even slowing down.

It was a man, resembling an angel from a Renaissance painting, only less androgynous and with deep lines on his otherwise youthful face. Naran stood up as he approached. "Master Rune," he greeted.

The man nodded in response and looked at Patrick. The giant took the hint and walked back towards the cabin with big heavy steps.

"How are you holding up, Patrick?"

The teenager stood up, wringing his hands. "I... didn't have time to think about it."

"Good. That was the idea." The man smiled. "Called your parents yet?"

"I... I can do that?"

"Of course. You still have your mobile, don't you?"

Patrick patted his pocket instinctively and nodded.

"Look, I don't know how much they told you over in NuShan, but this isn't a prison."

The boy didn't say anything.

"No, seriously." Master Rune pointed with a thumb back over his shoulder. "You can walk right out that gate and no-one will try to stop you."

"And the next thing I know, they put me in work camp for violating my parole," Patrick said bitterly. "Gee, thanks. I feel so free right now."

"Oh? And what are we supposed to do?" asked the older man mildly.

"I don't know... refuse to take part in this masquerade?"

"And let you toil for five long years out in the wastes?" He cocked his head, as if listening to a distant call. "I'm needed elsewhere. But my door is open if you want to talk."

He went back across the stream in a hurry.

"Hey!" Patrick yelled after him. "What is this place anyway?" But the man had already vanished among the trees. The teenager sighed and turned back towards the cabin, only to find himself staring into Carmen's grin.

"Break's over," she said, and led the way.

* * *

The call animation stayed on screen for a long time.

"Patrick," his father said abruptly the moment he picked up. He looked really, really tired. And sad.

"Hi, dad."

"How... how are you? Is there anything you need? I'm sorry, I should have..."

"Never mind, dad. How is mom?"

"She'll forgive you."

They looked at each other in silence for a long while.

"Listen, son... I talked to our lawyer. The authorities might agree to let you go free after just one year."

The Mirian year was four hundred days long, minus some change. Not that the difference mattered much at this point.

"So? You'll only be here for half that long."

"No. We're extending our stay. It's better for the new business anyway."

"Really? That's... thanks, dad." He touched the little screen with a few fingers, and his father did the same on his side. There was more silence.

"Patrick... take care. We'll come visit as soon as we can."

The teenager nodded. "Thanks, dad. Tell mom I love her."

"I will."

Click.

Patrick looked at the sun that was now leaning westwards, and got up from the little cabin's porch. It was very, very quiet, and he needed to be around someone... anyone.

* * *

Between the stream and the impassable cliffs at the back of the natural fortification there was a relatively flat stretch of land, with rare trees and tall grass. Behind a disused shed were strewn worn out pieces of carved stone. A few looked disquietingly like funerary monuments. Patrick passed by them as fast as he could, and that was when he noticed the small clearing.

It was no more than ten meters across, bathed in sunlight and with the grass all trampled around the hideous machine in the center. Spindly articulated legs supported a metal frame inside which gears turned hypnotically. Pedipalp-like limbs moved up and down with the grinding tick-tock noise, but otherwise there was no sign anyone was there. Morbid fascination pushed Patrick forward; as there was no reaction, he leaned closer to better examine the back of the machine, where several dials and hands turned, slowly but inexorably converging towards some mysterious alignment. At the highest point of the frame, an urn held a reddish liquid which dripped through a maze of channels that reached all the moving parts, before collecting in a tray at the bottom. There was a pit under the mechanism, and Patrick leaned just a little further.

"Now, what in the world should we do with you?" asked a youthful voice. It was the twins, standing between him and the relative safety of the forest with serious faces.

"You have found our secret. This cannot be," added the other brother.

"Now you will have to join us."

"If Master Rune allows it."

Patrick blanched. "You... you're kidding, right?"

"Oh no," said the older man, coming from behind to stand in front of him, hands on his hips. "They are quite serious."

The teenager felt dizzy all of a sudden, and then he was kneeling in the grass, the twins laughing their heads off in stereo.

* * *

"You remind me of a very good friend," Rune began. "He was also from Earth, and afraid of everything. The retreat wasn't even as scary back then, but still he cried for days after he arrived."

They were sitting on a bench not far from the gate, watching what seemed to be a martial arts lesson right where the road bent around the longhouse. Patrick noted that every master's robe was in fact different. One of the dogs ventured by, tail wagging slowly, and Rune petted him. After some hesitation, the teenager did, too.

"So... why didn't he just leave?" he asked.

"He was a refugee from the Second Corporate War. Nothing to go back to, no ship to take him there... He had literally nowhere to go. Stuck here, just like you are now."

"It's not the same thing!"

"Isn't it? If he couldn't leave any more than you can, was he any less of a prisoner?"

Patrick fell silent for a while. "What happened to him?"

"Well, in the end he came to terms with himself. Learned enough skills to go out into the world, and never looked back." The older man sighed.

"What kind of skills?" The boy looked meaningfully towards the open air class.

"Carmen still hasn't told you? I swear, that girl... Anyway, we're Dhiira. It means wise, learned, steadfast, brave -- all the ideals to which we aspire."

"You're warrior-monks." Patrick snapped his fingers. "I've read about that on the 'net. Should've guessed."

The master chuckled. "Most people see us that way, yes. But what we really are is _hackers_."

"Hackers? Isn't that, like, illegal?"

"Hrm. Only on Earth, Patrick. But even here, most people don't like being reminded how fragile their world really is. So we've learned to mostly stay away from society unless society asks for our help."

The teenager nodded. "Don't you feel lonely?"

"Sometimes, a little." Master Rune smiled. "But now you're here."

Patrick stared at him in surprise. The setting sun gave the older man's face a golden sheen. "Oh no! It's almost dinner time! Carmen will have me as the main course if I'm not there to help!"

He ran away among the trees, followed by a friendly gaze.

* * *

It took Patrick another week to give up his self-cleaning spandex for an apprentice's tunic. But he wasn't even wearing as much while he sat with Naran on a house-sized rock, watching Carmen dive into the little waterfall's pool five meters below. To his mild disappointment, she was wearing a fairly modest bathing suit -- and in all honesty, he was grateful to have shorts on right now.

"So, what's the deal with her?" he asked the bigger boy.

"What do you mean?... Oh."

"Yeah, that. She's no alien -- there's no such thing as aliens -- but she can't be human either... can she?"

"Think about it. She's a hacker. And nowadays we can tweak genes or perform surgery from within with nanobots."

"So... she hacked her own body? But why? The whole reason we're on another planet at all is that Homo Sapiens is flexible."

"Indeed. Jacks of all trades, masters of none. Sometimes that's more constraining than liberating."

Carmen had resurfaced behind the curtain of water, and was swimming back their way.

"I just wish I could hack her attitude as well." quipped Patrick.

"You and me both, pal. You and me both."

* * *

Autumn was coming by the time Patrick's parents made time to visit.

He waited for them outside the gate, dressed in the cloak younger Dhiira usually wore away from the retreat. They weren't as cool as a master's robe, but the latter created much higher expectations. As it was, the farmers down in the valley were always happy to see them, and so were the unfortunates stuck with guard duty at that military listening post nobody was supposed to know about. After all, it was only reachable from the air. Unless you were Dhiira, that is.

Movement among the trees made him alert. A steel scarab trundled up the sweeping curves of the road, regularly going in and out of view. With its eight independent wheels, the truck could have ignored the road entirely, but today it had passengers. Patrick wondered why his parents hadn't simply chartered a suborbital. Maybe they wanted to visit the nearby metropolis of ValShaar while they were in the area. He certainly understood the attraction, but the terms of his parole didn't allow him to go that far even with supervision.

His had been a small world as of late, and he could only spend so much time online until that, too, became trite.

The visitor helped his wife climb down from the cab, and they stood aside for a moment, wind howling around them, while the truck eased in through the gate. Someone was coming to meet them, a local by all appearances, strong sunburnt arms covered in cuts and scrapes. He took off his hood as they turned to face him.

"Mom, dad," said Patrick simply.

"Hello, Patrick," his father greeted. His mother didn't say anything.

The teenager examined them lovingly. They seemed older than last time he had seen them, and shorter too. His father had on one of his usual business suits which looked so quaint here on Mir. As for his mother, her attire amounted to grieving clothes.

And then she was smothering him with hugs, sobbing loudly. "My boy! What have they done to you?"

He squeezed her awkwardly. "Mom... mom? I'm _fine_. Look at me!"

"I think your mother is trying to say that you've changed, son."

Patrick wiped a tear of his own. "So have you. Come inside, it's going to rain."

Several dogs gathered around them on the way in, sniffing and snorting, until the teenager called each of them by name and rubbed their ears.

* * *

"What a dump," muttered Patrick's mother as they sat down in the chalet's cramped dining room, bowls of hot soup steaming on the table. "I've seen better equipped prisons."

"Good thing Carmen isn't around to hear you."

"Who?"

"Never mind. How've you been? Dad never tells me anything on video."

His father coughed. "Where is everyone, anyway? Are we even supposed to be here?"

"They're busy giving us personal space.", Patrick grinned. "And it's highly irregular, but that's exactly how we like things around here."

"We?" His mother peered at him suspiciously.

The teenager choked. "Uh... anyway, how's business?"

"Bad." His father's mood darkened. "Tensions have been rising between Mir and Earth. People on both sides are afraid to trade with each other." He sighed. "Between legal expenses and plain old losses, we're really strapped for cash now."

"I'm so sorry..." Patrick whispered, staring at his boots.

"Well, it can't be helped. Eat your soup, it's going cold."

He focused on his bowl, and didn't seem to notice when his wife pulled their son into the adjoining kitchen.

"What is it, mom?"

"I know my boy. You would never complain to your father. But I made friends of my own in NuShan these past few months. Whatever you need, I can pull strings for it. You can tell your mother."

Patrick's shoulder's slumped. For a moment, it looked like he would cry again. "All I want is to go home..."

She hugged him tight and didn't say another word until he led them back to the truck a few hours later.

* * *

Carmen was arguing with the little hippie again.

At least Patrick assumed that was the look Robert was aiming for, with his big hair and torn clothes, but as the girl bluntly put it, the end result was closer to a caveman. Especially with his short, stout body.

"Why do I have to work? We have machines to cook for us, clean after us, build homes for us! Why should I have to lift a finger?" he roared, stomping his foot.

"And how do you propose to put food into the autocook?"

"I could build a machine for that too."

"So, build one."

"That would be more work," grumbled Robert.

A few meters away, Patrick loaded one last shovel of rubble into a mulebot about as big as a pair of oxen and tapped its hood twice. The machine awoke and tromped away through the forest, flashing its headlights. The retreat had been growing in population lately, and older structures had to be torn down to balance out the new ones. Increasing the land area was not an option. Worse, the whole thing had to be done before the first snow, and the retreat's handful of construction robots were more needed elsewhere.

He set the shovel aside, wiping his forehead as he walked towards the rest of the group.

"We work because there's work to be done, Robert," he said. "Or do you want to live like an animal?"

"Nobody asked you, _convict_!" snarled the hippie.

There was a stunned silence. They all knew, of course. Had known ever since a miscalculation trapped them in a small grotto higher up the mountain, while the mother of a storm raged outside. They had never seen him with the same eyes again, but none of them had been so rude about it.

"That's right," answered Patrick quietly. "I'm a convict. I'm forced to live here. What's your excuse?"

"I've been wondering myself," said Luna. Or maybe Venus. The three cyborg sisters talked the same and walked the same. "You don't like us, you don't like it here... no offense, but maybe you should just, you know."

Robert glowered at each of them in turn, then slumped to the ground. "I can't," he groaned. "I lied to my parents. Didn't want to go to college, you see."

"That's your problem?" asked Naran incredulously. "Why don't you talk to Master Rune about it?"

"Are you kidding? He'd throw me out on my ear!"

"No he wouldn't. Now, Master Shing on the other hand just might."

Robert wailed.

"You're wasting your time, Naran," fumed Carmen. Clanking steps were signaling the return of the mulebot. "Let him sit there if that's what he wants." She grabbed a sledgehammer and headed back to the demolished building. The others followed her one by one. Robert sat alone for a while, then got up and joined them.

* * *

The rising sun hadn't yet reached the rocky crags surrounding the retreat, but the fresh snow on the slopes already shone brilliantly. A bird, barely visible against the sky, swooped down among the naked tree trunks in absolute silence. The only other movement was a telecom laser tracking something unseen from the roof of a chalet, which it shared with a small weather station and other paraphernalia.

Then something stirred in the shadow of the first story balcony. A shovel dropped into the snowdrift below, followed by someone in a billowing gray cloak. Patrick picked himself up from the hole he had made and proceeded to remove the build-up against the ground floor wall, muttering choice words about whoever had the bright idea to place a door facing the prevailing winds.

He was breathing heavily by the time he got the door to open, exhaling miniature clouds into the morning air. He checked the wrist computer he had built around what was left of his mobile after that training accident; Sister Thetys' electronics lessons had paid off. "Truck's already in!" he said to nobody in particular, eyeing the barely visible road in the distance. The forest trail leading there was covered in knee-high snow, but a row of wooden poles spaced about an arm length apart still poked out, their flat tops swept clean by the night's wind. The young man chuckled inwardly, remembering how he used to puzzle over their purpose. Now he jumped on top of the first pole and easily ran down the slope, using them for a staircase.

The truck was in all right, painted red to stand out in the snowy landscape and with a new snowthrower attachment at the front. People milled about it, while hydraulic arms loaded and unloaded robotic carts. Patrick cut through the crowd, aiming for the porch of the longhouse. His parents made a point of meeting his guardians on each visit, and there weren't many places where they could do that.

Master Shing got up as Patrick entered the small lounge. He was a small man with a round face and a severe expression, who moved precisely and with purpose.

"We'll leave you, then," he told the visitors.

"Once again, thank you for taking care of our son."

Master Shing bowed his head. "I was opposed to his staying here initially. I was wrong." He walked out the door, followed by a quiet Rune, who stopped for a moment to pat the young man's shoulder with a faint smile.

"That's high praise coming from him, you know," said Patrick as he crossed the room. He stopped to check out the kettle on the stovetop. "Mulled wine, mmm."

"You seem well at ease here," quipped his mother.

"Might as well, mom. I have another half a year before I can go home." He slumped in a chair, holding his mug. "Who am I kidding? The judge will probably change his mind at the last moment."

