 
Residential Aliens

Issue 4.11

Published by ResAliens Press

Smashwords Edition

Each Story Copyright 2010 by the Author

Smashwords Edition, License Notes  
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Stories in this Issue

1. Petition by L.S. King

2. The Fluttering Flies by Gary Raven

3. Plague Ship by Kurt Heinrich Hyatt

4. Full Moon Gala by Lachlan David

5. Tarzan at the Earth's Corps by Walt Staples

PETITION  
by L.S. King

The soft crunch of boots through the snowdrifts signaled intruders behind Alcandhor. His spine stiffened. Could he not have a few moments alone at his father's crypt to grieve the fresh loss? He turned to face a group of Rangers. The two in front stood shoulder to shoulder: Sedhral and Fandhrel. He had expected this, but—so soon, and here at the crypt?

Before the Rangers could speak, Alcandhor stated, "You are calling Question."

A few of the men shifted, but the two spokesmen remained firm, jaws set.

"Aye, we are," Sedhral said.

"Aye, Thane, we are." Alcandhor's eyes bored into Sedhral's, his breath steaming before him.

The Ranger's lips twitched, teeth grinding as if he were trying to swallow a mouthful of vinegar. "Aye, Thane," he spat, finally. "We are calling question. You are too weak to lead our clan."

Alcandhor snorted—a dry, humorless laugh. "Aye. You would not call Question on my father when he made me his heir, but you will bravely face his crypt?" His lip curled. "Call Question. Face the chiefs in conclave and give them your facts as to why I should not be Thane."

"It is your character on which we call Question."

"What fault have I besides being second son? Granted, 'twas not my choice to be Thane, nor my heart's desire, but the mantle has fallen on me. I took oath before the chiefs and all our kin to hold the law to my heart, and to serve my clan with my life." Alcandhor took a step toward Sedhral, his boot sinking shin-deep in the snow, jaw clenched. "I have never broken a vow, never given less than my best as a Ranger. Call Question."

He stood, waiting, as the men exchanged glances. Sedhral returned his stare. Ah, nay, Alcandhor knew this game—his older brother had taught him well. He fixed his gaze on his accuser, while fat snowflakes descended in the silence, until Sedhral lowered his eyes.

Alcandhor lifted his chin, his glare encompassing them all. "Have you more to say?"

The Rangers again shifted and glanced at each other. Several muttered, "Nay, Thane."

"Then I have duties to attend." He turned purposefully away from them and faced the crypt. Fist over his heart, he bade his father a silent farewell. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him against the frigid weather, Alcandhor crossed the grounds to Thane Hall.

Once inside, he stomped his feet free of snow. As he shook his cloak and hung it on the wall, Alcandhor bit the inside of his cheek. Truth admitted, he doubted himself as much, or more, than his clan. He had not the strength of his older brother, or the will to lead.

His brother had always been a loner, but why had he refused heirship and retreated high into the mountains of the neighboring province? Alcandhor let his breathe out slowly, once again forcing his mind to release his unanswered questions—but not his resentment. His brother's reasons mattered not, only the result: Alcandhor now bore Thaneship as his primary obligation, his own ambitions perforce cast aside.

Alcandhor's love was the sciences and history; his passion to study, to see the devices of the Enaisi, the long-gone aliens they sometimes called the Elders, working again, to discover a way to activate the portal which could take them to other worlds and find their mentors of old. He bore the mantle of heir, and now of Thane itself, out of duty; his clan saw this and doubted his heart, his commitment.

But he would not do less than his best—for his father's sake, for his people. He ground his teeth in determination. He would not.

~*~

Elbows resting on the table, Alcandhor frowned at the papers the Ranger handed to him. "Why is this petition being brought to me? It seems a simple enough case. And a mother's petition is no reason to alter the law."

The Ranger shifted foot to foot. "It is the victim's mother making petition, Thane. Lord Lorwith felt that made it peculiar enough to send on to you."

Alcandhor gazed up wryly. "You mean he is lobbing it to me."

The Ranger lifted his shoulders with a slight smile. Alcandhor sighed and dismissed the Ranger with a nod. As the door closed, he began reading the transcript and petition. He dropped it and rubbed his face. Now, more than ever, he needed his father's advice. But no answer would be forthcoming from the crypt. He had inherited this mantle; now, he must make these hard decisions.

A knock made him straighten. Haladhon, papers in hand, peered around the door. Alcandhor relaxed; he need not be Thane to this man—first cousin, best friend, and Third at Table all contained within that tall frame.

His cousin swaggered over, green-grey eyes twinkling. "What news did the Pashelon Ranger bring?" Haladhon hip-sat on the table and folded his arms across his leather jerkin.

"Lord Lorwith has graced me with a sticky judicial matter. The mother of a dead boy is asking for mercy for her son's killer."

"That is...unusual. But still, why should mercy be shown a murderer? The law is strict."

"'Twas not murder, but accidental." Alcandhor shoved the petition at his cousin. "Read it, Third at Table, you will understand."

Haladhon set his own sheaf down and picked up the petition with a frown. He read through the pages, and groaned. "Three previous convictions for maiming others. All because of recklessness."

"Aye. His last victim lost a foot due to his unthinking acts. He was given the severest punishment, and it did not cause him to mature or change his ways. Now, he kills a friend while 'playing' with his bow, and in front of witnesses. And although not of Age, he is not a child, having nineteen years. Sporting with a weapon cannot be excused, not considering his age and his history."

"I see why Lorwith passed this on to you. He would not fain give judgment on this muddy matter." Haladhon tapped the desk with his fingertips. "This is your first real test of Thaneship. How shall you judge?"

Alcandhor leaned back, staring at the wood grain on his table. Ever since finding he would be Thane instead of his older brother, Alcandhor had endured the watchful eyes of the Rangers. And now, as with the confrontation with Sedhral and his men, many asked if he had the strength to be Thane. Dare he abrogate the law, which his clan vowed to uphold to the death?

Shaking his head, he replied, "By the law, my answer must be 'life for life.'" He hesitated and inhaled deeply. "If possible, have the boy and the victim's mother journey here. Lorwith will likely howl at the cost, but in relegating this matter to me, he bears brunt." He met his cousin's eyes. "Remind him of that, if necessary. The petition will be heard in one lunation."

Haladhon's brow furrowed. "You are going to give judgment face to face, and watch your word carried out." It was not a question.

Alcandhor looked up at his cousin, anguish piercing his heart. "I must."

Haladhon let out his breath and shoved the papers he had brought in at Alcandhor. "I must add to your burden," he said apologetically.

Grimacing, Alcandhor began to read. Halfway through, he set the report down and leaned back with a sigh. Paltor not only ruled with an unjust, heavy hand, he turned his eye away from the graft perpetrated by his overseers. No proof had thus far linked him to any crimes, yet Alcandhor had no doubt the Keladar lord not only allowed but promoted the offenses, and profited directly from the misdeeds of his underlings. "Lord Paltor is going to turn my hair grey."

"But my dear Thane, 'tis not Lord Paltor," Haladhon explained, eyes wide, his voice too clearly mimicking the fat lord. "How can he know all that goes on within his province? He is but one man."

Not in the mood to appreciate his cousin's wit, Alcandhor glowered. "Send a Ranger and an account keeper to Keladar province. If we can ever get proof of Lord Paltor's complicity, we can bring him to a Lords' Conclave."

Haladhon's snort bespoke his confidence they would succeed. "And if we do, how many of his peers would vote to censure him when some of them are just as deep in similar activities?"

"So you think we should shield our eyes to their crimes?"

"Nay, but I think providing justice for their provinces in our lifetime is much too optimistic."

Alcandhor nodded at the report. "Send the men. The Maker may smile on us. But even if not, we may find evidence to remove this overseer."

"And a new one will be honest?"

Alcandhor shot his Third at Table a wry look. "Your unwavering belief in the goodness of men is admirable, cousin."

Haladhon chuckled. The door burst open, and as his cousin turned, his laughter died. Aleta entered, her flowing, dark skirt rippling in her wake as she crossed the room. Alcandhor stiffened slightly. What now?But his wife appeared to be in good humor—how rare.

"And how is my Thane?" she chirped.

Haladhon stood, his eyes hard. He bowed to Alcandhor, muttering, "Duties call, Thane."

Alcandhor stifled a sigh while his wife and best friend exchanged wary glares as would two fighters in a sparring circle. The door banged as his Third at Table left.

Aleta's red lips quirked up. Her finger trailed along the table, her dark eyes bright. She pushed the petition and other papers back and sat on the edge, facing him. She lifted her chin emphasizing her high cheek bones and long neck, her black hair cascading down her back.

Alcandhor still had to admit the woman was a rare beauty. Too bad her coldness had chilled his affection over the years. He had no illusions that she loved him; she only loved herself. But at least she had provided him with the joy of children: two strong sons, and his baby daughter.

"Where is Amara?"