"I promise you'll walk free on schedule," his father said. "That's the good news."

"What do you mean?"

"It's my other promise to you I can't keep, son." He sighed. "We're out of money."

Patrick understood. "You have to return home early after all."

"We'll be back for you. In half a year."

"I'll live." The young man drank from his mug. "I'll live..."

The lounge was quiet for a while, apart from the buzzing of appliances and the activity right outside the door.

"So," he asked, "what's the latest gossip? Any news from back home?"

* * *

People fear and hate technology. Even as they enjoy all the comforts of modern life, they demonize the source of those comforts. See, you can't blame the hammer when you hit your finger with it. Or the nail, bad luck, somebody else... A tool forces you to take responsibility for your own actions, and most people fear responsibility more than death. Worse, proper use of a tool requires you to know how things work, and learning about the world around them scares people even more, if anything. So somewhere along the line, telling people to learn the first thing about the stuff that makes their lives so easy has become socially unacceptable. Engineers have been forced to make technology ever more unobtrusive, to the point of blending invisibly into everyday items. Out of sight, out of mind.

Which of course only makes people increasingly helpless when something inevitably goes wrong.

Patrick could see the superstitious respect in the farmer's eyes as he watched the Dhiira at work. He was the resident mechanic, but that meant little more than a technician who could ask the computer for a diagnostic and follow the instructions. If the machine couldn't give him a clear series of steps to follow, he was lost. And in all honesty, the young man could remember a time less than a year ago when he even relied on the speeder to call the emergency services by itself if it broke down. Peeking under the hood was part of a secret ritual reserved for the manufacturer's priesthood. Dealerships as temples...

Sister Luna stood off to a side, looking dignified in her cloak, which was more ornate than his to show higher rank. It was strictly for show, of course, but the rest of the world didn't need to know that. She also had fingerless gloves on, elbow-length to mask her tattoos and covered in interlocking bits of metal and plastic.

"Try it now!" he said as he crawled out of the micro-jungle in the hardware cabinet and recovered his own cloak.

In response, she raised a hand and the imposing computer console nearby sprung to life, windows with scrolling text popping into and out of existence all over the panoramic monitor. Beyond the bay windows behind it, the vast glasshouse was awakening, lights coming on as drones took to the air, sprinklers started up and bridge cranes whirred into motion.

"Do us a favor," Patrick told the stunned farmer. "When they come for the spring revision? Don't tell them it was us."

The man nodded, and that's when Luna grabbed Patrick's arm. "Look." It was hard to see with all the plant life, but outside the building people were running.

"Something's wrong," he answered, and they all but flew down the stairs. Behind them, the mechanic scratched his head and sat down to watch his miraculously revived machinery.

* * *

The bridge over the river was a thing of beauty, with sweeping arches made of transparent materials, which made it blend into the landscape like something out of a dream -- ghostly offspring of the surrounding hills, perched high above the rapid waters.

It was also a century old by now, and likely under-maintained. Which did not mesh well with the rapidly-melting snow from upstream making the river swell to several times its normal flow.

By the time Patrick got there, the ends of the bridge had already collapsed, trapping two little children on the better-supported middle section. One of the farmers, secured with a cable, was inching along a surviving support beam towards them, while a dozen others watched.

Then that beam gave up as well, throwing the rescuer against the riverbank, while the kids slid off the suddenly leaning bridge and into the frothing water. Somehow, one of them managed to grab a rock, and they held on for dear life while the crowd above stared in horror.

"Somebody jump after them!" shouted a thick masculine voice.

"Are you nuts?" replied a similar one. "Nobody can survive for long down there!"

"I can," said Carmen, a haunted look in her eyes. Nobody had seen her coming, and they didn't make a move while she took off most of her clothes. She dove just as the little boy lost his grip and disappeared under the waves along with his sister.

Naran was running towards the group with a second roll of cable.

"The other bridge!" Patrick shouted at him. "Past the bend!" and ran that way along with everyone else.

"I saw her jump," puffed Naran while he dropped an end of the cable into the water and wrapped it around a guardrail. The second bridge was smaller, but that meant it never needed to touch the water. "If we don't catch them here..."

"How do you know they'll be able to grab that thing?" asked Patrick.

"They won't be." The giant handed him the rest of the cable. "Hang on to this."

"What... Wait. I can't hold that much weight!"

"But I can," somebody said behind them. It was a middle-aged woman in coveralls, almost as big as Naran, with a square face and sandy hair tied in a bun. She wrapped the cable around one of her arms and motioned Patrick to do the same. "We've got your back, young man."

The giant nodded, then with a single motion wrapped the dangling part of the cable around his own body before easing himself down alongside it, head first, using his legs for traction. Foam whirled around his outstretched fingers, while the river roared between its banks. For a long moment, he thought it was in fact too late.

Clawed hands emerged from the madness below, one grabbing his wrist, the other grasping for the cable. It took all his strength not to let go when Carmen pulled herself up, the two children clinging to her. But he held on while half a dozen people hoisted all of them back up.

The girl was still hugging the kids while they huddled together on solid ground, shivering and coughing.

"What's she saying?" somebody asked from the crowd, and Patrick leaned down to better hear what she was murmuring through clenched teeth.

"I've got you this time, baby. I've got you this time..."

* * *

It had been a tumultous spring, and news from Earth only added fuel to the fire. First there had been that diplomatic incident involving the World Council ambassador to the Mirian union of city states. (Patrick still had trouble wrapping his head around the local political system.) Then rumors that the same World Council had been taken over by the North Pacific powers. After that, communications had become spotty. Patrick's videos remained unanswered, save for one message from his parents that had been edited to pieces.

The retreat was changing as well. Robert had been gone since winter, of course, but now Carmen was leaving as well, on a long pilgrimage to her home in the Harra mountains. One of the new apprentices, barely a year younger than Patrick, was looking up to him with admiration normally given a father figure, which was a bit much for someone who wouldn't even have been considered an adult back home. But this was another world...

Compared to that, summer had dragged on like a snail laboring up a well-polished slide. Against all odds, life was struggling to settle into a new normal. And that made Patrick afraid all over again. Why was it sometimes so hard to remember what came before?

He was standing outside the gate one early morning, like so many times in recent months, while the twins' astronomical clock tick-tocked the seconds away from its niche in the wall above. The twins themselves had long moved on to other hobbies. Knowing them, it was something equally outrageous, such as building a practical transforming mecha -- the eternal chimera of engineering.

Behind him there was a barely audible shuffling noise. "Good morning, Master Rune," he said without turning.

"Good morning, Patrick." He hesitated. "The judge's office just called. You're officially free to go."

The young man nodded. "And they couldn't come. So much for promises."

"Who knows what's keeping them..."

"Starliners are never late," Patrick interrupted. "It doesn't work that way."

"We'll call the spaceport. Worst case, we'll all chip in for your return ticket."

"My father's partner took care of that. Besides, you've done so much for me already."

"It's what we do, Patrick. Helping people in need. And you've earned all of it."

Embarrassed silence descended between them. But it didn't last long.

Shouting and running broke the peace of the retreat, echoing through the gate tunnel behind them. Rune raised his eyebrows and turned to head back in. He was stopped by a hand waved from a second story window.

"Hey! Hey! Tune in on the news."

"Which channel?" Patrick shouted back.

"Any channel!"

They spent longer than necessary leaning together over the small screen, flipping through channels and bringing up searches.

"Broken diplomatic relations... Closed borders..." Rune groaned. "That means war is imminent."

"Will you go?"

"Many of us will. Our abilities will be needed. Not on the front lines, mind you. I'm too old for that kind of thing anyway."

Patrick took a few faltering steps before his knees felt too weak, and he slid to the ground, leaning against the massive stone wall.

"All I wanted was to go home... Was it so much to ask?"

"Your father's partner can take care of you. Failing that, there's a support center for off-world immigrants down in..."

"What's the _point_?" Patrick raged. "B... besides... once you're gone, someone will have to stay behind and hold the fort."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight back tears. It didn't work.

THE END

Bucharest, 29 August 2013

## Collectivity

> Captain's log, ship's date 223/187.3: the _Bonaventure_

"Realspace in 3... 2... 1..."

One moment there was little on the main screen apart from a living nothingness the human brain refused to make sense of. Then the universe rushed in out of nowhere to reassert its rightful place around the ship with a satisfying "plop". Or rather, that's the sound it would have made if ships coming out of hyper made any sound at all, Captain Stewart reflected wryly.

She straightened up in her chair at the center of the bridge to look around: a tall, bony woman with white hair that fell straight to the shoulders of her dark blue jumpsuit. At the various consoles, her command crew was doing the same -- all but one, who was busy holding onto a grab bar while being rather green in the face. Not her natural skin color, either. Somehow, the ship's first officer was never near a chair when the realspace alarm rang.

"May I interest you in a seat belt, Number One?"

"No need to rub it in, Ma'am," retorted the younger woman, glaring at her comrades who were trying and failing to hide snickers.

"Duly noted. Status?"

"All clear, ma'am." The tactical officer's voice was a little shaky, as every time she addressed him directly. "We're roughly ten light minutes out from the local star. Systems are nominal. Sensor sweep initiated... No threatening objects for now."

"Helm?"

"Calculating our relative speed. It will take a moment." He was just as young as his comrade -- too young for his position. But he did his best, and with pride at that.

"Transmit burn parameters to Engineering when you're done. Comms?"

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Frequency scan, if you please. Once we light our torch, it will be harder to hear certain signals from out there."

"Aye-aye."

And that would have to do, mused the captain. They could hardly be called a military. More like a bunch of children playing soldier, and she was too old to play mother hen. But she didn't resent her orders: their toys were all too real, and could easily hurt the wrong people. Besides, for a space fleet built up from scratch in a mere decade, they were doing better than her grouchy side cared to admit.

She stood and paced the deck plates a little to stretch her old bones. The main screen showed an ocean of stars -- so still right now that they might as well have been painted on. Patience, she told herself. Patience. You have an example to give.

The tell-tale flare of another ship dropping out of hyper lit up the eternal night directly in front of them.

* * *

It was big, a slab of metal six hundred meters long, one hundred wide and fifty thick, with maybe ten times the _Bonaventure_ 's internal volume. They had a good look at the structure as the heavy cruiser overshot it and flipped around to decelerate, like a great mechanical shark swimming around a cage: the cluster of ion drives at one end; lights shining through the external latticework, between haphazardly mounted armor plating; a bewildering array of devices at what passed for the prow.

Stewart watched quietly as her second in command leaned forward to see better. "Are they aliens?"

At the tactical station, lieutenant Jensen ran his hand through his wispy beard, pale white fingers mixing with nearly invisible blond hairs. "It doesn't match any known design, human or not."

"In any event, they're in no hurry to get anywhere with those engines." commented Vlasic from the helm, perfect teeth glittering against his tanned skin.

"Or else they expect to be in deep space for a long time," the captain chided mildly.

"Well, what do we do?" First Officer De La Pena put her hands on her hips, somehow managing to make the standard-issue jumpsuit look slutty. "Do we hail them? Shoot at them? What?"

Stewart turned to her. "I'd say ignore them and go on with our mission, but they might know something."

"Assuming they have something to say. They're rather quiet."

The captain looked at the screen again. The alien ship had been floating there for a while now, not even bothering to maneuver. The commander had a point. What they didn't have was a standard procedure for such situations.

"Ma'am, they're hailing us." Al-Madina's round face expressed even more confusion than usual. "On a dozen frequencies and protocols at once."

The old woman suppressed an urge to facepalm. "Well, pick one, Ensign, and let's hear what they have to say."

The bridge speakers came to life in a deafening cacophony of voices, which slowly coalesced into an intelligible chorus.

"We Are The Collective. You Will Join Us. Do Not Fight. It Will Be Easier."

She cast her second-in-command a helpless look. "This is Captain Olivia Stewart of the Asendowian spaceship _Bonaventure_. Who am I talking to, exactly?"

Again the cacophony, more subdued this time. Then, "We Are The Collective. Join Us. You Will Understand."

"Friendly, aren't they?" muttered De La Pena.

"What if we don't want to?" There, thought Stewart. Don't let them think we're pushovers. _Bonaventure_ 's primary mission is to show the flag after all.

The voices in the chorus changed abruptly. "We Are Wasting Time. Do Not Resist."

And the ship lurched.

It wasn't a big motion, of course, and the inertial dampeners caught up immediately. But she knew what that meant before Jensen open his mouth. "Tractor beam. They're pulling us to them."

"Shields up!" De La Pena was all business all of a sudden. "Thrusters!" added the captain.

A moment passed. "Ineffective," reported Jensen. "We're barely slowing," confirmed Vlasic.

"Shoot their emitters," the captain and first officer said at the same time. They exchanged another look.

"I can't, Ma'am. Weapons are cold."

"The comm lasers aren't." Al-Madina grinned at the tactical officer. "Transferring controls now."

Jensen returned the grin. "Thank you, Fikri. Firing."

Small explosions peppered the flat front of the other ship, and the _Bonaventure_ lurched again as its thrusters became effective.

De La Pena breathed a sigh of relief. "Er, good work, Jensen." Then to the older woman: "Tell me we didn't just start a war with aliens."

Stewart just stared at her.

"Ma'am, they're hailing us again."

"Maybe not, Number One. Put us thr..."

The lights on the bridge dimmed. Off to one side, almost unnoticed, the air twisted and solidified into a humanoid shape.

* * *

It was a being of indeterminate gender, body shape broken up by the many cybernetic accessories covering it, connected by criss-crossing cables. They stood there for just a few seconds, watching the bridge crew inscrutably through a high-tech eyepiece, before walking to one of the unoccupied consoles in the back with an oddly stiff gait. The console sprang to life with an overview of the ship's internal network.

"Oh no, you don't," growled De La Pena. Before anyone else could react, she was aiming her sidearm. The twin laser beams struck the console. It flashed bright with the excess electricity, then died. Undaunted, the intruder moved to the next console and started over.

"What happened?!" asked the first officer, hysteria creeping into her voice. "Did I miss?"

"It's a hologram! They've cracked the bridge systems." The captain's voice shook everyone out. "Jensen. Fire again."

He did. Nothing happened. "No use, Ma'am. They've raised shields."

"I can't cut them off," complained Al-Madina.

On the main screen, exposed power conduits on the hostile vessel still glowed hot from the earlier hits. There was a series of smaller explosions and electrical arcs, and its entire front side went dark. The bridge lights promptly came back on, the hologram simply vanishing.

Stewart very nearly jumped out of her skin as the interphone chimed.

"Bridge."

_/Von Schmiede here./_ The voice at the other end sounded just like her owner looked: big, strong and no-nonsense, yet still clearly female. _/Captain, if you want access to the computers down in Engineering, you can just ask for a user account. No need to try and get in through the back door./_

The captain chortled, nervous tension leaking out of her. "Sorry, Chief, we had a break-in attempt. Is everything all right down there?"

/We pulled the plug as soon as we noticed the attack./

"Very well. For what it's worth, we seem to be safe right now."

/Thank you, Captain. Engineering out./

They stood looking at each other blankly for a while.

"So, should we go to red alert?" De La Pena asked innocently.

* * *

On the main screen, the alien ship got smaller and smaller as the _Bonaventure_ continued accelerating away from it. Now they could see the extend of the damage their initial salvo had caused: the entire front third of the cuboid was in darkness.

"I think you can kill those thrusters now, Mr. Vlasic. How long until we can go hyper again?"

"Three minutes now, Ma'am."

"Excellent. As soon as you can, perform a micro-jump. One light year or so, right past them. Then we turn around and head home before they can figure out where we went."

Vlasic nodded. One light year was the approximate range at which a hyperdrive-equipped ship could instantly detect another entering or leaving realspace.

"What about the, er, the missing ship?"

"We can't exactly look for them with a hostile right next to us, Number One. Maybe once we can come back in force."

"Yes, Ma'am..."

One minute elapsed. Then another.

"Captain, they're hailing us again."

What. "Don't pick up, Ensign. No way I'm letting them into our systems again."

"It's only analog radio, on a tight beam."

Sigh. "Let's hear it. If you think it's safe."

The young man fiddled with a series of knobs and sliders. The voice in the speakers had a hiss and echo, as if coming from very far away.

/This is Commander Areiotis of the research ship Curious. We know someone's out there. Please respond./

"Captain Stewart of the _Bonaventure_ here. We've been looking for you, Commander."

_/Thank the gods you're here./_ Cheers could be heard in the background. _/I don't suppose you can spare a shuttle?/_

The signal was getting weaker. "Reverse thrust, Vlasic," the captain whispered. "Let's not drift any farther." Louder, she added, "It depends, Commander. What's your status?"

/They've been ignoring us for the most part. A most peculiar behavior, Captain. Like worker drones. Seemingly more interested in the Curious, what little is left of it./

"Wait, who are 'they'?"

/We don't know. They took us aboard after our ship was crippled by asteroid impacts. Third planet here has a highly unusual ring system./

"Where are you now?"

/Hiding in the corridors around the hangar bay. Captain, we're wasting time. Right now they're distracted with repairs, but they're quick./

"How many of you?"

/Eleven. Captain, please hurry. I don't know how much longer we can last./

"Very well. _Bonaventure_ out." She thought for a few seconds, then keyed the intercom, while everyone else watched her in silence. "Barracks?"

/Major Barett here./

"Heads up, Major. Looks like we're going to need your marines on this mission after all."

* * *

There is no such thing as stealth in space, but being inconspicuous definitely helps. Unlike the cruiser's quasi-organic shapes, the shuttle was all angles, coated in anti-radar and with clever heat sinks that concentrated emissions in specific directions. Having leviters instead of jets helped as well, and speed compensated for the lack of shields. At least in theory.

Halfway along the troop compartment, Barett did his best to look confident. At thirty-three, he was on the young side for his rank, but older than everyone else under his command, and most importantly experienced with exactly the kind of situation they were going into.

"She's going to have your skin for coming along, you know," said the young woman next to him with a thin smile.

"Reading my thoughts, sarge? Well, better her than the zombie robots."

"You don't think I can handle this myself?"

"I know you can. This is for my own peace of mind. Besides, you know what a mess we're in."

She nodded. Due to a rushed launch, the _Bonaventure_ only had three companies of marines -- half her nominal complement. As for officers... One was in sickbay, the other in the brig, and Barett was pulling double duty for 3rd Company. Against all regulations, of course.

That was his chance to shine. To prove he wasn't just some wash-out in a parody of a military force.

Then the docking alarm sounded, and everything became a blur.

* * *

"Go, go, go! Fan out, and keep your eyes open!"

Barett was panicking. They were already three decks down from the top, and the stairs had been in a different place every time. Worse, the decks were perpendicular to the cuboid's long axis instead of parallel to it. Who builds their ships like that? He considered launching another recon drone, but the first two had been hijacked in seconds, forcing them to destroy their own gear. At least the shields and docking port had worked as expected, letting them slip in without special measures.

Far out in front, the sergeant froze as she passed by a doorway, then crept cautiously backwards. He knew what it was before making his way past everyone else.

The crew.

They were sitting in a long narrow room with desks on both sides, staring straight ahead at blank walls while their hands twitched, fingers plugged into chorded keyboards, seemingly oblivious to the thirty or so armed and armored marines sneaking right past them. Robot zombies indeed, thought Barett. He couldn't be sure in the low light, but some of them had horns, fur, animal ears or all of them at the same time.

They weren't aliens, that much was certain. But they weren't human anymore, either. Not by his reckoning. On the other hand, he was beginning to see how the missing researchers had managed to escape capture so far. Maybe their luck would hold on the way out as well.

He let everyone else file past him until he was back at his place in the rearguard. A nerve-wracking experience with those... creatures so close to him. The corridor branched more; machinery was coming to life in the distance. They passed by several more darkened doorways, gradually getting used to the small noises inside.

Until someone tumbled out of one.

"Hold your fire!" Barett snapped at his nearest men. His strangled voice echoed endlessly into the distance. Oh crap.

"Don't shoot! It's us!"

One by one, a dozen people in tattered jumpsuits bubbled out into the corridor, piling up at the doorway impatiently. Two of them were being half-carried by their peers.

"I'm Areiotis," one of them informed Barett. The civilian commander was a stout man with a handlebar mustache and ugly bags under his eyes. "I assume you're the cavalry?"

* * *

They were halfway back to the stairs when lights started coming on around them.

"Great, we're late." The sergeant clutched her submachine gun as if an attack was imminent.

"This way." Areiotis pointed down a side corridor. "It's a shortcut."

"It's not on my inertial map. Are you sure?"

He cast her an "are you serious?" look.

They shifted formation accordingly. Half the platoon was in front, half in the back, and a few were helping the injured walk, to relieve their exhausted crewmates. It still felt like a crawl.

"We still have a chance," puffed Areiotis. "These are service decks. It's mostly just maintenance crews that come here. Of course, now with the repairs..."

He stopped short at the sight of a massive door barring their way.

"That wasn't here before..." remarked one of his men.

Barett was the first to recover. "Smith, Jones, cut the hinges. Sarge, any movement behind us?"

"None, sir."

"Good. Get ready to run as soon as the way is..."

There was a bone-shaking report as the door fell onto the floor. Then an alarm started.

Nobody needed any more encouragement to break into a sprint.

Metal walls flashed around them as they moved from gloom to bright light and back. More doors closed and opened at random. A deep rumble was raising through the deck plates. Barett was sure he could hear wheels and propellers closing in. One more turn, and they were at the stairs. But so were multiple half-human shapes walking stiffly towards them from another direction.

"Smoke grenades!" ordered the sergeant. She started shoving people up the steps indiscriminately. Barett was already at the top, making sure they didn't trip on each other. "Incoming!" somebody shouted, and he drew his sidearm almost without thinking. The pair of beams hit one of the aliens squarely in the chest, electronics sparking out as they collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Half a dozen marines followed suit, and soon the higher deck was littered with bodies. They ran through the maze in a long, disheveled file, electrolasers lancing out every which way as more of the humanoids converged on them.

Until, one by one, they stopped falling down.

At first it looked like the occasional miss in the heat of battle, but by the time the second flight of stairs was in sight, Barett could tell that his targets now had armor plates and helmets. At least none of them was shooting back. He switched tactics and started blasting the control panel of any door that wasn't along the escape route. That just left those coming from behind...

He saw a previously dead elevator moving, and knew it was too late.

"Permission to use lethal force, sir!" yelled the sergeant while they raced to the top deck three steps at a time. One of the soldiers in front passed her a flashbang; she pulled the pin and rolled it down the stairs.

Barett waited for the echo to die down before answering. "Wanna see them pissed off for real?" He paused. "Permission granted. If all else fails."

"Yes, sir." She kept running. The top deck hallways were narrow and cramped, pipes and cabinets marking the distances behind sealed hatches. It only made the trip seem longer. More time for worries.

"Come on, where are they?" Areiotis mumbled nervously. They were passing by numerous side passages, all deserted.

"Maybe we scared them off, sir?" suggested the soldier next to him.

The civilian commander snerked and dragged himself onwards.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll get you home safely. The docking port room is right behind the..."

They turned the corner. It was crawling with the cuboid's crew.

"Shoot to kill!" The sergeant was first to follow her own order, her SMG releasing a shower of red-hot sparks that blurred into an almost continuous stream. The Collective drones backed off under the onslaught, their armor denting and buckling visibly with the impacts. Several other marines followed suit, and she turned to help Barett guide everyone else up the ladder and into the airlock overhead. For a long moment, it seemed like they were going to make it.

A ball of electricity floated leisurely into the room and burst, sending half of the remaining marines to the floor, the rest scrambling for cover into the corridor from which they'd come. A side door opened, admitting three tall, bulky humanoids with extra features to their armor. The one in the middle had some sort of cannon slung under his raised arm.

"You Are In Blatant Violation Of The Rules," he declared.

"Stop Right Now." intoned the one on the right.

"Or Else." chanted the last one after a brief hesitation. Newly encouraged, other aliens advanced again from their hiding places.

Barett looked on in stunned horror. "Oh no," he mouthed, fingering his weapon. "Oh no you don't!" he roared, dashing across the room to fire point blank at the lead alien. The creature staggered backwards, either too stunned or too close to return fire, and the rest of Barett's men cheered as they surged forward again, keeping their would-be captors at bay with sheer ferocity while they took refuge inside the shuttle. Only then did Barett become aware of the inhumanly strong arms holding him from behind. He kicked savagely, blood going to his head. From somewhere far away, the sergeant was calling his name. Then everything was bathed in blinding light.

Outside, an awakened cuboid threatened to swallow the shuttle, sucking it into the gaping maw of an open hangar bay. Then the _Bonaventure_ 's guns came to life, hurling pillars of light at the strange ship. The first hit made its shields flare up, lights flickering mad on the hull underneath. The second caused licks of flame to dissipate harmlessly way above the flat surface. A third salvo fizzled out, the relativistic particle stream wasting itself against suddenly impenetrable shields.

The shuttle reached safety. There was a brief moment of frozenness, then the cruiser wrapped itself in a mantle of light and left normal space-time behind.

* * *

> Captain's Log, supplemental: The _Bonaventure_

> Oh, did I mention there's a new threat in our sector of space?

"We had clues that something was out there, of course. But not enough evidence to alert the fleet, until now."

Admiral Benson spoke with a fatherly voice. An average-looking man, with gray hair that was beginning to thin, he sat at a busy desk, fingers steepled. Behind him, narrow windows opened onto the panorama of a planet, some thirty thousand kilometers away. Most of the surface was reddish-brown, apart from the green and blue directly under the space station.

"So you're going to mount an expedition as soon as possible?" asked Stewart. She was sitting very straight across from the admiral, trying to keep a neutral tone. At her right, De La Pena was pouting. The seat on her left should have been Barett's; instead, Jensen fidgeted in it, looking too small for his dress uniform.

"With you and what fleet, Olivia? We're stretched thin as it is."

"We could sneak back in a smaller ship, grab the Major and get out," De La Pena offered. She looked at everyone else's faces and deflated. "It worked the first time..."

At length, the Admiral chuckled quietly. "I appreciate your loyalty, Lieutenant. Rest assured that we're doing everything in our power. Patrols have been increased. Every ship that could be recalled is on its way here."

"How many, Greg?" Stewart interrupted him.

Benson eyed her uncomfortably. "That's on a need to know... All right, five of them. _Indomitable_ , _Stormfront_ , _California_ , _Hóng Lóng_ and _Piri Reis_."

She frowned. The heaviest of them was half the size of the _Bonaventure_.

Jensen coughed. "Sir, if I may..."

"Speak up, young man."

"If we wait to be better prepared, they will be as well. And who knows what they'll do to Sam... Barett by then."

De La Pena nodded emphatically, and even Stewart allowed herself a smile. The admiral watched all of them carefully before lifting his hands off the desk.

"Olivia, no. No! There are too many unknowns. I don't like leaving a man behind either, but..." He got up. "Take a shore leave. All of you. Please. You'll be the first to know if anything changes."

They hesitated for a moment, then stood as one. There was little else to be said.

* * *

Barett's mind slowly made its way out of a thick fog. He vaguely remembered being dragged through passageways, sat on chairs and prodded with instruments, while bright lights dazzled him. What a strange dream, his brain said in a moment of lucidity, and why had he slept on a bench in the common area?

He sat upright so fast that all the blood drained from his head, leaving him utterly confused for what seemed like another eternity. This was a hard bench under him all right, set against the wall of a small, bare waiting room with doors on all sides. Two of them, once his legs stopped wobbling, turned out to lead into a laundry room and locker room, respectively, and for a moment he hoped this might just be some forgotten corner of the _Bonaventure_ , illogical as it sounded. So he was feeling something not unlike relief when he opened the third door.

The hallway seemed to have no end at first, a gloomy space lined with sleeping capsules on both sides, three deep. Barett took a faltering step in, then another. There was a doorway far ahead after all; if he could reach it...

One by one he noticed the many pairs of eyes trained on him from various heights. A third step, and thin pale bodies slithered halfway out of capsules along the walls, ready to cut him off. He backed away with a shudder.

Time passed slowly in the empty room, and he didn't have any of his gear, not even a watch. At some point he mustered enough courage to try the last door, and it turned out to conceal a bathroom. That instantly reminded him of how much he needed just such a facility. The fixtures were even suitable for him. There must have been other humans aboard the cuboid.