Aleta's long, slender fingers waved in the air. "Oh, that girl has her." She brushed Alcandhor's hair back, placed both hands on his shoulders, and whispered, "What are your plans now, my Thane?"

Her constant usage of his new title nettled him, but her seductive attitude distracted him from the annoyance—he rarely saw this side of her anymore. With a slight smile, he asked, "Before or after evening meal?"

"Mm, either. Both." Her breath was warm against his cheek.

He cleared his throat. "I had intended to order the reports and petitions before meal, but I suppose I can do that after—" Her lips on his ended his sentence. Indeed, definitely afterwards...

~*~

He watched Aleta straighten her bodice gown, a sultry smile on her lips. "So, my Thane..." She tapped the table. "What in all these reports is so important that you cannot leave them for one evening?"

"I need, at least, to finish reading the reports from Keladar."

"Keladar?" Aleta's almost-permanent sneer settled on her face. She picked up a pile of papers and began to leaf through them. "What is that bloated by-blow up to now?"

"Aleta..." Alcandhor reached over to take the reports from her.

She twisted, but he snatched them from her, and her eyes widened.

"You know I cannot discuss such matters with you."

"You could if you wanted to! You can do what you please, now. You are Thane!"

"That makes no difference to our laws. I am bound—"

With a strangled cry, she threw her arms up and stomped in a circle. "Bound! Bound! Bound!" Her flared sleeves rippled up her arms as she waved her hands above her head. "What is the use of being Thane if you will not do what needs to be done? You can make Claim, set things right! Why will you not see the possibilities?"

Alcandhor tried to take her by the shoulders, but she shook him off and turned away, crossing her arms.

"Aleta...do not say thus. Ranger clan follows the law—and as Thane, I am the embodiment of the law."

"You could rule this world," she said over her shoulder as she strode to the door. "Instead you let it squash you like an insect."

Alcandhor jammed his fingers through his hair as the door slammed.

~*~

The petition rolled in his hand, Alcandhor entered Lamadhel's work chamber to find his uncle hunched over the table, red head bowed over an old, faded document, a square enlarging glass in hand. A fresh parchment lay to the side with inkhorn and pens.

"Is it your age or that of the parchment which makes reading difficult?"

Lamadhel raised his head, blue eyes narrowed. He leaned back and straightened his jerkin, lips pursed. "Disrespect toward your elders, boy?"

Alcandhor grinned. "Disrespect toward your Thane, Ranger?"

With a snort, his uncle set down the glass and nodded at the rolled papers. "Trouble?"

Alcandhor shook his head, approaching the table. He held out the petition. "Nay. Not trouble, but troubling."

Lamadhel's eyebrows lifted, and he took the papers. He needed not the glass to read them, but did hold them a bit farther away from his face than Alcandhor remembered. His father's brothers were no longer young; would that he could keep them until age took them, many years from now. He needed the wisdom of these advisors, as well as the comfort of kin at his side.

Lamadhel finished reading and sat back, letting his breath out in a low whistle. "Sticky, this."

"Aye."

"What is your answer?"

"I see no answers other than what the law states. I had hoped you would be able to advise me, Ranger Chief."

His uncle's eyes bored into his. "Wish you to call a conclave of the chiefs for this?"

"Ah, nay." Alcandhor rapped his knuckles softly on the table, then realizing it gave away his agitation, clenched his fists tightly to his sides. "This is my decision. I had merely hoped as chief law-keeper you might know of some reference that might..." He trailed off, feeling weak in begging for help.

Lamadhel was silent for a time, then cleared his throat. "You know the law as well as I do. Do what you must."

"Father often said the law was hard, and that it must be tempered with compassion."

"If you had some years of Thaneship behind you, and the full backing of your kin, still...giving leniency would come hard. This boy seems, by his past actions, to be a real danger, not having learned from previous judgments and punishments. He worked the mines for two years last time. Who might he maim or kill next?"

"Yet the boy's heart, by all accounts, is not bent toward evil. Think you my father would give leniency?"

Lamadhel's shoulders sagged just a bit, and he gazed into the air with a sorrowful expression. Alcandhor's own grief rose, and he suppressed it, keeping his eyes on his uncle.

"I know not which way Saldhor would sway," Lamadhel replied, his voice low and hoarse with emotion. "He valued compassion highly, but ignorance can be as damaging as evil intent. This boy played with a deadly weapon as if a child's toy. Another person is dead as a result. Do we gamble with others' lives out of compassion?" Lamadhel rolled the papers and handed them back to Alcandhor. "Do what you will, my Thane. The chiefs will back you."

So his uncle gave him full trust. Good to know, but still—Alcandhor curled his lip in a rueful smile. "Would that be enough to protect me from anyone calling Question?"

"I know not. But then..." Lamadhel stared up with a curious expression. "If the clan supported the Question called, you could pursue your dreams, as Thaneship would then fall upon Bardhor."

A flash of hope rose in Alcandhor, but died as his father's disapproving gaze wove across his mind's eye. He brought himself back to the moment with an inward shake and, despite himself, grinned. "I think Haladhon would not fain see his father Thane."

"Oh?" Lamadhel's brow raised.

"He cares not that he is so close to Thaneship already, being Third at Table."

"I knew not he had such hesitations."

"I would say fear, if one could imagine thus from him."

His uncle smiled. "Wish you to cause your closest friend such distress?"

Alcandhor barked a laugh. "For his sake, I will endeavor to keep Question from being called."

~*~

The hour was late when Alcandhor entered his family suite. Candles and the fireplace lit the chamber. Instead of his wife, he found the young widow, Jholinn, on the sofa, her back to him. Over her shoulder, he could see the mass of curly, dark blonde hair belonging to his daughter. Amara bounded up with a squeal and ran to him. Laughing, he picked her up and whirled around with her, then gave her a tight hug. Little arms wrapped around his neck, and he just held her. This...this was something for which to live.

"You should be in bed, Little One."

"I'ait fo' you."

"So I see." He chuckled, and touched noses with her, making her giggle.

Jholinn rose, eyes downcast, and curtsied. Alcandhor was one of a small number who had an—albeit limited—empathic ability to both feel and send emotions, a legacy from his alien ancestors. But he used his Enaisi gifts seldom, finding it easier to hide his own emotions, even from himself, when blocking.

However, he need not sense Jholinn to know her antipathy toward him. Her care of Amara he could not fault, though, and he needed her for that, especially since Aleta seemed to care nothing for her own daughter, as if only sons mattered.

"Thank you, Jholinn. If I had realized Aleta would not be here, I would have come sooner."

"It...it is fine, Thane. Amara has had her evening meal and washed up already, too." She smiled at Amara, but the smile faded as she met his eyes. She averted her gaze, curtsied again, and hurriedly left.

Alcandhor stifled a sigh. She was only one of many in the clan who disapproved of him. But she need not like him, only love Amara—and that she did.

He stopped blocking as he sat down in a chair near the fireplace and cuddled his daughter, the simple joy of feeling his baby's love a balm to his heart—especially with the ache of his father's death so fresh.

Some time later, Aleta breezed in. Being half asleep, with his block down, Alcandhor sensed her without forethought; she was drunk, and—glowing with sated sensuality. The knowledge did not strike him—but rather settled in his stomach, a sinking weight.

He had lately suspected—no; honesty to his own heart: he had indeed known, even if he lacked proof, that she was unfaithful. But always he closed his eyes—and his empathic ability—not wanting to believe, not wanting to admit to himself...what? That he had chosen badly? That his wife acted with such shame, and brought dishonor to him, his children, his clan? That he had been a fool to let beauty sway him in the gardens and grand chambers of Estan Hall all those years ago? Aye to all, yet the last was closest to the mark. He was a fool.

Fool or not, he was now weary. He had given her all he had, all he was, until he felt drained, void, empty. She gave nothing back. Not love, not compassion—even at his father's death. Her surface charms had worn thin. Trysts such as the one in his Thane's chamber earlier were rare, and empty. She refused to participate in any intimacy if she felt emotion from him, so long ago, he learned to chop off his feelings and block, making their bed a cold place despite the heat of passion.

A chill settled in his heart, and his weariness gave way to finality—he was through pretending and turning away from her conduct. An almost frightening calm descended on him as he tore his gaze away from the sleeping baby in his arms to regard his wife. She looked smug.

"Where have you been?" He kept his voice soft to keep from waking Amara.

"Oh, just keeping warm against the cold winter. Have we a bottle in the suite? We could have a little drink together, and perhaps..." She trailed off, giving him a seductive smile.

"Nay." Alcandhor returned his stare to the fire. "I have work to do after I put Amara to bed."

"Suit yourself." She swept through the curtained archway into the bedchamber, humming to herself.

Aye. I have work to do...and so does Haladhon.

~*~

Alcandhor paced across the Thane's chamber, feeling his cousin's eyes on him. He could not bring himself to talk about his suspicions concerning his wife to his best friend, even though—or perhaps, especially since—the two always despised each other.

"Shall I wait until I turn to stone from boredom, Thane, or do you tell me why you called me here so late?"