Someone else was in the room when he came back.

From up close and in a good light, the Collective drone was less alien than he expected: just a teenager, in fact, skin too white except for the dark lines framing his shaved head like seams on a doll. His body was encased in a powered frame which also held his electronics together. So they weren't implanted after all.

"Hi," he said unexpectedly. "You must be Barett. Welcome to the Collective."

He extended a hand as he said that, and the marine avoided it like a poisonous snake, falling into a fighting stance.

"Who are you people? What do you want from me?!"

The teenager blinked a few times, and his shoulders sank. "Why are you being so hostile? I was only trying to help."

Barett stared at him furiously. Slowly, he let his arms down. "Am I a prisoner?"

The answer started with an odd finger gesture, as if typing a complex key combination. "I... guess? Sort of? We weren't going to hold you, but your ship left."

"Can you blame them? You were trying to get us all."

"We were trying to stop you from causing more damage!"

"Us? You attacked first!"

The teenager shifted awkwardly. "That... was a script kiddie. We get enthusiastic."

A hundred and one thoughts raced through Barett's mind and scattered like rabbits. "So... what now?"

That gesture again. "Good question. Come with me." They boy pivoted on one leg and ambled into an adjacent room. A locker opened up, and he backed into it, his powerframe plugging into awaiting outlets. It snapped open, allowing him to wiggle free. On his own, he was shorter than Barett, frail body showing through almost transparent fatigues. He motioned for the marine to follow; they went through more doors before ending up in a small cafeteria. It was empty.

"We don't know what to do with you," he confessed while they waited on a replicator. "We're of a mind to just space you."

"We?" Barett looked around nervously at the other Collective, well, people filing into the room, a silent procession. None of them cast more than a glance his way, or each other's, as they stared into their own eyepieces.

"Don't worry, this section is on your side." The boy grabbed his tray and made his way to a table.

The marine followed, grinning uncertainly. "That's a relief... sorry, I didn't get your name."

Another strange gesture. "Oops, I forgot you can't see it. I'm L-four-M-three."

"Your name is _Lame_? Seriously?"

"Well, I sort of am." The teenager started shoveling food in his mouth, with a perfectly straight face.

"I'll just call you L-four." Barett rummaged into the pile of whatever was on his plate. It smelled better than military rations. "And... thanks for the warning. Do I get to face my accusers?"

L-four nodded, eating heartily. "If you join us, you'll be able to speak up for yourself."

"So that's my choice? Assimilation or death?" His hunger evaporated as quickly as it had come.

"You make it sound like it's the end of the world. What do you think we'll do, absorb your consciousness into a hive mind?"

The thought had crossed Barett's mind. "Ah... I'll think about it."

* * *

From hundreds of kilometers below, the dark side of the planet was staring back at her with a fiery eye: the city of Asendow proper. Stewart turned away from the porthole to sit at her portable console again. It was easy to lose oneself in work when the officers' mess was so empty and quiet.

She hardly paid attention when the door opened and closed again. It wasn't until the newcomer tapped on the back of her screen that she took her hands off the keyboard to stretch. "Oh, hello, doctor."

"Refill?" asked the doctor, offering a mostly full coffee pot. She was a tomboyish woman, or maybe a feminine boy, with short raven-black hair and oblique eyes.

"Yes, thank you."

The doctor made a show of filling both their cups. "You haven't gone dirtside with everyone else, Captain."

"Too much paperwork. What's your excuse?"

"Some of the skeleton crew were due for their checkups. Now be honest with me. What's the matter?"

Stewart gave the doctor a crooked smile. "You know me too well. That's what I get for being chummy with my subordinates."

She sipped from her cup before continuing. "All right. I've been reviewing recent unexplained incidents in our stellar neighborhood."

"Looking for clues, detective?"

"Indeed. Remember eight megaseconds ago, when a deep space listening outpost vanished without a trace, buildings and all?"

"Uh-huh. The Helians just about went to war over it."

"Right, and for once I can't blame them. But then, three megaseconds ago the same thing happened to a New Anthean border patrol."

"And now the Curious."

"Exactly. I'll spare you a look at the map: the Collective is coming from the other side of the galaxy."

The doctor boggled. "But nobody has returned from there in centuries."

"Until ten years ago."

"Oh."

"Until ten years ago," Stewart repeated more forcefully, "and we're still not ready for what we saw _then_."

She lifted the cup to her lips, and the doctor mirrored the motion. Neither of them said a thing until the interphone buzzed.

/Captain Stewart, please report to the bridge. I repeat, captain to the bridge./

* * *

Barett lay awake in a sleeping capsule, lost in the depths of the Collective's network.

"You can use my neighbor's capsule for now," L-four had told him. "She's still in sickbay after your incursion."

He'd tried to visit and apologize, but the young woman had turned her back on him and hadn't moved until he left the room. Other were more friendly, but only L-four would talk to him.

"Face time is for sex," had said the teenager consolingly. "Take this."

The eyepiece turned out to project an array of virtual monitors in his field of view. At first it seemed hopeless to keep up with all of them, conversation threads weaving themselves through centuries of media, and simulated worlds competing with views from the ship's sensors. He never knew when it became second nature to him.

"How do you get any real work done?" he'd asked L-four.

"We make it interesting."

Besides, there wasn't that much work to be done, apart from repairs. In fact there were people on board who weren't allowed to touch anything important. Barett ached to do something useful, but didn't want to be accused of fraternizing with the enemy once -- if -- he was going to escape. He doubted his chances. Other abductees had been on the cuboid for months. Then again, if he'd been from the Democratic Republics of Helia, he wouldn't have been in any hurry to return home, either.

A few days later, he was given write access.

Oh, there was no formal interrogation. The Collective didn't even have officers, or officials. Instead, it had administrators and moderators: at the same time an aristocracy and the most humble of civil servants. Not that Barett had much of a head for politics.

They listened. He lived. Time passed.

* * *

From the ground, all you could see was six bright stars receding into the evening sky. But if anyone could have trailed the formation from up close, they would have been treated to a grand sight: the _Bonaventure_ atop a pillar of fire, preceded by the smaller _Hóng Lóng_ and _Piri Reis_ , while the three frigates made up the rearguard. A handful of newly reactivated destroyers formed a protective screen way ahead, while a dozen corvettes flanked the fleet above and below. The pride of our young nation, thought Benson. He sat in his command center aboard the _Bonaventure_ , staring at the holographic projection above the central console. It was a force to be reckoned with... yet only half the tonnage their enemies could field with a single vessel.

"We're approaching weapons range, sir. Half a million klicks and closing." his aide said.

"Thank you, Richard." The admiral hit a button in front of him. "All ships, stand by for turnover."

They could see it on telescopes after a while: a box cut out from the darkness of deep space, spewing a torrent of ionized gas that could strip the armor right off an unshielded warship. The cuboid was braking for orbital insertion. In other words, thought Benson, they're coming for us. And I can't let them turn us all into mechanical ants.

The holographic display zoomed in, numbers dancing around multicolored vectors. He pressed the button again.

"All ships, turnover on my mark. Three. Two. One..."

On the command bridge, Vlasic's fingers moved with calm assurance through the sequence that would bring the ship about. Cut the torch drive; fire maneuvering thrusters; counter the rotation at just the right time. A computer could do it with more precision... too much in fact. You don't want to be that predictable in a fight.

They couldn't hear the other ships reporting readiness, but they also couldn't fail to see it on their sensors. Another order, and Jensen began to bring the weapons online. The thrill he felt every time had a bitter edge now. On one level, he ached for a rematch. But shooting at a comrade had never been in the job description.

In the immensity of space, the fleet crawled towards the invisible limit where the battle could start.

"Incoming broadcast." Al-Madina's announcement made De La Pena start, and for once she wasn't the only one. "I can replay it through a sandboxed environment."

"Notify Admiral Benson."

_/I heard, Captain./_ They both made sure to be formal in public. _/Put us through; I want to hear them for myself./_

Another image grew over the starfield on the main screen: a room like the inside of a data center, where a few Collective drones stood still facing the camera. De La Pena gasped. Front and center was Barett, his left arm and half his head covered in electronics, connecting cables clasped by a shoulder pad.

"My name is Shamus Barett. The Collective have asked me to speak for them. We made a mistake. There's no need to fight. If you could all come over here..."

He trailed off and turned from side to side as other voices raised from outside the frame. "We Are Wasting Time. Your Hierarchies Are Evil. We Will Teach You Collectivity. Do Not Resist."

On the bridge of the _Bonaventure_ , everyone exchanged confused looks.

_/This is Admiral Benson aboard the ASC_ Bonaventure _. We want to avoid a fight. Can you.../_

"They can't hear you, Admiral," Al-Madina chimed in. "There's no upload channel."

On the screen, Barett became increasingly agitated. A keen ear might have heard him say, "Guys, guys, no. Let me..." right before the transmission ended.

Benson's voice through the interphone betrayed puzzlement. _/What do you make of that, Captain? You know your crew better than I do./_

"I don't think he was speaking freely." Stewart sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "Have you seen his eyes and posture?"

"Not to mention all the crap he was wearing," added De La Pena.

/Would you say they're aiming to lure us into a trap?/

"I... guess?" Stewart answered hesitantly. "It's like talking to aliens."

/We have little time to make a decision, Captain. Do we give them the benefit of.../

The admiral was cut off by another faint voice in the background. "This is D-13, we're under attack! I repeat..." It became garbled before turning to silence. On the bridge displays, a destroyer spearheading the formation changed its identification from "friend" to "foe" then back again before changing to a neutral color, followed by a second. Just like that, it was on.

* * *

When they told Barett he was going home, he whooped with joy, hopping along the running track that circled Deck 50 -- one of the few places on the cuboid where that wasn't a major faux pas.

His second reaction was to double over with worry, which is how L-four found him in the nearby hydroponic gardens. The boy was learning to appreciate his company.

"They'll shoot on sight," the marine told him. "You guys will have to be more subtle about it."

"A brick to the face is subtle," countered the teen. "Your compatriots didn't listen to us anyway. But maybe they'll listen to you."

Barett doubted that, but played along. The Collective was well within his homeworld's radio envelope by now, and he was often called upon to clarify the finer points of various broadcasts. It was a bumpy ride, but they were beginning to understand each other. Or so it seemed.

* * *

Missiles aren't normally much good in a space battle. At typical engagement ranges, by the time your railgun shell crosses the distance, the enemy ship has had all the time in the world to disintegrate it, or simply move out of the way. But when you factor in the relative speed between two ships racing towards each other, the equation changes. So when the surviving destroyers unleashed their rain of iron, more than a few projectiles impacted the cuboid's shields, making them flash and flicker, while the massive ship's engines sputtered. The destroyers fired two more salvoes, each less effective as point defense adapted to the new threat. Then they were already screaming past the invader, too fast for any response. By then Hóng Lóng and Piri Reis were close enough, and the space separating them from the cuboid was filled with a glittering web of c-beams.

At last, the Collective retaliated.

A whole armor plate on its flat side lit up with a myriad shiny dots. One couldn't see the laser beams in a vacuum, but there was no mistaking the miniature sun that flourished on the flank of Piri Reis before a geyser of vaporized metal erupted from the spot, the cruiser spinning out of control. Then the cuboid pivoted on its long axis, exposing its broad side, and fired from two emplacements at once. As many explosions rocked the Hóng Lóng before fifty thousand tons of warship went dark.

On the bridge of the _Bonaventure_ , everyone watched in horror.

"It went right through their shields!" De La Pena stated the obvious.

"Fascinating," said Jensen. "Those are phased array lasers operating in the visible spectrum. It's inefficient, but each individual beam..."

"Shut up, Jensen!" Stewart and her first officer snapped in tandem.

Behind them, Indomitable, Stormfront and California closed ranks, their fusion jets putting on a light show as they touched the cuboid's ion stream. It also made their glancing shots ineffective, but at least it seemed to keep the three frigates safe from return fire. More lights bloomed around the battlefield: the corvette escort was deploying decoys. From a safe distance, the surviving destroyers were taking potshots at the relatively unprotected top side of the cuboid.

"Vlasic, keep us pointed straight at them. And push us away. Let's not give them any more of a target." Outwardly, Stewart was all business. "Jensen, can you do something to the shields that would stop their weapons?"

"No, Ma'am. I'm sorry. Shields don't work that way. But a plasma cloud should scatter those lasers just fine."

"It will also disperse our c-beams," mused the captain. "Not that they're doing much good. What else can we shoot at them?"

Jensen stroked his beard. "A nuke, slowly enough to bypass the shields. With all the debris and jamming, it might just work."

"Make it so."

"Aye-aye, Ma'am."

There was a tense silence on the bridge while he started hitting keys.

"Jensen, belay that order."

Everyone stared at De La Pena as if she'd gone mad. She held her ground.

"If we can send a nuke down their throats, we can also send a shuttle."

"Number One... Fran... Be reasonable. You think there's an officer on this ship who hasn't dreamed of rescuing Barett?"

"We're wasting time here..." Jensen called softly.

"Now you sound just like _them_ , Jensen." De La Pena pointed a finger at the cuboid, tiny on the main screen despite magnification.

"How would you even locate him?" asked Vlasic.

"I can hack my way into the Collective's network," explained Al-Madina. "Their intrusion left traces."

"You can?" Stewart sounded pleased. "Now that would be more effective than a nuke."

The ensign nodded. "But I'd have to be there on the shuttle."

In his command center, Admiral Benson was running out of options. At least distance was an effective defense against those lasers, but his ships were still taking damage faster than the cuboid, especially now that the big guns were out of the action. And soon they would be in range of the large orbital city that was Asendow's gate to space -- the polity's livelihood. Which would mean they had failed.

He jumped at the chime of the interphone. "Yes?"

/Stewart here. Admiral, we have an idea./

* * *

The cuboid's hangar doors had taken a hit and were stuck halfway open. They parked the shuttle on top of them, eschewing the docking port. Only a squad of marines emerged this time, wearing light armor on top of skinsuits, and full-sized Gauss carbines. Artificial gravity was turned off, the energy likely redirected to better uses, and they floated down smoothly under the light tug of the giant ship's engines. There it was, suspended by huge cranes: the research vessel Curious, cause of all their problems, and also their early warning. It was all but shorn in half, ruptured conduits hanging out of an unsightly gap, all inert. An insectile robot appeared in the opening and pointed its camera stalks at the intruders, only to scurry out of sight the moment a gun was pointed at it.

"Hold your fire, private. It's just a machine."

"Yes, sarge. Sorry, sarge."

She patted the boy's shoulder. "We're all tense, son."

They were regrouping on the hangar floor when Al-Madina's voice crackled into her helmet. _/I've located him. Seven decks down from your position. Beaming you the map now./_

"Seven?! We barely made it across three decks last time."

/Take the elevator closest to you. I'll make sure nobody will notice./

And if you fail, we'll be trapped like rats, she thought. Oh well, it's not like we have a better plan.

The elevator crossed deck after empty deck on the way down, or at least they seemed so in the red emergency lighting. Now and then, the rumble of distant impacts made them take aim, but no targets presented themselves. The sergeant was sweating by the time the cage stopped, and she was seeing things where her HUD indicated just empty air.

"We've got your back, sarge," one of her men said.

"Thank you, Corporal. Quickly now. Our luck can only hold so far."

Corridors were wider down here, connecting spacious machine shops, pump rooms and walk-in circuit racks into a maze that promised more threats the further they went unhindered.

"Come on," she whispered, "where is everyone?"

That's when she saw them, peeling off from the background of hot pipes like infrared ghosts to surround her marines. Too many, she thought, pointing her gun from one armored body to another. And where's...

Barett was there, too, standing awkwardly not three meters from her. He didn't flinch when she held him at gunpoint.

"Take him and go," said the Collective drone next to him. "Hurry."

She didn't question her good luck as she dragged Barett away by the arm without meeting any resistance. More humanoid shapes were coming towards the squad in the dark. They ran for the elevator without a second thought.

Outside, gunfire was dying down as one by one the Asendowian ships took one hit too many. The Collective was parking itself close to the orbital city already, lights going mad all over the gridwork of towers. Too late, the admiral told himself in the silence of his command center. I should have ordered that nuclear strike.

But is it really any better to go down with your enemy?

* * *

"How is he, doc?"

The sick bay was abuzz with activity -- somehow, the cuboid had managed a few good shots at the _Bonaventure_ anyway. Human and robot nurses alike milled about under the doctor's direction. It took her a good moment to acknowledge the question.

"Incoherent, Captain. Withdrawal symptoms from being taken off the Collective's network."

Stewart followed the doctor to a particular bed in the far corner of the room. Barett was lying there with unfocused eyes, left hand twitching now and then as if reaching for a keyboard that wasn't there.

"I didn't dare remove his headpiece yet. Who knows what they did to his brain."

The captain nodded absently. "Major! Major, can you hear me?"

He failed to react at first, then grabbed her wrist with a lightning fast motion, squeezing hard enough to make her wince.

"What are they doing?" he rasped.

"Major..."

"Tell me!"

She swallowed. "They're taking control of the city's network. There's widespread panic. How do we stop them, Major?"

"Let me talk to them."

"That's too dangerous. Tell me what to do."

His grip tightened. "You don't get it. I've been there."

Out there, not a thousand kilometers away, Stewart's home was descending into chaos. She took a long, hard look at Barett and reached for the interphone.

In orbit, lights were coming back all over the cuboid even as they were going out in the city. Somewhere, a freighter was running away at full burn, sending a pointless distress signal. Further out, inert warships drifted.

Then space wavered and twisted around the cuboid. A million tons of steel passed through an invisible door and were gone.

* * *

Visitors from a score of worlds walked the grand concourse at the heart of the orbital city. Many of them reminded the officers from _Bonaventure_ of the Collective. In their differences, people were more alike than they sometimes cared to admit.

They were sitting on a bench half-hidden by ornamental plants, drinks in their hands: De La Pena's a fizzy swirl of colors, Barett's a subdued blue-green.

"So, I hear you're cleared for duty again," she said.

He nodded. "It will be good to get back on the ship. Civvies itch all over."

"You don't sound so convinced."

"Did I ever thank you for getting me back?"

"Don't change the subject, Sam."

He chuckled. "All right. I grew up believing nothing ever gets done unless there's someone at the top to give the order."

"Well... It's kind of true."

"Is it? We were defeated by a bunch of kids organized around a computer network."

"You've said that before, but I don't understand how it's possible."

"Think about it. How many of our allies sent a warship to help us?"

"None."

"None," he repeated. "And any of them could be next. Whereas in the Collective, they bicker among each other all the time, but sooner or later they all end up pulling more or less in the same direction."

"That doesn't give them the right to force their way of life on everyone else."

"No, no it doesn't. And if they come again, I won't hesitate to shoot."

"But?"

He grinned. "You're a clever girl. It's not the chain of command that gives us strength, but the trust we place in each other."

They got up and wandered off into the crowd, shoulders touching.

THE END

Bucharest, 19 December 2014

## Distant encounters

Hellish wind howled over the short strip of sandbeach, bringing waves out of the night to crash deafeningly against the shore. Where the ground sloped upwards, a man tried desperately to climb out of the wet sand, slipping again and again as his shoes failed to gain traction. The cold, humid air found its way inside his tweed, draining him of energy. He pushed harder, and noted with some relief that he was now among the rocks seen from below. It was a good moment to turn and look back at the dark shape of his father's tiny steam yacht, now run aground courtesy of an unusually high tide caused by the planet's three moons being in alignment.

It had been quite a shock to be awakened in the middle of the night by the incipient storm, only to find out that the entire crew of six, counting his own manservant, had abandoned ship in the rowboat, leaving him to his fate. And fate had made it that they were now lost at sea, while he was safely on solid ground. For certain values of "safely", anyway.

"Sylvain Von Hirschenwald," he shouted mockingly at the sea, "you're in big trouble now, young gentleman!"

And young he was. At barely twenty years of age, his life having been the sheltered one of a scholar, Sylvain was not made for adventure. He was neither strong, nor tall, let alone dashing; as for bravery, that was something one read about in books, by his own reckoning. Worry quickly drowned out his excitement for being alive at all, as he started up a muddy tract of land which could have been a road if not for the recent rain. His good shoes -- the first pair of footwear he had grabbed in his hurry -- were utterly inadequate for such a place, making his progress slow and unpleasant.

Where was he, anyway? The barren landscape, with scarcely any plant life, suggested one of the deserted islands off the old continent's western coast, but which one was anyone's guess now. His best hope was to find a grotto in which to spend the night, and then... it depended on whether the ship would still be there in the morning.

For now, even the first step of his master plan was in doubt, as the terrain kept going up and down, with no rocks in sight bigger than a man. The wind came in gusts now, sneaking in from random directions. A stronger one blew away his cap, and he quickly discovered that his night vision was insufficient for finding it again. Less protected against the elements now, he pressed ahead, making maddeningly slow progress while his already meager strength dwindled. In the end, he had to stop entirely, stooping to shield his face from a blast of icy needles that seemed to have no end.

He had no idea how long he had stayed like that, bent forward against the wind, before he became aware of someone staring at him. At first Sylvain thought his eyes were deceiving him: it was a catboy, straight out of a manga, complete with mobile triangular ears and a fuzzy tail that flicked nervously behind him as he squatted, looking up at the young man with yellow eyes sporting vertical pupils. The eyes of a prey animal ready to pounce.

Sylvain's hand darted instinctively towards his sidearm. But he didn't have the time to point it. With a blindingly fast motion, the catboy swiped at his wrist, leaving behind four parallel gashes. The pistol landed into a puddle of water, muzzle planted firmly into the mud, and the young man yelled as he grabbed his injured hand, trying to see how serious it was. The moonlight didn't help much; he felt something wet on the inside of his forearm, but between adrenaline and the freezing wind, there wasn't much pain at all.

His mysterious attacker had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Sylvain dragged himself forward through the mud, cursing his rashness. The first soul he had met on this forsaken shore, however improbable a creature, and what did he do? It wasn't like himself to even consider shooting someone, and he hated the 1911 in any event. Too big and heavy a weapon for his delicate hands, and it kicked like a mule with its ridiculous nine millimeter gauge. But his uncle had insisted.

And now it was lying uselessly in the mud until it could be cleaned. The same mud clung to his shoes, making every step a chore. He spotted a tree that might have marked a bend in the road, had the road been visible, and leaned heavily against the gnarly, scrawny trunk, gasping for breath. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he wiped them furiously, ashamed of himself. From behind him, the three moons illuminated the irregular terrain raising steadily at last on the other side of the road, and what might have been the roof of a house on top of the hill.

Then the catboy was there again, examining him with eyes that shone in the dark. Sylvain held his gaze, torn between hope and fear. They were about the same age and build, the stranger's wild hair and worker attire the only details that set them apart.

That, and the stranger's language. He was saying something, with a tone of urgency in his voice, but Sylvain couldn't even recognize the language, much less the words. Still, the cloud that covered the moon just then was reason enough to worry.

"Je ne comprends pas," he complained, and started coughing. The wind seemed to blow his words away the moment they left his mouth. The catboy tried again, in a couple of other tongues. "Ich verstehe nicht," repeated Sylvain in the only other language he knew well.

Distant thunder drowned his words. His counterpart stood there for a moment, then grabbed his arm and yanked him in the direction of the barely visible building. The young man tried to struggle, but found himself as weak as a child compared to the stranger. His cuts were finally beginning to hurt, and he labored to keep up. It seemed like a long, arduous climb along a trail he could only suspect was there. Finally they reached a door, and he stumbled inside, the dim light that came on blinding him for a moment.

It was a washroom, with bare concrete walls and wooden pallets over the cement floor. Sylvain looked dejectedly at his ruined shoes, now caked in a thick layer of mud, and bent down to take them off, along with his wet socks. The lower half of his expensive trousers was in a similar condition, and he headed for the sink to try and wash them somewhat.

The stranger laughed, a short harsh laugh, and proceeded to unfasten the belt of his own denims, gesturing to Sylvain to do the same. The young man boggled. But... that was indecent! He turned to the sink again, only to have five mean-looking claws brandished at his face. He took the hint and did as instructed, trying hard not to think about his captor's likely intentions. It was that or stay in heavy, sticky clothes. Yes. All very proper.

Nothing untoward happened as they both stripped to their undergarments, Sylvain fighting with his stiff fingers and wincing every time he had to touch his wounds. The feline-like man simply pointed at a door in the opposite wall, and he didn't see any alternative than to take it.

He froze on the threshold.

Under his feet was a catwalk with no handrails, which crossed a room with no floor. Several meters below, various crates and shelves filled what appeared to be a basement. It didn't make a difference to his paralyzing fear of heights. He stood frozen until his captor came from behind to grab his arm again. The young man closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started forward step by step, focusing on the physical contact. It felt like a long way across.

There was yet another door at the other end, which led into a hallway covered in thick carpet. A door on the right seemingly led to a bathroom, as for the one on the left... The catboy opened it with his free hand, revealing an unlit room in which dark shapes loomed. Sylvain stopped in the door with a whimper. He was pathetic, and he knew it; he wasn't even afraid of the dark, but in his condition it was just too much.

Sylvain fully expected his captor to forcefully throw him in and lock the door. Couldn't have blamed him, either. After the way he had acted from the very first moment... But instead, the boy sighed and dragged him further along the hallway, past a narrow staircase leading down, and into a cozy living room.

The air was warm, even though nothing burned in the fireplace. On the wall opposite from it, bookshelves surrounded a large glass pane framed in ebony. There were doors on either side of the room, and a low table with baggy cushions around it in the middle. Against the far side, the ceiling slanted down, leaving room just for a couch with an oddly flat and wide backrest. That was were Sylvain's captor pushed him down, harder than necessary, and he yelped in pain as he landed on his injured hand. He thought he was seeing stars, but it was just lightning, visible through the little skylight above the couch.

The boy (his host?) looked at him over the shoulder with a mix of annoyance and worry, then grabbed his wrist impatiently. Sylvain winced and tried to pull back, but it was like struggling against an iron shackle. At any rate, his host soon released him and went to get a medical kit. The young man worried at the sound of metallic instruments, but the boy settled for disinfecting his wounds and wrapping them in a sterile bandage. Sylvain cursed his own wimpy attitude again.

The pain soon subsided. He was warm, and tired, and the lights were dim throughout the house. He lied down, just for a moment, listening to the sound of raindrops pattering on the skylight.

* * *

A stray sunbeam woke him up and he sneezed, momentarily confused about why he'd been sleeping, rather uncomfortably, on a couch. The blanket that covered him draped all the way over the backrest, and the body of a catboy sleeping there. As Sylvain watched, the catboy opened an eye and started purring thunderously, then stretched and slid to the floor with a fluid motion. He looked positively effeminate by daylight.

"I need to use the bathroom," said Sylvain standing up, before he remembered they didn't have a common language. He waved a hand in the general direction of the hallway, and his host seemed to understand, because he made a "by all means" gesture.

On a whim, he tried the entrance door, and found it locked. Not that he could have mustered the courage to brave the dizzying catwalk. So he was a prisoner after all, he mused as he entered the adjacent bathroom, but if so, he was in a most pleasant prison. No ideas as to how to handle the situation emerged while he showered. It was a wait and see kind of time.

His host? captor? (he still couldn't decide how to think of the boy) wasn't in the living room when he returned, but domestic noises could be heard from downstairs. Sylvain headed that way only to find himself in a kitchen, separated from the dining area by nothing more than a change in the floor tiling. All the modern appliances were present, even a stand-alone refrigerator, but they all looked like something out of a scientific romance. Much like the bathroom fixtures, now that he thought of it.

The boy was washing dishes, wearing an apron, and Sylvain realized he was yet to meet a servant in what was obviously a rich man's abode. An electric kettle simmered in the background, and the boy donned mittens imitating a cat's paws to take a plate of hot sandwiches out of what looked like a small oven. But then he closed the door, and in a burst of light and sound another plate appeared inside. Then another. Might it have been a dumbwaiter? But no, it was clearly standing on little legs above the countertop. More impossible things.

Hunger and thirst overcame intellectual curiosity, and Sylvain attacked a sandwich, while his host poured tea. He promptly made a face, but bravely continued to chew. Offending the boy was the last thing he wanted. And after all, it was a hot meal.

On the other side of the table, the host was eating two sandwiches for every one of Sylvain's, while fiddling with a flat slab of steel held like a book. Then he looked up from it and asked something.