Alcandhor spun and regarded his Third at Table by the flickering light of the sconces, chewing the inside of his cheek. Haladhon, as usual, perched on the edge of the table. He wore an expression of wary amusement.

"I...I have a task for you as an Elite that...might be regarded as personal, but since it impinges on the reputation of the Thane and his family..." He stopped, unable to continue.

Haladhon leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Aye?"

"I..." Bells above how can this be so difficult? "I suspect Aleta..." Alcandhor grimaced, shaking his head.

"You suspect her...of infidelity." Haladhon did not ask a question, but merely finished Alcandhor's statement. He crossed his arms. "It is quite past time you opened your eyes."

Alcandhor's mouth dropped open. "How long have you had suspicions?"

His cousin's back arched. "Had suspicions? For many years. Known—I have gathered proof, going back over two years. Farther back than that, I cannot verify."

A whirl of emotion and thought almost staggered Alcandhor. He rubbed his forehead. "Years..." He glared at his cousin. "My children. My heirs..."

"I have found nothing to indicate your sons are not your blood, or I would have approached you at once."

His insides chilled, froze. "Amara?" he whispered.

Haladhon tipped his head with a hesitant shrug. "I cannot say for certainty."

Alcandhor slowly walked to his chair and dropped into it. "Two years..." His precious girl, his baby... His head snapped up, and he spat, "You did not tell me?"

"I tried. You would not listen. I knew not if you were still so love-struck with her, or merely being an obstinate fool. You do not take meddling in personal matters well, and when it concerns her, you have never given me one moment's heed."

Alcandhor blew out his breath, slumping in the seat. He could not deny the truth of Haladhon's charge. He did not answer right away, and his cousin, wisely, remained silent. Finally, Alcandhor said, "I want to see all the evidence you have documented on Aleta."

~*~

The sun streamed in the windows at an angle marking mid-morning, and still, Aleta slept. Alcandhor watched her, wondering, as he had many times, why he had fallen for her. His youth, he supposed, and his naïveté; and her open admiration, which had played on his insecurities. Most of all though, he had succumbed, as had many men throughout the ages with similar women, to her overt sexuality.

His rage upon reading of Aleta's indiscretions had lowered to a manageable simmer—with Haladhon's forceful assistance. Now, a sense of what was best for the clan and his children rose to the fore. If he put her out, Sedhral could make the claim Alcandhor had broken a vow. But he had other choices.

Before he could decide on whether to wake his wife by snatching the bedcovers off, or by tossing water on her, she rolled over and her eyes fluttered open. She frowned, stretching. "It's late. Why aren't you at the Training Hall?" In her sleepy state, she reverted to her family's accent.

Alcandhor had gone over what he would say to Aleta, but now he found his words spilled forth without preamble. "I will not put the reputation of the Thane at risk, or for the children's sake, put our lives on display, so in public we shall be as a couple. However, from this moment on, in private, you are estranged to me. I would fain move to the Thane's suite in the Chief's range, however, that would distance me from my children, so—"

"What are you blather—"

He raised his voice slightly and cut her off. "Although we shall share a bed, there will be no intimacy between us. You had best use discretion in your affairs, because any future children you bear will not be mine."

She rose up onto her knees in the bed—no shame, guilt, or alarm crossed her face, but instead a snarl. "How dare you!" Aleta scrambled out of the bed, and began dressing. "If you think I'm going to stay here and listen to this—"

"You will listen—and obey me—in this!" Alcandhor did not bellow, but the forcefulness of his declaration stopped her, underbodice dangling from her fingers, and she stared at him in amazement. He stepped closer, his teeth gritted. "Do you understand?"

To his confusion, a smile slid onto her face. "Yes, my Thane. I do."

He had expected any variety of reactions, but not this. And he was not going to stay to see what she might be conniving. He spun on his heel and left.

He strode down the hall, his thoughts on Amara. Was she truly his child? He thought of the beautiful little girl with her soft curls, and arms that wrapped around his neck as she snuggled into him. Nay, it mattered not—no matter her blood, she was his daughter. No one would ever know; no one need ever know of doubts about her parentage. Alcandhor would not let the stain of her mother's transgressions taint that little girl!

Clan Law focused on bloodlines, aye, but in the end, love made family.

~*~

Alcandhor entered and saw the chamber full. The Rangers that wished to call Question on him sat in the back; more than one judgment would take place today.

Displaying more confidence than he felt, he strode to the front of the chamber and to the arbiter's table, wishing desperately for his father's guidance.

"Are the parties who petitioned for arbitration present?" he asked formally.

"They are all here, Thane," Haladhon replied.

Alcandhor sat. "Let them stand forward."

Two women and a stripling male stood and bowed before Alcandhor. Their faces all shared despair.

Inwardly, he ached for them, but kept his face from any emotion. "Clan, sept, family, and name."

The woman with reddish-blonde hair curtsied and lifted her chin. "Tonshill. Clan Shenalt, sept Denvra, family Terrin. I made petition, Thane, for the life of Dengar."

The boy bowed again, his dark eyes haunted. "Dengar, family and sept Clemin, clan Bentara." He nodded at the dark-haired woman. "This is my mother, Onara."

Alcandhor met the mother's eyes, hoping his words and tone were as kindly as they were firm. "You are not the petitioner or the accused, Onara. You may sit on the front bench."

Onara hesitated, glancing at her son and Tonshill, before curtsying and returning to her seat.

Alcandhor let his gaze rest on Tonshill. "Your clan thane is not here, and you have no person knowledgeable of the law standing with you as advisor. Do you wish me to provide you with counsel before we continue?"

"No, Thane. I am advised I have no legal recourse. This is a petition of emotion." She bowed her head. "I know it's—it is very likely futile, but since the law does allow for a petition of emotion, I grasped it as our last hope."

Alcandhor caught her correction of the contraction—was she trying to sound less like a commoner, thinking it would gain her footing? Stars. What do commoners think of us?

He tapped the sheaf of papers on the table. "I have read the account of the accident, the trial, and your petition. I forego the formality of reviewing the facts, but do wish to ask one question of you, Dengar." He caught and held the boy's eyes. "Why should I even consider any mercy toward you considering your past behavior?"

Dengar shook his head. "I don't want mercy, Thane. My best friend is dead, by my hand. But I couldn't say no when Tonshill—" He broke off, and looked at the floor. After a moment, he continued, "I don't deserve mercy."

Some few considered arbiters who had Enaisi blood, as Alcandhor did, to be cheating for being able to feel the emotions of others. Only his clan had the ability, and granted, it was limited, but still, as with all the Thanes before him, it did often give Alcandhor direction—as it did now. The boy's grief was genuine and appeared to cut deep. The emptiness in his eyes mirrored what was in his heart.

Alcandhor pulled back and focused on the murdered boy's mother, taking a breath to ease the painful emotions he had experienced. "Now to aim for the heart of the matter." He folded his hands and leaned toward Tonshill. "Why do you beg for the life of the person who killed your son?"

Tears filled Tonshill's eyes, and Alcandhor could sense her grief and desperation—echoing his own recent loss too deeply. No respite for him unless he blocked. He focused on the woman, not thoughts of his father in that cold crypt.

"Our families are neighbors," Tonshill said. "Onara and I are like sisters, and our sons as siblings. We both lost our husbands young, and help each other to survive. It's bad enough we lost my son Virnor, but to lose Dengar too—" She gasped to stop herself from bursting into tears.

Alcandhor bit his lip to keep himself composed. Feeling her raw emotions tore at his heart. She really loved this other woman's son as her own. Amara flitted through his thoughts, the daughter of his heart, regardless... Love makes family. A revelation dawned on him. He took a breath, a scheme growing in his mind. All he knew of Clan Law and the Maker's Law...he could think of nothing that barred him from this course. Dare he do this?

He cleared his throat and shook his head. "I can offer you no hope. The law is the law, and I cannot abrogate it. I brought you here to hear the judgment personally from me. You are owed that."

Dengar trembled and put an arm around Tonshill's shoulders. Onara covered her face, and Tonshill pressed her lips together, tears rolling down her cheeks, clinging to the boy.

Alcandhor met Dengar's eyes. "The law states, 'A life for a life.' I must, by law, sentence you to death." His finger pointed at the lad. "It shall be entered in your clan's book of records that on this day, you died. From this time onward, you are dead to your family, sept, clan. Your life is forfeit—to replace the one you took. You are now of Tonshill's family. You are her son, and owe your life, your breath, to her. You will work her land, be the hands of a son to her. Any children you sire will be counted as her family and clan's."

He paused, watching as comprehension lit their faces. "I have spoken."

As he rose, he gauged the emotions of those in attendance. Some were stunned, others confused. His uncle Lamadhel puckered his lips, but his eyes shone with pride, and he gave a slight nod. Several of his detractors murmured among themselves, but the two spokesmen crossed the chamber toward him with purposeful strides, faces red.

He straightened, hoping he hid the fear in his heart with icy authority.