"I still can't understand you, remember?" pointed out the young man.

"What about now?" said the device all of a sudden. "Hi, by the way."

Sylvain very nearly fell out of his chair.

"Y... yes, good morning. I understand you now."

"Aha!" exclaimed the boy, and the device translated... somehow. "I knew this was the right language database. So, what's your deal?"

It promised to be a long conversation.

* * *

"I'm Yuu," said the catboy after Sylvain finished introducing himself. "Nazokawa Yuu. My parents are on the survey team tasked with studying what your world went through during the centuries of isolation."

Sylvain snapped his fingers. "You're the people from outer space! I didn't think any of you were among us."

"We're not supposed to show ourselves. It's the price we pay for being allowed dirtside at all."

Sylvain nodded. He had been a child at the time of the Himmelstadt Treaty, but knew the story from the horse's mouth, so to say -- his uncle had been the artisan of the Second Contact, a remarkable feat during a full-scale civil war.

"I apologize for making a fool of myself last night. I... wasn't at my best."

"No worries. We gave each other a good scare. I'd say we're even."

"Why didn't you call upon your translator earlier?"

"Frankly, I forgot in all the excitement. Besides, it's not like we needed many words, did we?"

A mischievous thought occurred to Sylvain. "I bet you also enjoyed roughing me up."

Yuu blushed. "That's a stereotype," he answered at length.

"Apologies. That was a bad joke." The young man hesitated. "Ah... I simply have to ask... am I a prisoner?"

"What? No! I just didn't know what to think earlier."

He nodded again, slowly. "Thank you. I need to see what happened to the ship, but my clothes are not in any condition to be worn."

"No problem. I'll just make you a spare change of clothes."

"Make? Don't you mean lend?"

Yuu got up and went to the magical box on the countertop.

"I mean make."

* * *

The denim outfit was too tight, if surprisingly mobile, and Sylvain was feeling naked without some sort of hat, but when in Rome...

He followed Yuu along the rocky hill crest overlooking the road. It was hard going, but better than wading through what was effectively a ditch full of mud after two rainstorms in a row. Besides, the beach turned out to be much closer than last night's desperate march had led him to believe. Wider, too, now that the tide was low. Out on the water, irregular strips of lighter blue indicated sandbanks right next to the surface. The yacht wasn't going back at sea any time soon. In any event, the local seagulls had already taken residence, perching noisily on the bedraggled ship's single mast and smoke stack.

Still, the sun was nearly overhead by the time they were there. Sylvain was getting dizzy just looking up the rope ladder hanging off the fore deck. How in the world had he descended in the first place?

His host didn't seem to have such problems. He climbed up at an astonishing rate, then dangled dangerously back over the railing to help him up. There was a ghostly feeling as they filed along the port side of the vessel. No sounds came from the darkened insides, but for rhythmic creaks and groans as waves rocked the still immersed aft end.

It didn't take long to learn what he needed to know.

"The boiler is kaput. Sabotaged," he told Yuu as he emerged from the engine room. "I have no way to power the wireless telephone."

"Would it even be wise to call for help?"

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. You've been deliberately left for dead, near a place you weren't supposed to know about."

"Absurd! I have no enemies. Why would anyone want to kill a random archaeology student?"

But even as he said the words, Sylvain remembered finding his bedroom at the university broken into and a disquieting letter mentioning his recent excavations at the Grand Crater...

"Come on," said Yuu quietly. "Pack up your things and let's get back. Maybe my parents will know what to do."

Sylvain nodded absently. Dark thoughts assaulted him while he stuffed a travel bag in the gloom of his cabin, listening to the catboy clamber all over the ship's superstructure.

* * *

"There's definitely something happening," Yuu's mother said. "Top researchers from several institutions have been going out of their way to give their most interesting artifacts into our care."

She looked no less human than Sylvain as she examined him out of the big glass pane in the living room, now lit from inside, with a serious expression on her gaunt face framed by black curls. Next to her, Yuu's father was grinning like a Cheshire cat, a pudgy and hairy creature straight out of a children's illustrated book.

Sylvain was pretty sure biology didn't work that way.

"Anyway," resumed the woman, "we'll be home this night and then maybe we can all figure something out. Don't eat our guest in the mean time!"

She said that without the hint of a smile, such that Sylvain couldn't stop himself from giving Yuu a worried look. He missed the television screen turning off.

"So... your parents?"

Yuu tilted his head at Sylvain's puzzled expression. "Yes, why? Oh!" He flicked his fuzzy ears. "These are aftermarket accessories. Father took the genemorph treatment after I was born. It seemed unfair for me to only resemble mother." His tail draped over his lap.

The guest thought of several questions to ask, all of them potentially offensive. "I have much to learn about you," he said at last.

"And the other way around," smiled Yuu. "Come on, let's have lunch."

Sylvain was really starting to hate the machine his host called a "replicator". It could only create food that was pasty, rubbery or, in the soup's case, an amorphous cream. At least it was spicy -- likely so any other taste won't be missed. Also hot, which was always welcome in the island's chill, humid climate. The absence of any alcohol at the table was irksome, too, but having tasted the replicator's other products, he decided not to ask for any. Another trip to the yacht was in order -- maybe some of his own bottles had survived.

"Why didn't you bring a servant with you to cook?" he asked in the end.

"You mean a robot? We decided it was for the best. I enjoy doing most chores; it keeps me grounded."

"As long as you don't overdo it?" smirked the guest.

"Well, yes. Too much of anything is harmful, especially good things."

Sylvain nodded slowly. "I wonder what would happen if we had your machines."

"For starters?" Yuu leaned back in his chair. "All your servants, dockworkers, trench diggers... all the menial workers would suddenly have time to work for themselves. Get an education. Enjoy life."

"But that would be chaos! Next time you know, they'd want voting rights."

The host laughed. "Trust me, that would be the last of your worries. But yes, there would be chaos. That's why we agreed not to simply dump our entire culture on you all at once. Even though people are suffering in the mean time."

"Do people ever stop suffering?"

Yuu's mirth faded away. "No... not really. But that just gives us something to do now that we have everything we can imagine."

* * *

They spent the afternoon wandering about the island, or at least the small portion thereof the Nazokawa estate occupied. Which it did in a most discreet manner -- aeroplanes were venturing ever further away from the mainland nowadays. A cave turned out to exist after all; it apparently served as a hangar for the family's own flying machine whenever it was in.

"There are only a few of us," explained Yuu, "so we live dispersed all over the planet. Makes it easier to reach various points of interest."

"I don't understand. Your mother for example could easily stay in town, near one of the large universities."

Yuu shook his head. "Not even mother could keep up the pretense for very long. It's not just about looks. Besides, I suspect many of your colleagues would sooner accept a talking cat as a peer than they would a woman."

"Wish I could say you're wrong, my friend."

"Eh..." Yuu seemed embarrassed for a moment. "Anyway, I have a surprise for you. Come this way."

Hidden behind a mound stood a little greenhouse, packed with plants to a degree Sylvain had thought unfeasible. Clearly, progress didn't just mean taller buildings and faster automobiles. He was all too happy to hold a basket while his host filled it with fresh vegetables.

"You must be wondering why we have a greenhouse at all."

"I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth," said the guest with dignity. "But how did you know?"

Yuu winked. "That's what friends are for."

Sylvain didn't know what to answer to that. But the salad at dinner was the best food he'd had all day.

And then it was time for sleep.

"Why do you have a bunk bed in your bedroom if it's just you?" asked Sylvain while easing himself out of the borrowed garments. He had forgotten to change back into his own. Tomorrow, perhaps. He would have to look presentable for the master of the house.

Yuu sprawled on the upper bed. "What do you mean?"

That made Sylvain chuckle. "All right... so why did you sleep with me on the couch last night?"

"I was feeling lonely. Not in that way, silly!" added Yuu in a hurry, seeing his guest's expression. "Why, your culture equates physical closeness with sex?"

Sylvain was at a loss for words again, so he simply turned off the light and crawled onto the lower bed. Nope, not afraid of the dark at all. Yet sleep was a long time in coming.

* * *

Mrs. Nazokawa was a tall but frail woman, very much the opposite of her husband. She was also stern-faced and never seemed to smile; Sylvain suspected he would have been terrified out of his mind if it had been her during his first night on the island, with her harsh voice, instead of her son. The irony wasn't lost on him, either, as they examined each other across the living room table and many centuries of history.

"Do you recognize this?" she asked, pointing at the item sitting between them. It was a flat slab of white metal, with an inscription in a dead language etched plainly into it. On a closer look, it was made of millimeter-thick plates, about twenty-five of them, held together by solid clamps.

"It's the Codex Deiectus!" he exclaimed, eyes threatening to pop out of his head. "But... nobody's been allowed to touch it since its discovery."

"Oh? But surely nowadays you can tell what used to make it so toxic?"

Sylvain nodded. "It was just covered in uranium dust. But for some reason we've been repeatedly denied permission to try and clean it up."

"Well, it's safe to handle now. Think you can read it?"

"Can I...?" he reached over with a trembling hand and removed the clamps one by one. The first slate was clearly for protection, but subsequent ones were covered in a grid of rectangles, each about the size of his thumbnail and divided by an even smaller grid. The woman quietly slid him a jeweler's loupe.

"These are pages from a book!" he exclaimed, and did a quick count. "An entire book on each side of a slate!" He took one at random and skimmed its contents. "It's a treatise... a treatise on electricity and magnetism... and instructions on how to build a primitive radio." He chocked. "We... we could have called for help three hundred years ago. You could have been here for a century by now!"

"And all the rich and powerful in your world would have become irrelevant in the mean time," she pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Which means you," added Mr. Nazokawa jovially, padding in with a tray of cocktails. Sylvain nearly jumped out of his skin -- the man moved without making a sound -- then hurried to reassemble the artifact and get it out of the way.

"I don't understand," he said. "You're rich. These things don't just go away."

"What makes you think we're rich?" asked the lady of the house, almost smiling for the first time.

Sylvain waved his hands around wordlessly.

"Ha!" Mr. Nazokawa sipped from his drink. "This is an average home where we come from. Thanks for the whiskey, by the way."

"All the same," mused the guest. "A house like this is all I could wish for. That's why I went into academia and not business like my father wanted."

"Ah, but you're missing the point," retorted the woman. "Rich people define themselves by how rich they are compared to others."

"That's my father all right. Oh! I see what you mean. We wouldn't lose our wealth, we'd lose our power."

He thought some more.

"But... isn't that going to happen anyway as we rediscover all the lost science and technology? It already happened in your history -- our history, before the Fall."

"Of course," nodded Mrs. Nazokawa. "But the rich and powerful will do anything to postpone that moment. For as long as possible, and at any cost. That, too, happened in history. More than once."

Instead of answering, Sylvain took a long sip from his own glass. All the old legends claimed that people had been brought to this planet from elsewhere, along with all other lifeforms, only to lose all their knowledge and have to painstakingly claw their way back out of a Dark Age. But until recently, evidence had been circumstantial at best. It didn't help that the more relevant artifacts were to be found in areas that were either irradiated, poisonous or both. He'd worn a modern diving suit himself inside the Grand Crater, where nobody had even thought to dig until the big landing ten years before. Ordinary people still didn't know about the event, but in the upper layers of society it was old news by now. No amount of censorship was going to keep the truth a secret for much longer.

"I still can't fathom why anyone would want me dead," he said.

"Good question," stated Mr. Nazokawa. "Where were you headed before the storm?"

"To the Tropics. I was asked rather forcefully to take a leave of absence from my studies at the university. It did seem a bit odd that father was so keen on lending me the yacht."

The hosts looked at each other meaningfully but said nothing more.

* * *

A rainbow of colors lined the porch, flowers of every kind growing in neatly lined pots. Sylvain stepped out into the pale sunlight, passing among the meager patches of grass barely clinging to life on the island's thin soil, and looked out on the sea lined with the foam of low, long waves advancing in tight packs. The air was hazy towards the horizon, and he shuddered. Somewhere out there, hidden from view, were six men who had been well paid to make sure he had an accident, and they were just the tip of an iceberg.

"Sylvain! Over here!"

He turned to see Yuu waving to him from the door of a shed.

"I have a surprise for you," said the catboy.

On a small table lay in order a number of matte gray steel pieces, recently oiled by the looks of them. Sylvain brain needed a moment to understand what he was seeing.

"I found your gun," added Yuu, "and cleaned it, but didn't know how to put it back together."

"You... did this for me? But I almost shot you! How can you trust me with it again?"

"Because you didn't."

"I wonder what your parents would say if they knew I came armed to the island in the first place." Sylvain's hand were already in motion, deftly reassembling the pistol. "Tell you what... you keep it for me."

Yuu watched him working. "What did mom and dad decide, anyway?"

"They're going to try and reach my uncle. He'll know what's going on." He filled the magazine, chambered a round and sighted, then unloaded the weapon again.

"This is the safety. Keep it on at all times. Better yet, keep the gun unloaded." Sylvain handed over the ominously cold and heavy object to his new friend. "And pray that you never need it."

"Don't you mean, we? It's still yours after all."

The guest sighed heavily. "Yuu, why did you take me in?"

"Well..." The catboy sat on a stool, tail over his hands, ears drooping a little. "At first I didn't want to have a stranger lurking around the house... or dying out there for that matter. But then I saw that you were lost and scared, and... I spend too much time alone, Sylvain, or with people much older than myself. There's nobody else my age on the survey team. That's much harder to endure than I thought."

Sylvain leaned against the door frame. "I don't have many friends either. The other rich boys only talk of parties and hunts, gambling and races. As for my fellow scholars, they don't even see a world outside of their abstract, esoteric books."

Yuu smiled faintly. "We're a couple of misfits, aren't we?"

"Yeah... guess we can do that together for a while. You know... since I'm stuck here anyway."

* * *

The man on the screen looked haggard. He was in his thirties, with red hair and a bushy mustache in the same color, wearing a khaki uniform with countless leather straps and small round glasses. Golden oak leaves adorned his collar and cap.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am, nephew. Key people have been disappearing one by one -- pretty much anyone involved with the Grand Crater dig. I thought for sure the same had happened to you."

"It almost did," pointed out Sylvain. "What's going on, uncle?"

"The Treaty of Himmelstadt is about to be renewed. And there's a very powerful faction that wants to make sure it doesn't happen."

There was a stunned silence on their side of the screen.

"They're going to accuse us of stealing their research," said Mrs. Nazokawa. It didn't sound much like a question.

"It would appear to be their plan, ma'am," the officer said somberly.

Sylvain leaned forward. "What can we do?"

"For now, stay put. As far as everyone is concerned, you're out on vacation."

"But in a few days it will be obvious that I never made it to Las Estrellas."

The man nodded. "And by then I might just have enough information to act upon. The Secretary General isn't going to ignore solid evidence."

The silence was filled with unspoken worries.

"Uncle... do you think father is involved?"

"Hm. I bet he is. But probably not in the way you think."

* * *

The sun was atypically bright the next day, heating up the yacht's deck. An awning at the aft end provided shadow for a couple of chairs, from which the still sea could be clearly seen all the way to the horizon. But the two occupants were more preoccupied with the pair of good quality fishing rods that extended over the water.

"Are we supposed to catch something, too?" asked Yuu with just the faintest hint of irony.

"Er... I guess? That's not the point of fishing though."

The catboy chuckled. "How were you even planning on surviving, had the island truly been deserted?"

"I didn't exactly have time to think that far ahead," admitted Sylvain.

"Mmm."

Time went on.

"Yuu, I meant to ask... How come everything here is so... normal? To hear my uncle tell his story, the visitors he met were these fantastic creatures casually juggling with the laws of nature."

"Ah, that's a funny story. If I remember the original report correctly, the people who rediscovered your planet were the crew of a, how should I put it? A traveling carnival. Dependent on exotic technology just to hold together and fly around. They're not average. While most of us..."

He cut off and stared into the distance.

"What is it?"

"Airplane, coming this way."

"How do you know?"

"The same way I knew about your ship." Yuu winked. "Seriously, we have a small radar that pages my implant whenever something approaches."

"You can explain me later. Shouldn't we hide?"

"We can't hide the ship," pointed out Yuu. "Let's wait and see what happens."

"Mmm." Sylvain tried to focus on his fishing rod, but the spell was broken. He fidgeted, while a little black dot on the horizon grew bigger, and resolved into the shape of a small floatplane, about the same time that its engine could be heard. Both men watched tensely as it circled above the yacht a few times, then flew back the way it had come.

"We're clear," breathed Yuu.

"Hardly. That was a reconnaissance plane. We can expect its mothership to visit soon."

"But we'll be discovered! We can't afford that now!"

"Maybe not. You go back to the house and let me talk to them."

"Why not come with me?"

"Because we don't know what they'll do if they find the empty yacht."

"But they'll want you to go back with them!"

"Yeah... I'd better talk fast then."

Yuu sighed. "Take this, at least." He handed the translator to Sylvain. "We'll be able to listen in."

He left in a hurry, and Sylvain very nearly ran after his new friend. It was so tempting to hide in that dark basement and stay there until the whole thing blew over. But he couldn't refute his own arguments.

There was plenty of time for evaluating options during the wait. It took half an hour until the expected ship appeared over the horizon, a sleek design with small guns suggesting a frigate, and another half an hour until it came close enough to launch a boat. Sylvain watched as six sailors rowed rhythmically, while a seventh man steered them around rocks and sandbanks.

"Ahoy there!" he shouted when the boat was close enough. Sylvain examined him carefully: a dark-skinned man, with shaven head and steely eyes that matched his uniform.

"Ahoy," the young man shouted back, leaning over the handrail.

"I am lieutenant Wolfe of the FRS _Evening Star_ ," shouted the officer again. "May I ask who you are?"

Sylvain introduced himself, and waited patiently while Wolfe patted one of his men on the shoulder. "Jones, signal the ship. We found our missing person." The sailor nodded and produced a mirror.

"Are you alone, Mr. Von Hirschenwald?" resumed Wolfe.

"Certainly, lieutenant. I'm afraid this island is as deserted as it appears." He cringed inwardly, hoping the earlier aerial visitor hadn't spotted the house. It was well camouflaged from the air, but you never knew. "Why do you ask?"

"Because we have six men over there swearing they've been forced into their lifeboat at gunpoint, by pirates intent on taking you and your ship."

Sylvain felt the blood rushing into his face. "Liars! They left me to die in the storm. Come aboard, I'll show you."

A mirror started flashing aboard the distant frigate.

"Sir, message from the ship," said the sailor. "We're receiving an S.O.S."

"I'll take your word for it," shouted Wolfe towards the yacht, "now please hurry and get down here. We can take you to Westport after a small detour."

"Sorry, lieutenant, but I'd rather not abandon the yacht."

Sylvain cringed again, his brain racing to come up with the flimsiest excuse. Another boat was rowing away from the _Evening Star_ , soon followed by the frantic flickering of the signaling light.

"Sir, it's our guests. They've taken their boat and are rowing ashore."

Wolfe threw his hands in the air. "Everyone loves solitude all of a sudden! Fine, so be it. We'll radio your position to the Coast Guard as soon as we can." He signaled his men to turn the boat around.

"Thank you, lieutenant, that's all I ask."

Sylvain waved cheerfully. If they chose to think him mad, that just meant fewer explanations to give. The problem was going to be his former crew. He moved to the prow of the yacht before speaking into the translator. "Yuu, our traitors are coming. They seem to be headed towards the western shore of the island, away from the house." He sighed. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

The uniformed man on the screen wasn't happy to hear the news.

"Sounds like we'll have to expedite our plans, nephew. Hold on, the cavalry's coming."

He closed the connection abruptly. They sat and looked at each other in the suddenly quiet living room.

"What do we do now?" asked Mrs. Nazokawa, sounding a lot less sure of herself as usual.

"What can we do?" countered her husband.

"We can't just wait!" she insisted.

Yuu's big fuzzy ears perked. "We won't have to. Someone's at the front door."

Sylvain could hear the knocking and calls as soon as he drew near the stairs. He stayed behind while his hosts went to answer the door, a storm of feelings washing over him. Judging by the voices, it was his steward and cook -- the crew he'd trusted most aboard the yacht. The people he least wanted to meet after what they'd done.

And the Nazokawas were inviting them inside.

They looked terrible: thin, pale and with huge bags under the eyes, as if they'd spent a lot longer adrift. Then again, Sylvain remembered, that first night had been a nightmare even to himself; he could only imagine what it must have been like in a small boat on the open sea, not to mention however longer it had taken for them to be found.

But that was nothing compared to their expression when they saw their former employer.

"Monsieur!" gasped the steward, an older man who would have looked dignified under any other circumstances. "Thank the stars in heaven that you're all right!"

"An odd thing for you to say, isn't it, Maurice?" piped Sylvain.

The steward turned red in the face.

"For what it's worth, monsieur," his companion interjected, "Maurice and I were blackmailed into going along with it."

"So you know that we know." The lady of the house had regained her composure, and she looked scarier than ever. "What are you doing here?"

"It's... it's the captain, ma'am," stammered Maurice. "He's fallen ill with something. We need help." He lowered his head. "Also, we wanted to see monsieur before the authorities found us."

"You shouldn't have bothered," said Sylvain coolly. "If you think I'll..."

The master of the house stopped him. "That can wait. I'll go get my medical kit. Join me upstairs, young man?"

Sylvain frowned and stomped after him.

"How much do you trust them?" asked Nazokawa once they were out of earshot.

"After what they did? As far as I can throw them. But I can believe that they were blackmailed. Evil they aren't."

The furred man nodded. "Go get your coat. We'll watch each other's back."

In the privacy of Yuu's bedroom, Sylvain loaded the gun before strapping on the holster, higher than normal to make sure it stayed hidden under his jacket. For such a big weapon, the 1911 was easily concealed. He still hated it, but couldn't rely on prayers for protection. Unfortunately. And if it had been just his life at stake, maybe he'd have allowed himself to be killed. But now his friends were in danger as well. Cowardice equals irresponsibility.

The western beach was small and rocky, but the ground sloped down more gently in that direction. The scene could be seen from afar: three men in sailor uniforms standing nervously around a relatively small boat, itself occupied by a prone shape. They watched the approaching party with incredulous stares; Sylvain wondered whether it was himself or the alien that was causing them more consternation. The latter however seemed unfazed as he approached the boat and examined the man inside. The captain in turn raised his head weakly.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked hoarsely.

"No, but I'm the closest thing to one for hundreds of miles. If you want my help."

The sick man chuckled. "Ironic, isn't it? If I had my way, your kind wouldn't even be here." He paused to regain his strength. "But I want to live... doc."

Sylvain stood back, hand not far from the concealed weapon, watching his former crew, who in turn watched like hawks while Nazokawa diagnosed their captain with instruments as futuristic as his bag was old-fashioned.

"Looks like you caught a bug," he told his patient. "Likely from the _Evening Star_." He raised a hand to stop the man's protests. "You were weakened after your ordeal, they weren't."

"Can you help him?" asked a middle-aged man with huge sideburns, his uniform stained with oil and soot.

"I believe so," answered Nazokawa, not bothering to look up as he searched in his bag. He came up with two pills. "This is for the fever, and this other one will help your body fight the infection until I can figure out a better treatment."

"Wait," said the engineer. "How do we know that's not p..." He stopped and looked at Sylvain.

"They saved my life already," pointed out the latter.

"Looks like we'll have to trust each other blindly," grumbled Nazokawa, and helped his patient swallow the pills. The man fell asleep in moments. "He needs shelter," added the impromptu doctor, "but I can't say any of you is welcome into my house."

"Take the boat and go to the yacht," said Sylvain. "Might as well use it."

They did just that.

"What do we do now?" asked a younger man who must have been the ship's second engineer judging by his looks, as they sat around in the darkened lounge aboard the yacht, minus the captain and Nazokawa.

"Oh, I don't know... you got yourselves into a fine mess," deadpanned Sylvain. He was sitting closest to the door, still ready to draw on a moment's notice. "If only you hadn't told Lieutenant Wolfe that tall tale."

"We had little choice, monsieur," Maurice said apologetically, "they have our families."

"Who does? Is it my father?"

"Oh no, monsieur. On the contrary, your father expressly asked us to keep you safe."

"Well, that's a relief..." Sylvain trailed off as they all became aware of a growing noise outside, the buzzing of large airplane engines. It became so loud, they barely heard several people climbing aboard: the entire Nazokawa family.

"I brought proper medication," said the father. "And somebody brought a huge flying boat."

Everyone climbed on the deck in a hurry. The aircraft's flat bottom had allowed it to come close to the shore, enough that its occupants could wade through the water all the way to the beach. There were over a dozen people, all dressed the same and carrying rifles.

"Somehow I don't think that's my uncle..." mused Sylvain.

It was too late to hide, or for that matter do anything else while the armed men invited themselves aboard. They were followed by a portly person in an incredibly expensive three-piece suit that contrasted with the rubber boots he'd worn in order to disembark. His face looked familiar... ah yes.

"Mr. LePrince," called Sylvain icily. "What brings you here?"

"Is that a way to greet a friend of your father?" answered the man in a disgustingly sweet voice. "Why, we were all worried sick at your disappearance. When I heard the news that you had been found, how could I not make haste to come and see for myself?"

"Oh? And why didn't you bring his father along, then?" asked Yuu suspiciously.

One couldn't miss the way LePrince avoided looking directly at the catboy. "Why, there was no time to take him along." He turned as two of his men returned to the deck after searching the ship and whispered something to him. "We'll return for the injured momentarily. For now, if you'll all be so kind as to get off the boat..."

There was no mistaking those words for an invitation, even though not a single rifle was pointed at them. Yet.

"What do you intend to do with us?" ventured the young engineer once everyone gathered on the beach. The sun was still burning, but the wind was picking up, and there was a distant wooshing sound that didn't come from the waves.

"Oh, I don't know," LePrince said affably. "If only you had done the job you were paid to do."

"We did exactly what we were paid to do," spoke up the one member of the yacht's crew who hadn't said a word so far. He had on a uniform not unlike the captain's, and the same air of an experienced seaman about him. "We were paid to cut off some pipes, not to kill anyone."

"Too bad it didn't work out as planned, eh?" snerked LePrince. "I am to blame, really, for letting myself be influenced by old Von Hirschenwald's nonsense. Act with subtlety, he said. Let the aliens discredit themselves over time."

Mrs. Nazokawa winced at that. "I knew it."

LePrince conspicuously ignored her. "What happened to you anyway, Commander? I thought you were one of us. You hated them." He glanced briefly at the nonhuman among them and scowled.

"That still doesn't make me a murderer," the seaman answered with dignity, "and they did save the captain's life."

"Indeed? Tsk, what a waste."

"What do you mean?" asked the second engineer, looking around nervously. There were all the weapons pointed at them, of course, but there was also something in the air...

"Why," LePrince explained condescendingly, "since the original plan has gone down the drain, I have to make do. And you have conveniently provided me with the means to bring this story to an ideal conclusion."

"And that is...?" the commander insisted. There was definitely something in the air. If only they could keep the man talking...

LePrince's amiable mask fell. "You all died valiantly defending your master from the alien invaders." He motioned his men forward. A few of them didn't have the same rifles as the rest but rather an assortment of futuristic weapons that must have been somehow obtained from the much-hated visitors.

Behind Yuu's back, Sylvain's hand hovered over his own weapon. He only had seven rounds, half the number he required, and he couldn't possibly fire them fast enough in any event. But he had to try... didn't he?

LePrince's goons took aim. They started squeezing the triggers.

"Throw down your weapons!" boomed a voice overhead.

Two dozen heads turned to stare at the decloaking orbital shuttle. It hovered low, and the mean-looking quad cannon under its nose was pointed at the armed men. "Now!" boomed the loudspeaker again.

They complied one by one, timidly, before taking a few steps back in stunned silence. LePrince's eyes darted from side to side, his surprise turning to despair, then determination. When the shuttle started lowering itself to the ground, he dived for one of the abandoned rifles.

"Down!" shouted Sylvain, shoving Yuu to the ground with one hand, while the other reached under his jacket. Time seemed to dilate like in that crazy new theory while he followed the steps drilled into him by his uncle. Grip with both hands, flex your knees, aim carefully...

Both shots went off at the same time. But Yuu hadn't been the target.

Everyone stared as LePrince bent over and collapsed. It took a moment before they realized Yuu's father was also bleeding.