"Alcandhor, this is most inappropriate!" Sedhral spat.

"Are you mad?" shouted Fandhrel.

Alcandhor jabbed a finger at them. "Take care how you speak to your Thane," he said, his voice low but deadly earnest.

Both Rangers halted in their protests, blinking.

"Your pardon, Thane," Sedhral said, with a look on his face as if drinking sour wine. "But this is unprecedented."

"And did not my father promote breaking precedents when they hobble us as one does a dray beast? Neither of you openly opposed his reformations when he lived, do you do so now when he lies in the crypt, unable to face you?"

Fandhrel stared at the floor, and Sedhral glared, his jaw muscles working.

"I—have—spoken," Alcandhor repeated through gritted teeth. He nodded toward Lamadhel. "You are free to discuss the matter with our chief law keeper, but I fain wager you will not find a point in the law with which to call Question—on me, or my decision."

Head high, he stared them down—as he had that day in the snow. They bowed, then slunk away.

Let them rail; he had not broken their laws, and more importantly, he had preserved life, and family. Perhaps...perhaps his father would be proud.

Copyright 2010 by L.S. King

L.S. King has racked up many credits since diving into writing full-time over a decade ago. To date, she has published one novel, Deuces Wild: Beginners' Luck, as well as many short stories; authors a column for writers; teaches fiction writing online; has worked as a submissions editor and a copy editor on several magazines; and is managing editor of the online magazine, Ray Gun Revival. Her next novel, Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck, is slated to be released in 2011.

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THE FLUTTERING FLIES  
by Gary Raven

THE BRISTOL BUGLE

Local Lorry Driver Still Missing

Italian and British police are entering their third week of investigations into the disappearance of local lorry driver, Douglass Barnes. Barnes' truck was found abandoned on a roadside in the northern Italian city of Ventimiglia on May 28th this year. A spokesman for the Italian police has told reporters that Barnes' disappearance is not being treated as suspicious, but Superintendent John Aldridge—officer in charge of the British investigations into the case—has "not ruled out" foul play at this stage...

~*~

The images crept into Douglass' view again as he sat in the optician's waiting room. They were shapeless at first, nothing more than translucent specks floating around the periphery of his vision. He refused to focus on them, staring instead at the "This Season's Colours" article in the six-month-old copy of Vogue draped across his lap. The specks multiplied and began to spill over the words, gathering a greenish hue as they tumbled off the page.

Douglass closed his eyes and watched the green blobs dance in the darkness as their shapes became more spherical beneath his eyelids. When he opened his eyes again, the blobs scattered in front of him, spreading into the room until they faded to invisibility. He waited a moment, staring straight ahead to see whether they would return. The woman in the yellow dress sitting opposite him returned his stare, and he quickly looked back down to his magazine as his cheeks flushed red.

"Douglass Barnes?" The optician's voice sounded muffled by the dense air in the room.

Douglass dropped the magazine onto the coffee table in front of him and attempted a smile of acknowledgement. The optician beamed back, as though to show him how it was done, and then held open the door to the treatment room.

The room was small and gloomy. The optician took his seat behind an untidy desk and began thumbing through a brown cardboard folder. Four bright yellow orbs bloomed around his head. Douglass watched as their luminescence intensified and slowly began orbiting around the optician's bald scalp.

"So, Douglass, we last saw you back in February according to your notes."

"Yeah."

"And from what my colleague has written here,"—the orbs were spinning faster, stretching into brilliant stars—"you were suffering with some blurred vision?"

Douglass pulled his stare away from the optician's head to his white jacket. The name badge on the lapel read Dr. Guidon.

"Not really blurred vision—it's more like shapes." When Douglass looked back at Dr Guidon's face, the orbs had disappeared.

"Okay. Can you describe what these shapes are like?"

"I don't know. They're different every time. Sometimes they're just bits of colour I can see from the corner of my eye. Other times I can actually see objects."

"Objects?"

A straight vertical line of purple flashed into existence on the desk between the two men, then disappeared just as quickly.

"The other day," Douglass pulled nervously on the edge of his moustache as he began, "I was driving back from Dover along the M20. I got as far as the third junction, and then it started to happen again." He paused as though he expected the optician to say something, but Dr. Guidon simply sat with his chin resting on his knuckles as six luminous orange tentacles grew from the right side of his coat.

"When it started, it was just patches of bright blue in the corner of my eyes, so I rubbed them, which sometimes helps, but that seemed to make the patches bigger this time. Eventually I could only see the road through these bright blue shapes. Every time I blinked, the shapes would dart a little to the left, and then settle back to their original position."

"And what were the shapes?" the optician asked.

"They didn't make any sense. One of them was a vulture sat on a perch—"

"—A vulture?"

Douglass ignored the incredulity in Dr. Guidon's voice. His attention was pulled towards the orange tentacles, which had now left the optician's coat and were floating benignly near the shuttered window at the back of the office like the dismembered remnants of a jellyfish.

"Yeah, a vulture," he forced himself to continue the conversation, "but part of the same stuff was a big tractor wheel, and then behind that, lots of babies heads, about the size of my thumb."

Dr. Guidon leaned forwards. "When you say 'the same stuff,' what do you mean by that, Douglass?"

"It's all the same colour. This time it was bright blue with purplish outlines, but it changes."

"So by 'stuff' you mean, colour?"

"Yeah, but not only colour. It's the same sort of texture. Sometimes it's too thick for me to see through, other times, it's transparent. When things appear together though, they're always the same stuff; the same sort of thickness and colour."

Dr. Guidon silently scribbled some notes onto an age-yellowed note pad, a frown ruffling his bare scalp. Douglass watched the pen twitch across the paper, refusing to turn his attention to the bright pink shrub swelling into existence near the door to his left.

"So, Douglass," the optician rested the pen next to the notepad, "can you tell me when you first noticed these strange occurrences?"

"Every since I was a kid," Douglass shrugged, "probably since I was born, in fact. I can't remember ever not seeing them. I used to run around the house, grabbing at the air, trying to catch them. When Ma asked what I was doing, I used to tell her I was playing with the 'Fluttering Flies'"

"The Fluttering Flies?"

"Yeah. That's what I used to call them, my Ma said."

Dr. Guidon nodded without looking up from the bundle of papers he had pulled from the brown folder on the desk.

"Okay, Douglass. It says here that you had an eye test back in February and the results were twenty over twenty, is that right?"

"That's what she told me."

"In that case, I can't see any point in repeating the tests. I would however, like to examine you for a few other things that may be upsetting your vision. If you could just take a seat over there."

Douglass sat at the low desk near the back of the room as Dr. Guidon took a seat opposite him. Between the two men was a white plastic frame, with two silver arms protruding from either side that bent to meet in the middle to support a metal plate.

"Now, if you could just place your chin on the metal rest in front of you, Douglass," the optician said.

Douglass leaned forward, placing his head into the frame. Dr. Guidon then focused a pencil of yellow light straight into Douglass' left eye, and then pushed his own eyes against the microscopes on his side of the desk. White threads began to grow from the edges of the ceiling, like seaweed fronds made of electricity. The optician had told Douglass to sit very still, and so he did not resist the materialisation. A pale blue aura began to spread from the fronds, and then from the aura, little blue cubes began to float around the office behind Dr. Guidon. Some of the cubes bounced lazily off of each other as though gravity had hardly any pull on them. Others sat heavily in the middle of his vision, allowing the lighter, drifting shapes to touch them and then slowly merge with them to create a larger cube.

"Right, I can't see anything further here. You can relax now, Douglass."

Douglass took his chin off of the metal plate and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Windmills of red light spiraled furiously beneath his closed lids. When he opened his eyes again, the red windmills reeled from sight and evaporated as they passed through the white plastic frame on the desk.

"You've said that you were driving back from Dover recently, when you had a particularly bad bout of these, what you call 'Fluttering Flies'?"

"That's right."

"Had you been driving for a long time when it started to happen?"

Douglass' tongue poked involuntarily at the corner of his moustache as he tried to recall his journey back from Dover.

"Well," he said at last, "I suppose you could say it was a long time. I was coming back from Nice, so I'd had to drive up most of France the day before, and then get the truck on the train."

The optician looked up from his notes. "You drive a truck?"

"Yeah, all over the place. I'm out of the country most of the year."

Guidon nodded and then stood to make his way back to the desk near the door, gesturing for Douglass to follow.

"Your symptoms are not unusual Douglass, and you should certainly not be concerned by them. Many people experience similar visual disturbances every day—just rubbing your eyes can momentarily cause you to see colours that are not really there. I think, having read your notes, and then having spoken to you today, that you are suffering from what is known as Closed-Eye Visualisations, or CEV's as we like to call them."

Douglass could only answer with a look of perplexity. A small green sphere with two antennae rose up from behind the optician's left shoulder.

"Now, the name is rather misleading, because subjects do not always experience the phenomena exclusively when their eyes are shut." Douglass watched the sphere emanate ripples of green into the air from its antennae.