"Don't worry," he grinned widely as his son rushed to his side, "I'm tough. Genemorphing isn't just for looks." Then his knees buckled and he put all his weight on Yuu's shoulder. The catboy didn't even flinch. "Yes, dad. Yes you are."

* * *

It was evening by the time things settled down at the Nazokawa residence.

"I would be cross with you for bringing a gun into my house, but you did save my life," said Mr. Nazokawa. He was sitting on the living room couch, the ribs on his left side bandaged. He turned to Yuu. "You're a good judge of character, son."

Sylvain smiled despite himself at the indirect compliment and looked at his uncle, who wasn't even trying to hide his satisfaction. "Yes, uncle, you told me so."

"I wasn't going to say it, nephew. But you and your new friends also saved the Treaty. With little help from me, I might add."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Nazokawa. "Not that it matters so much anymore."

"What do you mean, ma'am?" asked the officer.

"We held a teleconference with the rest of the survey team. Treaty or not, it would be a bad idea for us to maintain a presence here any longer. We ruffle too many feathers just by existing."

"But..." Sylvain's smile melted like snow in a furnace. "Does that mean you're no longer going to help us? Are we doomed to repeat centuries of mistakes then?"

"No. There's a better way. It was Yuu's idea, actually." She nodded towards her son. "Tell your friend."

For the first time, Yuu seemed shy. "We-ell... You see... Our resupply ship should be in orbit late next week, in time for the Treaty renewal. And... it will have plenty of room aboard." He took a deep breath. "Sylvain, won't you come with us? With me? Live on our homeworld for a while, learn our ways. Then you can come back and teach others too."

"It won't be easy, or safe," added Yuu's mother. "I fear there may be a faction among our own who doesn't want this to work. I can't imagine why, but how else did those men have our weapons?"

"We'll investigate, ma'am, you can be sure of that," the officer assured her. "What do you say, nephew?"

Sylvain's head was spinning. "Well. Uh. I mean, my bags are already packed." Then he was hugging Yuu in a most undignified manner. "Yes!"

And there was laughter in the house that night.

THE END

Bucharest, 10 January 2014

## Second Contact

The two men fighting atop a cliff were at once alike and contrasting. Both had red hair and fair skin, and wore identical khaki uniforms criss-crossed with leather straps, now all tarnished with dust. But while one stood huge and muscular, with a face that seemed carved in stone, the other was lanky, and his big round glasses threatened to slip off at all times.

He was hardly helpless, however. As the giant's fist swung at him, he blocked, while his free hand went for the sidearm. But he was too slow. By the time he managed to draw, his opponent's left hand grabbed his wrist, and they struggled for a moment. Then the larger fighter reached for his own revolver. That would have been the end, but for a desperate wrestling throw which failed... except both guns went flying, one into some bushes, the other clattering into the ravine. The smaller man found himself on the ground, trying to back away from the unequal confrontation.

"Why are you doing this?!"

"For the people!" bellowed the giant, obviously delighted at this turn of events. "For freedom!"

"You're a Bergerist!?"

"So that's what you call us now? Wanting to restore the original Republic is a matter of mockery?"

"You fool! There is no original..."

"Oh, shut up," barked the giant, and rushed him. That was it. Except...

A small projectile hit him in the chest and exploded into a cloud of very fine hairs. He missed the next step and tumbled after his weapon.

* * *

The soldier straightened his glasses with a trembling hand and looked around for the shooter. What he saw made him pat his head in search of a concussion.

It was a cat, a large Maine Coon, except standing upright and wearing the greatcoat and cap of a steamship commander. He held a brass rifle, almost as long as he was tall, covered in springs, levers and knobs.

"Are you all rrright, young man?" he asked, in a surprisingly human voice.

In all honesty, the young man had been expecting something out of the ordinary to happen for a while now. There had been lights in the sky, strange radio signals and, as several astronomers had confirmed, a giant asteroid hurtling through space towards the planet. But a talking cat would not have been his first guess... or the last.

He jumped to his feet, cheeks red, brushing ineffectively at his own dusty uniform.

"Y-yes, sir. Absolutely fine, sir... er..."

"Name's LeChat," the feline informed him, "Capitaine Claude LeChat. And you are?"

"Corporal Gilles Renard, Republican Signal Service." He prayed that the officer wouldn't ask about his motorcycle, which now lay mangled at the bottom of the ravine, where the traitor had sent it.

"At ease, Corporal. I'm not your commanding officer."

LeChat proceeded to stuff the rifle inside his greatcoat. It vanished without making as much as a bulge. Gilles must have been staring, because the cat tilted his head at him.

"Do you need a ride, by any chance? I'm headed northwest."

"Towards the Grand Crater, sir?"

"The wh... Oh, right. That way, yes."

He dropped on all fours and walked away. The young corporal followed mechanically, still struggling to get a grip on the recent events.

* * *

The dirt road meandered endlessly among rocks and pine trees, going generally downwards. It made sense; they must have been on the other side of the mountain by now, though it was hard to say without the odometer. Gilles' watch had broken in the fight as well, and the sun was more or less overhead. LeChat traveled in a very feline manner, sneaking through tall grasses and sticking his nose in every crevice along the way. That greatcoat must have been very cleverly tailored to enable his movements.

"I must apologize for the way we met, sir," said the soldier after a while, pondering the best way to ask the obvious question. "See, we're in the middle of a civil war. Hardly a good time to receive visitors from the stars."

"It's that obvious, then, Corporal?"

"It was either that or a very weird dream, Captain, and the pain in my ribs is all too real unfortunately."

LeChat chuckled. "You're taking it well. Perhaps I could ask for your assistance in a small matter?"

"If it is in my power, sir." Gilles answered carefully. "You did just save my life after all."

"Right. Well, last time I checked there was an infantry regiment marching towards our landing spot. Uniforms like yours. Do you suppose..."

"That must be the 6th! I'm carrying orders for them..." He suddenly clamped his mouth shut and checked an envelope in his belt pouch.

"It's a good thing I parked my ride nearby, then." The cat went down a narrow forest path, human in tow.

* * *

The ride in question turned out to be a tiny airship, floating serenely at anchor in the middle of a clearing. The nacelle looked like a child's concept of a flying fish, complete with oversized flippers, except it was painted yellow and had a propeller for a tail. Gilles examined it doubtfully while LeChat pressed a brass button on his sleeve and a rope ladder unfolded from the top side of the vessel.

"Were you expecting something more high-tech, Monsieur Renard? A flying saucer, maybe?"

"Honestly, yes. After all, you do come from outer space. Wait, what's a flying saucer?"

"A stupid idea. Don't chase shiny toys for the sake of it, Corporal. This is the right tool for the job."

He clambered up the rope ladder at a speed Gilles couldn't hope to match. Obviously he didn't want to give the human a chance to hijack the vehicle. The latter considered doing just that for a moment, then changed his mind. He still had an arm covered in scars from the last meeting with his cat; LeChat was four times heavier, and sapient in addition to that.

The interior of the vehicle resembled a cross between the cab of a locomotive and what he imagined the interior of a submarine to be like. The hatch in the ceiling was airtight, in any event, and a heavy bulkhead door led further into the bowels of the ship. Gilles had little time to ponder the mystery before the floor plates started vibrating. A sudden heave made him blanch and reach for a grab bar.

And then they were off.

* * *

At the complicated control panel which sat between the bulbous eye-like viewports, LeChat busied himself turning wheels and pulling levers.

"Sorry about that. It will be a smoother flight once we're out of the mountains."

Gilles nodded absently, leaning against the frame of a viewport for a better view of the landscape beneath them. He had soon grown used to the frequent bobbing and swerving, and was now scanning the forested slopes in search for any sign of activity. The road came into view several times only to disappear again; the airship, however slow, had shortened the trip considerably.

"Over there!"

He rushed to the opposite viewport, nearly stepping on LeChat's tail. Off to port board, the pine trees gradually made room to a gently sloping meadow. Barely visible, a stream made its way across the open space, and dark birds were circling overhead, avoiding the columns of smoke that propped up a spotless blue above.

At first it was difficult to distinguish what it was that burned. As they floated closer, however, the skeletons of several trucks became apparent among the flames. Bodies were littered among them, both human and animal, the former wearing barely recognizable khaki uniforms. Gilles could see no movement on the ground, even as LeChat reduced the engine turation to a minimum and brought the airship mere meters above the recent battlefield.

"Too bad we can't hear anything in here," mused the human.

His host promptly turned a wheel, and two of the voice pipes on the dashboard sprung to life. A whiff of smoke and death drifted in, but the only sounds that reached them were those of nature.

"We are too late," Gilles said tensely. "They have already encountered your people."

LeChat shook his head. "My people would never commit such a massacre. Not even in self-defense. Besides, look at that." The airship was very low now, passing by a horse-drawn ambulance riddled with bullet holes. "We don't use such weapons," he explained.

"Too primitive, Captain?"

"Too deadly." His ears flattened as he looked out the viewport again.

Further away, under the treeline, a few bodies in a different uniform, red longcoats and spiked helmets, were strewn around a toppled machine gun.

"Bergerists," spat Gilles. "You were right... and I was late. That's why he was trying to delay me."

"The man you were fighting earlier?"

He nodded. "Damned traitor. It was for naught, too; I would have been late in any event."

"Do you... want to go out there?"

"What for? There is nothing more we can do."

Gilles took a dried flower out of his wallet, touched it to his forehead, then cupped his hands around it in a gesture of prayer. LeChat watched in silence.

"Do you happen to have a wireless telegraph I can borrow, Captain?"

"Not on board, no. But we are minutes away by air from where we landed. My friends can set one up for you."

Gilles nodded again. "I suppose that's faster than flying all the way back. Thank you."

* * *

"The Sacred Scrolls teach that men were once like gods, able to fly among the stars and bring life to dead worlds. But they were also jealous of each other, and often argued over the best way of doing things. With time, their disagreements grew worse. Arguments turned to war, and their war grew until it threatened to upset the natural order of things. So they were struck down, and where they hit the earth a big crater formed. Such was their hatred of each other, that nothing grows there to this day. And the curse of war has been with us ever since."

Gilles sighed. "I apologize. Shouldn't be boring you with old fairy tales."

"Not at all." LeChat's voice carried a hint of purring. "That explains much, in fact."

The human grinned bitterly. "The truth behind the legend?"

"Indeed. Such as why your world shows up as a waystation on our oldest star charts... but not newer ones."

"Why did you stop by, then? Surely you must have been able to ascertain the situation."

"We did. But it was an emergency."

"That is all? An emergency stop?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Renard. Not very flattering for you, admittedly."

"And this world?"

"Only a colony. Why do you think most of the other continents are barren? Terraforming was never completed."

The soldier nodded. "You know, there are some crazy theories about... Wait, are we at the Grand Crater already?"

They were indeed just crossing a circular rock ridge, curving towards the horizon. But there was no crater inside. Instead, a city of gleaming spires sat surrounded by a crescent-shaped lake, or maybe a small sea, bordered by forest in turn. Countless bullet-shaped vehicles, some flying, others on rails or cables, zipped back and forth across the landscape, just far enough for details to stay hidden.

Gilles looked in amazement at the skyscrapers lounging upwards at them as the airship sailed ahead. "None of this was here last week."

"Figures. We just landed two days ago. In the, um, crater."

He nodded absently. Those crazy theories weren't so crazy after all. "Wait, landed? How do you land a city?!"

"The same way you take off with it in the first place. By magic."

"Magic? Now you're pulling my leg... Captain."

"You're talking to a cat," pointed out the cat. "But all right. What we really do is harness dark energy to alter the behavior of fundamental particles on a Planck scale via self-replicating femtoscale actuators."

The young man opened and closed his mouth a few times. Fundamental particles sounded vaguely familiar... maybe.

"See what I mean? It's easier to just call it magic."

He stared at the feline. "Are you a wizard?"

LeChat waved a paw dismissively. "I know some technomancy. Enough to keep this tin can afloat."

"Oh? Is this vessel magical in nature, then?"

"Only the power source. The rest of it functions on principles that should be familiar to you."

"I see." He turned back to the viewport just in time to see a small biplane approaching them. It made a barrel roll as it whirred past their bow. In response, the Flying Fish emitted a cheerful siren sound.

"That's a friend of mine," explained LeChat, furiously manipulating the controls. Gilles leaned forward to see better while the airship lurched in pursuit of the nimbler biplane.

"I can't see the pilot," he noted.

"He doesn't need one." deadpanned the cat.

It took him a moment to internalize the implications, and he staggered to the back of the bridge to sit on a chest.

"Something the matter, Monsieur Renard?"

"You are mocking me, Captain. Everything's the matter! You can be literally anything you want. You can make a city fly through space. Damn it, you've just told me you can bend the very laws of physics! Tell me, what form do your people take on whatever remote star gave birth to you? Would my feeble human mind even be able to cope with it?"

LeChat watched his instruments pointedly. His tail alone was flicking.

"Baseline humans," he said at length, "look the same everywhere."

Gilles didn't answer.

"It just happens," added the feline, "that space travelers such as myself are seldom baseline."

He turned to the human, unclipping a little box from his breast pocket. "Take this, you're going to need it." The soldier clipped it to his own uniform, looking shell-shocked; the cat's voice had been coming from the device all along.

* * *

It was a small airport, looking like any other Gilles had ever seen. The same could not be said about the converted hangar in which he sat, waiting for an answer to his transmission. It appeared to be a store selling what he thought were conveyances of various sorts; at least many of them had wheels, saddles and the like. The owner, too, was half flying machine, albeit of a sort the human could not identify.

He sighed and turned his attention back to the wireless telegraph he had been using. His hosts had said it was improvised on the spot, as they no longer used such crude means of communication, but it did not look improvised. Quite the contrary, in fact, judging by its compact shape with smooth, rounded surfaces. Was this, then, a glimpse of his world's own future?

"Any answer yet?"

Gilles looked to his side, where LeChat was just placing a platter on the table. He shook his head wordlessly and reached for a sandwich. It tasted like chicken.

THE END

Bucharest, 20 April 2012

###

**About the author**

Felix is a life-long geek and speculative fiction reader. Always wanted to write as well, which is exactly what he's doing as of late when he's not making videogames or digital art.

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**My Other Books**

Afterlife By Night  
Little Magic  
Vryheid