"It is caused," Dr. Guidon continued, "by something we call phosphenes, which are the false appearance of lights, experienced by subjects who have had some stimuli act upon their retina or visual cortex other than light. Prolonged periods without visual stimulation can result in CEV's manifesting, and driving for long periods of time across quite blank and nondescript motorways would certain qualify. They can also be caused by hallucinogenic drugs, such as LSD. Are you currently taking and drugs Douglass, prescribed, or otherwise?"

"No." Douglass frowned incredulously.

The optician leaned back in his chair, nudging the green sphere behind him towards the window.

"Then it seems likely to me that these apparitions are caused by the strain put on your eyes by driving long distances. Does your job involve a lot of night driving?"

"It's mostly night driving."

"I see. And presumably you sleep in a motel or hostel when you're working abroad?"

"No. Chief wouldn't pay for that. We park up and sleep in our cabs."

"In the truck?"

"Yes."

Dr. Guidon looked smugly sympathetic. "Well there are several things we can do at this stage, Douglass." An enormous oblong of light began to rise behind the optician. It was held together by quivering blue threads. "There is the option of you getting another job."

Douglass shook his shaggy head.

The optician nodded and continued, "No, I didn't think that would be an option."

Douglass shrugged and ran a finger and thumb over the edges of his moustache, as a tiny cyclone of neon pink light coiled on top of his protruding stomach.

"So what can you do then?"

The optician beamed with crooked teeth.

"It is my opinion, Douglass, that your job is causing a significant amount of disruption to your vision. This is the reason you are seeing shapes and colours. Your brain does not instantly recognise these shapes, and so does its best to translate them into something meaningful. Your subconscious will play a large part in this translation, all the more so because you are tired and getting broken sleep by not resting in your own bed. My recommendation is therefore that you pick up a pair of non-prescriptive night driving glasses from the stand in the waiting room. Put them on whenever you're driving at night, and this should help to decrease the wear and tear on your eyes. I would also suggest that you pop over to the health food store across town, and get yourself a jar of valerian root. Just take it as the directions suggest, and you should find that it will help you get a full night's sleep, which will in time help your eyes recover from the strain of driving, and will also allow your subconscious to recuperate and stop interfering with your vision."

The optician stood up and closed the tatty notebook on the desk.

"We'll see how it goes, Douglass, and make you another appointment, let's say, for three months time. If by then we've seen little or no improvement, we can look at alternative methods of treatment."

A reflective, petrol-coloured sphere wobbled in front of Dr. Guidon's mouth, and then gave birth to a smaller sphere which hovered around his right cheekbone. Douglass squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, his eyelids unleashed a myriad of sparkling white snowflakes into the room. He took the appointment card and sloped back into the waiting room to collect his night driving glasses.

~*~

His house looked gloomy, despite the sun that seemed to blanch the rest of the street. Not that he could really call it his house; he had only visited it three times in the past two years. He stood for a moment in the cold shade of the driveway, wishing he was brave enough to admit to his wife that he smoked. He was nervous about seeing the kids again. They seemed to grow more distant from him with each passing visit.

The television flickered behind the net curtains of the front window, brightening the otherwise dreary lounge. Douglass fumbled in his overalls and found his keys. The porch door opened into the empty lounge with the television in the corner blaring banal cartoons to an absent audience. Schoolbooks and action figures littered the red velvet sofa by the wall nearest the stairs. Beyond the sofa Douglass could hear the chatter of his family mingling with the drone of the radio in the kitchen. He picked his way carefully over the games console and half-constructed toy train track on the floor, and opened the kitchen door.

The babble of the disc jockey in the kitchen behind him only served to frame the silence he was greeted with in the dining area. His family looked up from the meal they had almost finished, and frowned at him as though he was something absurdly unpleasant. Sasha, his teenage daughter muttered something that sounded like 'oh no, not you,' and his twin sons simply looked away from him and continued their conversation about a creature they were trying to defeat on the fourth level of something called Bloodlust.

A soapy steam washed over him as he opened the door to the utility room. In amongst the humming refrigerator and shuddering tumble drier, somewhere behind the makeshift string clothesline, his wife was hanging up another day's laundry. He uttered a tentative 'hello,' trying to make himself heard over the clamour of machinery.

"Oh, it's you." His wife didn't look away from the beige towel she was hanging to dry.

"Who were you expecting?" he said, trying to push some humour through the steamy air.

"Anyone else." She stepped out from behind the towel, eyeing him briefly as she bent down to pick up the overflowing laundry basket. Douglass tugged nervously on the corner of his moustache as his wife pushed past him and stomped into the back garden. He shuffled after her.

The sun outside was dazzling, and Douglass squinted against its rays as two fluorescent yellow ovals rose up in front of the weeping willow tree at the back of the lawn. "Don't make that face." His wife didn't turn from the washing line as she spoke. "You look even uglier when you make that face."

Douglass sighed and stepped back into the shade under the trellis. This cold, loveless family was his only reward for all the hours he spent on the road to keep a roof over their ungrateful heads. Not that they saw it that way, of course. As far as they were concerned, he'd upped and left for some big continental adventure eight years ago, shortly after the birth of the twins, leaving the family to fend for themselves. How could he expect them to appreciate him, to love him, when—if you added it up minute for minute—they'd probably seen more of the boy who delivered the Bristol Bugle rag every afternoon, than they had of him in the past three years.

"So, how have things been?" Douglass asked, flattening the ends of his moustache against his lips.

"What do you care?" Again, his wife didn't look at him.

He stood in the awkward silence for a moment, thumbing the calluses on his palm before saying: "I got some night driving glasses from the optician's. He said they should help my eyes."

"So you're not mad then?"

"Leave it out, Fran. The GP's already said it's not hallucinations I'm having, remember? He said there's nothing wrong with my head—it's my eyes that don't work properly."

"Yes, well that's a matter of opinion." She seemed to mutter this to herself. As the clouds separated, the sun's heat seemed to starch the conversation out of the garden again. Douglass watched a bright blue circle attached to a thin pole of light climb at a right angle into the sky. He tried to think of something else to say, something she wouldn't be able to shoot down so precisely.

"Chief called on the way back. He wants me in Italy tomorrow afternoon, so I've got to be up at five to get down to Dover."

"Nice for you."

"Well, I wish I could spend a bit more time with you and the kids."

"You're in a minority of one there then."

There was no talking to her when she was like this, and the children would only mirror her mood as they always did. Douglass pulled himself out from under the trellis and sloped back into the utility room to pick up some newspaper to polish his boots with.

He slept on the sofa that night. He would have to be up before dawn if he was going to make it to Italy by the afternoon, and it wasn't fair that he should wake his wife up as well.

He felt lonely as he looked over the toys and books discarded over the thick pile carpet. It would be four months until his next visit home, four months before he would see Sasha, Mark, or Oliver again. He missed them bitterly while he was away, and yet now, a part of him was excited to be leaving the gloom of this house, and getting on the road again. He rested his head on his hold-all, watching a luminous purple cylinder snake out from the side of the television.

The ferry journey to Calais was uneventful. He ate beef bourguignon with poppadoms for breakfast, watched a sci-fi movie with a few of the other drivers, then tried to ignore the diesel stench and allow the boat's motion to rock him to sleep.

He made good time from Calais down to Nice. It was a hot day on the continent, and his eyes had been making beings and buildings out of the sunlight for the whole journey. He stopped twice on his way through Paris, and once in Avignon to dose up on coffee, and to read the next chapter of the novel he had found on the seat next to him during one of his many ferry crossings a few months back. After a mild interrogation from the Italian transport police, he crossed the border to Ventimiglia at four p.m., left the motorway, and began making his way along the winding Roman roads towards the city's port.

He hated driving in Italy, especially northern Italy. The roads were left to ruin, and the air was hot and dense with car fumes. He took a left into the old part of the city, reaching into the passenger well for his water bottle; he knew these roads so well, he could have almost driven to the port with his eyes closed. The traffic flanking the river was reduced to a crawl. Douglass pulled on the handbrake and leant forward in his seat.

White shafts of sunlight glared through the windscreen, and he squinted as a sudden pain shot across the back of his eyes. The white noise of the city rushed into his cab as he rolled down the window. It was the wrong time of day to be caught in traffic in this part of the city; the sun was unrelenting. He drummed idly on the hot black rubber of the steering wheel, thinking about what his wife had said about him being ugly. He pulled down the sun visor to stop himself squinting, and rubbed the pain in his eyes away with back of his palm, which sent purple plates of light spilling over his hands and through the door of his cab.

Ignoring the impatient car horns from the traffic behind him, he suddenly became aware of a humming sound. It was coming from outside, so faint it was almost drowned by the clamour of the city. The heat and the river would undoubtedly provide a Mecca for mosquitoes, and Douglass shuddered, rolled his window up a little and scratched his back. The traffic in front began moving forwards again, and Douglass pushed down the handbrake and slowly eased the truck forwards.

A flicker of pink and purple to his left made him turn quickly. A cascade of giant luminous shapes were tumbling over the parade of shops. They were round and bubbly, and something about them reminded Douglass of fridge magnets. As they slowly bounced away from the buildings, the dull humming noise seemed to shrink away into the distance with them, only to then rise in volume as they fell back towards the roofs of the cafés and bars.

Douglass turned his head back to the road. They'd never made sounds before, he thought nervously. It's my eyes, they're the problem, not my ears.

The top piece of the steering wheel winked out of existence suddenly, and in the gap created, a luminous blue triangle appeared, twirling slowly in between the two black rubber ends. He could see tiny detail overlaying the triangle that almost gave it the appearance of a cross-sectioned lounge from a doll's house, all made of fuzzy blue light. The spinning light sounded like a kettle coming to the boil.

I'm hearing things too, he thought. Seeing and hearing things. Well, I guess Fran was right: I am mad. Mad and ugly.

He drove on towards the bridge, forcing his eyes to ignore the swabs of bright colours that were pushing in from the sky. Gotta to stay focused on the road, he told himself. He took a quick left over the bridge, and began to climb a steep narrow hill, flanked by precariously tall buildings that stooped like crooked old giants against the skyline.

Not far, he said through gritted teeth, I'll drop off these cigarettes, then pull into a lay-by and get some rest.

Something was hovering in the space where the passenger door had been; something made of yellow and green light. His eyes flitted from the road to the passenger side, to the road again. It seemed static anyway, whatever it was, and he thought how bizarre it was that he actually took some comfort from this. He could see the asphalt road rushing past through the gap where the curved light sat. A flurry of winged purple blobs suddenly buzzed up past the curved light and swarmed around the cab. They brought the smell of new television sets in with them.

Douglass pulled the truck over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. His heart was booming in his chest, setting a rhythm to the ever-present humming inside the cab. The purple blobs seemed to make a crackling sound as they flew around his head. He felt a warm tingle on his scalp each time one of their luminous wings brushed against his head.

Got to get some rest, he muttered. His voice seemed to come from behind him and had a strange metallic quality to it, as though he had spoken whilst gargling electrified coins. He shook his head, and it felt as though it was slowly coming loose from his neck. He desperately reached forwards to grab the steering wheel, needing something real and solid to hold onto. His jaw swung open as his hands splayed before him. They were luminous yellow threads of light, humming as he moved them from left to right. He looked down, his head lolling forwards as though his spine was a string of soft warm putty.

Is this how it feels to die? he thought. The sweat induced by the panic of this notion crackled over his slowly sublimating form, producing no tactile sensation, other than that of a cool, dry breeze. He could see the ruffled shape of his black boiler suit draped limply over the yellow and green that was slowly permeating the dull material. His mouth felt as though it was filling up with tin foil, and yet somewhere on his palate he was aware of a dense sweetness. The warm buzzing from his hands had now spread up through his shoulders and into his chest. His tongue tingled against the roof of his mouth before he felt it widen and then spread out into the cab in vibrant orange tendrils.

His panic was yielding to this marvel, a feeling that increased as he suddenly became aware of a pulsing red glow around what he used to call a stomach. He knew this shrinking sphere of light, layered beneath the gently oscillating yellows and greens and blues of his form was his panic, and that his marvel was now the pink luminescence that rippled from and around him.

He reached for the door on the driver's side, which was now two large blue spheres of light sitting on top of each other like canoodling moons. The yellow glimmer of his hand passed into the blue moons, and he gasped at the tingling pleasure that coursed across his being. The sound as he released his breath filled his senses, cooling him against the heat of the day, and his instinctive need to hold something palpable began to gently disintegrate with his physicality. He drifted through the moons and out of the truck, but the gravel-strewn lay-by was gone, replaced with a bright humming prism of infinity. His marvel had evolved into something like calm, but even this was now ebbing away, slowly shifting to become—and make way for—the endless flux of nameless sensations that he was to be.

He twirled around slowly to perceive the box that he had floated from, but all that was there now was an ephemeral kaleidoscope of nebulous beauty. He let the light of his left ear float off towards a bright purple rose in an invisible distance, sharing its journey as it drifted many miles away from him to explore this eternal languid ecstasy. His legs dissolved into yellow threads of light, that then widened and floated away to make new shapes and colours. The molecules of his being bloomed into a majestic sedation. The smell of summer rain on sun-scorched tarmac coalesced with the light of his being, coiling into his brilliance until it was a part of him. He had notions of a hot little prison made of dullness and absolutes, but he couldn't remember what it was called, or even whether this was memory or creation. He sensed removed beings too, distant entities that were in some way linked to him. But these patterns of sensation slowly fragmented, slipping away to become something brighter; their faces and names dissipating into the tingling ether that was now his existence. Maybe he had imagined them all. Maybe they were just another piece of transient beauty, woven from the Fluttering Flies.

Copyright 2010 by Gary Raven

Gary Raven crafts nightmarish worlds and lures us in to stay as long as we dare. The British author is published both in print and online and is currently working on his first collection of stories, Red Mass.

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PLAGUE SHIP  
by Kurt Heinrich Hyatt

The wind swept through the city, exhaling a halitosis of smoke and dust and chemical waste. It genied about the dozer, greedily sucking the plume of exhaust from the stack as the engine cranked up. Ignoring the wind, the dozer dropped its wide shovel blade and advanced on the pile of bodies. Sparks danced as steel kissed concrete and dug into the mound of torsos, heads, arms, and legs, pushing them over the edge of the pit to soundlessly tumble onto the growing heap of stiffening limbs and anguished, staring eyes.

"Thus are gathered who sin and heed not the will of Valgloom," declared the Kloakan priest, extending a clawlike hand to the birds circling the pit. The wind snapped the black robe around him, eyes pink coals beneath the cowl. "And many more will perish until the hour of his judgment when the Chosen shall stand forth!"

The dozer grumbled contentedly and backed away from the pit, checkering the concrete with bloody prints of treads. A red beam arched from nowhere and the pit erupted in a flash of hot incandescence, the stacked bodies vanishing.

The priest savored the rising column of smoke. "Blessed be the holy circuits of Valgloom, hallowed be his sacred diodes," he intoned. "As prophesied by Prif, the Sniffer of Powders, the day of reward awaits the faithful who prepare to—"

"—Pass around the collection plate." Risole pulled the cigar stub from his vest pocket and grinned thinly at the scene beyond the grimy plastoid far below. He turned and eyed the dejected group in the lines before the departure gates. All outworlders like himself, he mused, trapped on Kloak by the disease that was knocking off pinkeyes like pawns in a fast game of so-do, clutching forms and paperwork with eyes fear-bright. Guards toting needleguns slouched by the gate leading to the launch terminal.

Another gust of smoke boiled from the pit. Risole watched it swirl against the clouds. Like the clouds of another day. He let himself drift to that moment of chrysalis.

~*~

"He's coming around. Pump another cc of interfix into him, orderly." The smoke surrounding him was etched with flashes of red pain. Shapes took drifting form and became a circle of white uniforms.

"Okay, Corporal, sign here on the dotted line."

A clipboard swam before his eyes, dazzling him with the reflection of an overhead lightbar. "What...sign what?" he mumbled, gagging on a wad of congealed blood and broken teeth.

"This release form, Corporal. The frag beam that took out your ship at the invasion made raspberry mush of your body. We have to transfer your sentience to a cybernetic andrex."

With an effort Risole focused on the holder of the clipboard. "Why can't I be patched up? I don't feel all that bad," he croaked.

"Are you kidding? My lead hypo man puked all over the floor when you were wheeled in."

Another body lay on a table beside him flanked by a looming mass of equipment. He stared at the nondescript protoflesh face and realized he had seen it everywhere, from loading docks on Ganymede to space bars on Dropoff. The standard andrex profile: blond, cleft chin, steel blue eyes.

"This is your lucky day, Corporal. The warehouse ran out of enlisted men's units so you get the officer's model, the 25J. This baby has taste, smell, and one hell of a protoflesh hard-on, guaranteed to keep the old lady down on the farm. You married, Corporal?"

Naked fear shafted through the paingas fog. "But I don't wanna be a model 25J," Risole moaned. "I wanna be me!"

"Your bioreadings are dropping fast, Corporal. Better sign, ticky-boo." Clipboard and attached servipen hovered in the gathering fog. "What'll it be, soldier? A shiny new 25J...or a body bag?"

~*~

"Next applicant, please."

Risole tucked the cigar back into his vest and moved up to the window. In the cubicle beyond, the Kloakan clerk brooded over a desk piled high with datatapes, gazing at a viscreen as if pondering an oracle. Risole dropped a stack of forms on the counter.

"Well, here they are, pal, forms DD214 through ZZ500, notarized, testified, and plagiarized in triplicate," he declared. "Now are you gonna let me get the hell off this planet?"

The Kloakan looked up from the viscreen and surveyed Risole bleakly, drooping jowls and pink eyes exuding melancholia. "I am familiar with the paperwork, Mr. Risole. Please be patient."

"Yeah, well I've been patiently filling out forms and cooling my heels for the last six cycles," he retorted. "I came down here and worked for you people, got your machines fixed and topped off my contract. Now I wanna go home to Earth."

"All you outworlders want to go home, I'm afraid. But let me remind you, Kloak is a plague world, under interplanetary blockade and quarantine." He lifted Risole's application and ran a pensive glance across it. "Earth has only a small amount of shuttle craft willing to evacuate non-indigenous life forms. We have diplomats and technicians on the wait list and I see here you are merely a mechanic."

"Merely a mechanic, huh?" Risole retrieved his cigar stub and jammed it between his teeth. "Next time the plasma hydros go out on one of your big ore freighters four tabs after liftoff you just call in a diplomat and toss him some tools. Then see what happens."

The clerk lifted a restraining hand. "Mr. Risole, try to see things as a Kloakan. We are a race dying of an unknown disease, shunned by all sentient worlds, our government collapsing in despair and our people maddened by religious fanaticism. We deserve your understanding and compassion."

Risole fired up his lectroflash and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. "So what's my number on the wait list to leave this paradise, if you'll pardon my sarcasm."

"Not at all. You are number 5016 on the evacuation wait list of 9862."

"Golly, I'd better stampede back to my squalid living quarters and hurriedly pack." He dropped his cigar butt on the carpet and stepped on it. "Thanks a lot for your kind attention."

Wind blew grit against the viewport of the waiting hall. Another flash from the cremation pit painted the side of Risole's face red while he struggled into his storm jacket. The crackpot of a priest was still ranting, playing on hopes and fears. Several more rejectees trudged in from the departure terminal and lined up before the racks.

"Excuse me, I think that's my face filter under your dust goggles." The woman behind him was petite, wearing antique eyeglasses over dark observant eyes. Dusky complexion, black pageboy hairdo. Hispanic background somewhere, Risole guessed.

"Got the old steel-toed number ten from the terminal bureaucrats, huh?" he commented affably. "How low was your wait number?"

She turned and studied him. "My wait number?"

"Yeah, your name on the wait list for a ship outta here."

"I'm not on the list," she replied. "I already have access to a ship, although it may as well be a pile of slag. What I needed from the Terminal Commission was an authorization for a mechanic to repair the hyperdrive system. They handed me a wad of forms to fill out and put me on the service list, of course. Cooperation was never a trait of Kloakans—" She paused at the sight of Risole's widening grin and stared. A smile of dawning realization crept over her face. "You wouldn't happen to be a mechanic, would you?" she asked tentatively. "Timephase certified for a Class IX Terran shuttle?"

Risole swung the goggles from a finger and grinned even wider. "I'm here to tell you I can fix anything but a bad attitude." He held out his hand. "Jay Risole, at your service."

"Dr. Blanca Marina." Her hand was tiny and warm, firm with a man's grip. "Perhaps we could work something out. My office is at the Madon Clinic."

"Didn't that used to be called the Kloakan General Hospital?"

"Not anymore," she answered, reaching for her atmosphere suit. "The Director and his committee died of the plague. Madon Interplanetary Realty took over ownership."

He nodded. "I suppose the director and his boys were pinkeyes?"

The corners of her mouth turned down, eyes disapproving.

"I regard the word pinkeye as a derogatory term, Mr. Risole. I believe the correct term is Kloakan."

Risole smiled. "Yes, ma'am. I consider myself suitably rebuked."

"Shall we say after two this afternoon?"

~*~

Climbing out of the cab Risole handed the fare to the Kloakan driver, pink eyes somber above the protective facemask. Most of the Kloakans passing him on the walkway weren't wearing them. Maybe they figured out masks were a futile gesture considering the death ratio. He walked up to the counter.

"Excuse me, but shouldn't you at least be wearing a facemask?" The clinic receptionist was wearing one, plus gloves and a full atmosphere suit. The eyes behind the faceplate looked female and incredulous.

"No ma'am, don't need it," Risole assured her.

The faceplate leaned closer. "You're an andrex?"

"Yep, made from the finest protoflesh, nuts, bolts, and staples."

"Oh, I see...can I help you?"

"Hope so. I'm here to see Dr. Marina."

"You would be Mr. Risole." She waved a glove over her shoulder. "Down the hall, turn right at the isolation ward, first door on the left."

His boots squeaked on the polished linoleum. Traffic in the hallway was sparse, humans encased in atmosphere suits, Kloakans in masks and gloves. They all stared at him, edging away.

Halfway down the hall he passed a long window. Beyond the glass was a vast ward, blindingly lit, rows of beds holding sheeted Kloakans. White-suited figures moved among them, adjusting tubes, checking the readouts from blinking machines. An occupant was being eased into a black body bag. Against the far wall was a stack of filled body bags. Lots of them.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Risole. I'll be with you in a minute." Dr. Marina sat behind the largest desk he had seen outside a museum. Probably a twenty-first century antique. Her I-love-me-wall was hung with awards and certificates. There was a framed photo of her in a karate gi. Now that was interesting.

"Now then." She dropped a stack of reports in a basket and leaned forward, steepling her fingers. "Down to business. You want transport off Kloak and we have a ship which needs expert repairs."

"Well, I didn't come all the way down here for a prostate exam," Risole remarked. He reached for a cigar in his vest then thought better of it under that basilisk gaze. "When are you planning on leaving?"

"Hopefully in two days, sooner if you can correct the problem with the hyperdrive. I think that's what they called it."

"Yeah, I've done lots of work on them in the Service." He leaned back in his seat. "You can start loading your passengers and goodies aboard and get your evacuation permit dated and signed."

"We don't have an evacuation permit at this time."

"Excuse me?"

Dr. Marina adjusted the glasses on her nose. "Did you happen to glance at the isolation ward on your way here, Mr. Risole?"

"Yeah, but—"

"The plague on Kloak has so far killed two thirds of the population. Their mortality rate is 83.4 per cent. Do you know that the mortality rate for humans is 98.2 percent? The bubonic plague or the ebola virus is a mild case of the flu compared to it."

"I know that's a rough deal but—"

"Will you please allow me to finish, Mr. Risole?" The eyes on him were luminous. Looking at her a thought came out of nowhere that she would probably be quite a handful in bed. "I have years of research in the disease and a sample of the virus. If we can get those to the advanced labs on Earth I believe the virologists there can come up with a vaccine." She was gaining momentum, like a snowball pushed from the top of a mountain. "The problem is, I can't convince the Kloakan Council how urgent it is to move me up the evacuation list. The only ones immune to the plague are the Madons and they are moving into the planet and buying up every asset left by a deceased Kloakan." She paused, her face flushed. "As far as leaving Kloak, that's not a problem. We have a plan."

"Oh, you have a plan?" Risole retorted. "Skuzzy Hines had a plan too when his timephase calculator went on the fritz. Came out of warp to find himself in the middle of a sun." He waited for a riposte that didn't come. Instead she leaned back, looking at him as if he were a patient terminally late for a scheduled appointment.

"How long have you been number 5016 on the evacuation wait list?" she asked.

That stopped him. If she knew that then the Kloakans at the immigration office knew. Andrexes didn't get the plague. He might be number 5016 on the wait list for a very long time. Like forever.

"If it's a problem with the hyperdrive I can have it back online in a few hours. Who else is going with us?"

"The ship is owned by Mr. Skeem. He and his associate are both Madons." She pushed a card over the blotter, tapping it with a fingernail. "Be at this address at the main starport tomorrow morning with your tools, Risole. Do you have any further questions?"

Risole eased himself up and leaned against the door. "Just one. Why does such a little sprout like you need such a big desk?"

~*~

Ghost town. That's what the main Kloakan space terminal reminded Risole of. Rows of assorted parked jumpships from assorted worlds waiting departure permits, decontamination, bribes to officialdom. He got directions from a lethargic Kloakan lounging by an empty baggage slider and found himself looking up at a sleek office tower. Madon Interplanetary Realty, LLC, was emblazoned over the entrance.

"Ah, there you are at last!"

Risole looked to see two Madons approaching, one tall and beaming, the other squat and sullan. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. He lowered his toolbelt to the asphalt.

"I'm Mr. Skeem, Director of Interplanetary." He advanced wearing an aura of vast congeniality that somehow seemed sinister on his vaguely reptilian face. "I'm so glad Dr. Marina was able to locate you for our little journey."

Risole had never much liked Madons. It was said if you get in a turbolift with one it was wise to move your wallet from the back pocket to the front. Taking in the duo before him he decided he liked them even less. "Yeah, I suppose the makes two of us. Or three." He eyed Skeem's companion.

"Oh, let me introduce Mr. Skoff, my assistant and pilot."

"Stgfrijh eb shyebf." Skoff's lizard face remained impassive.

"As you can see, Mr. Skoff is not familiar with Terran."

This was not good. "Really? A starship pilot that can't speak Terran?" he asked, acidly. "Any idea how he can communicate with the Interworld Controllers?"

"Are you a pilot, Mr. Risole?"

"Matter of fact, yes, although my Class V license has expired—"

"Then I think Mr. Skoff will do quite well," said Skeem, slamming the door on further discussion. The amphibian smile ratcheted up a notch. "Are you planning on returning to Kloak after the plague has ended?"

"Huh?"

"Madon Interplanetary Realty has just acquired a starship repair facility. We could offer you any number of subprime loans, zero percent interest the first thirty cycles, compounded on the descending lateral index featuring an attractive hourly interest recalibration," he declared, rubbing his hands together. Risole was reminded of a hungry fly.

"Mr. Skeem," he said with a sigh, "I wouldn't drag my sorry ass back here if all the honeys on Radnor's Pleasure Asteroid arrived, passing out all the free beer I could swill." He looped the toolbelt over his shoulder. "Wanna take me around to your problem child so I can get my mitts into it?"

~*~

It was like making love to an amorous woman. Knowing which place to caress, moving into position, finding the right level of touch. Timephase engineering wasn't just tech manuals and computer diagnostics. It was more of an instinct, acquired over years of experience. What worked and where. Risole slid a memory disc into place and was rewarded by a line of green lights and a contented hum. He allowed himself a satisfied grunt, leaned back against a bulkhead and pulled out a cigar.

"Excuse me, but I could smell that all the way from my cabin." Dr. Marina crossed her arms before him, exuding disapproval like spines. The lab coat had been replaced by a sleek jumpsuit that snugged her curves nicely. "And where did you get that thing? I thought tobacco was illegal?"

He leisurely blew a cloud at the ceiling. "I have my sources." He was somehow becoming fond of pulling her chain. "Haven't you heard the old expression, a good cigar to a man is like a good cry to a woman?"

She looked ready to unload for a moment but settled for a toxic glare. "Mr. Skeem would like an update on the repairs I might assume you're working on."

He nodded agreeably. "The repairs are done."

"Thank you. I'll pass that information to him right now."

"Speaking of information..."

She paused, half turned and eyed him. "Yes?"

"You haven't mentioned to me how we're gonna get this ship off the planet without an evacuation permit," he said. "It's kind of been on my mind since I found out how painful it is to be vaporized by the quarantine fleet."

She seemed to ponder an answer in some private space of her being. "Very well. I'm treating the wife of Ghak, the Kloakan High Counselor. She has the plague. He's willing to allow us to slip away from Kloak on the chance my research material reaching Earth can save her. Happy now?" She favored him with a pale smile and headed up the corridor.

Risole frowned to himself. Things were starting to look a little flaky around the edges. There was a big picture somewhere and they were letting him take little peeks at it. There was a lot going on he didn't know. And that was starting to worry him.

~*~

The hatch cover atop the silo grated open raining dust and night shadows on the ship squatting below. Inside the command deck Risole eased himself into his seat and watched Skoff key in the liftoff sequence. Dr. Marina was gazing absent-mindedly at the forward viewscreen while Skeem lounged next to Skoff with his customary 'lizard that ate the canary' expression.

"You sure your little friend won't need a tiny bit of help with this thing?" Risole asked.

The smirk remained fixed. "Oh, Mr. Skoff is doing just splendid. He's made the trip from Madon to Kloak quite a few times with only a few mishaps."

"Only a few mishaps?"

"Well, I feel entitled to point out any pilot can end up in the wrong star system from time to time."

"Soirnvtht bgeui en brbht." Skoff nodded to Skeem.

"He says he's ready for liftoff."

Risole was slammed into the plushness of his seat as the shuttle vomited skywards. He caught a glimpse of city lights strung out like bright scattered beads before vanishing into the smog blanket. They climbed steadily, the pressure of liftoff easing.

A buzzer sounded in the cabin. Dr. Marina pulled a comm disk from a pocket and held it to her ear. "Yes, this is Dr. Marina. From whom? She did what? When?" Her face paled. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Councilor. But she was quite...hello? Hello?" She looked from Skeem to Risole. "That was Ghak from the Kloakan High Council. His wife just died from the plague."

A red lightbar came to life above the main control board. "This is Blockade Control contacting Madon Interplanetary Realty shuttle," a metallic voice blared. "Your evacuation permit has been revoked. Return to launchport at once."

"Damn!" Risole felt his protoflesh testicles retract. "There goes the plan, Doc. We gotta abort!"

Dr. Marina bit her lower lip. "We can't go back now. We'll never get a second chance in time." She looked at Skeem. "Tell Skoff to engage timephase."

"You're totally cycled!" Risole clawed himself up. "There's a good chance we'll burn up this deep in the atmosphere!"

"This is Blockade Control to unauthorized shuttle. You are hereby ordered vaporized under quarantine directive sixty-five—"

"Timephase engaged."

"Not yet! Not y—"

~*~

"Ah, here it is. Risole, Jay. Corporal in the 12th Support Unit, Terran Army. Body terminally wounded in the invasion of T'loplasia." Bovus took a long pull from his flask and belched reflectively. "What's the storage date on the casket tag, Pete? Can't make it out."

Pete brushed his glove over the dusty plate and squinted in the gloom. "Brain pattern transfer to cybernetic andrex, Zarday 9, 80-16A. Yep, he's long gone and what's left is overdue for disposal."

"End of the line for the mortal remains of poor old Jay Risole. Out with the old and in with the new, eh, Pete?"

They deftly slid the stasis tube onto a cart and began rolling it up the aisle, past long rows of the frozen.

Inside the tube Risole felt the vibration of wheels and caught the outline of a gloved hand against the plexiglass. His arms were icicles by his sides, his tongue a frozen strip of meat holding back the scream. Red heat bathed his feet and the maw of the oven yawned to receive him.

"And into the astral toilet for old Corporal Risole," Bovus sniggered and shoved the tube down the ramp toward the plasma vortex.

"Risole?" The bellow of an ion furnace became a husky feminine voice. His eyes opened to the ceiling of his cabin. To his right was the viewport, white with drifting stars. A hand moved over his forehead with a soft cool touch. Dark eyes moved into his vision.

"Are you quite back with us, Mr. Risole?" Dr. Marina asked. "You've been out for over an hour."

Risole blinked. His head hammered away the anvil chorus. "Yeah, just terrific." He eased himself to a sitting position on the bed. "Andrexes are as tough as hell but they can't take too much timephase shock. I take it we're all in one piece."

"Mr. Skeem says there's some hull damage and we lost the port qualifiers, whatever that is."

He rubbed his eyes. "Serious hull damage would have shut down the engines. But we'll need those qualifiers for landing. I'll check it out."

"Well, since you're obviously going to live, I'll get back to the command deck and see about our arrival time." She smoothed the seat of her jumpsuit and eyed a pile of cases on the cabin table. "What's all that?"

"My luggage, dear."

"That's not luggage, those are cases of beer!" Sparks seemed to radiate from behind the antique glasses to the ends of her pageboy hair. "Have you any idea of all the files and priority equipment we were forced to leave behind on Kloak? Five cases of beer!"

Risole messaged a knot in his neck. "Look Doc, in your luggage you have makeup, shoes, clothes and undies, I hope from Victoria's Secret. I have beer."

It looked for a moment that she was contemplating slugging him but settled instead for a scathing glare. "You really are a dinosaur, Mr. Risole," she said slowly. "Two hundred years ago men like you drove old pickup trucks, married first cousins and broke wind in church."

"Oh yeah? Two hundred years ago wedges like you walked around barefoot, wore flowers in their hair and sported a butterfly tattoo on their ass."

"As a matter of fact, I do have a butterfly tattoo, but not on my ass." She spun about in feminine fury, slamming the cabin door leaving Risole speechless. He stared at the door for a moment then gathered up his tools.

"Port qualifiers. Yeah. Better go check them out," he muttered. So where in hell was that damned tattoo, anyway?

He walked down the corridor toward engineering. From a viewport he could see the blue disc of approaching Earth, a crescent moon on her left. He felt relief wash over him. Relief to be off Kloak, to be out of timephase, to carry on his life such as it was inside an andrex body. Still, he mused, better than extra crispy in the plasma vortex.

He stopped. A storage bin on the far wall had cracked open, probably due to the rough liftoff. Risole grabbed the lid and tried to close it. A broken hinge fell to the floor. He squinted sideways into the locker. There was some kind of open case holding a row of glass vials, Madon hieroglyphics printed on the labels. The vials held what looked to be a grey pus, swirling with an evil malevolence. He contemplated them for a moment before stepping to a comm box on the corridor wall.

"Dr. Marina, this is your former patient," he announced. "What's your location?"

A tired voice. "I'm in my cabin, trying to get some sleep."

"Could you stroll down towards engineering. I think there's something you should look at."

"No, Mr. Risole, I don't want to come down there and have a beer with you," she replied wearily.

"I'm not talking about happy hour, Doc. I found something really weird in a cabinet."

The comm box was in silent debate. "Very well, I'm on my way."

"This is strange." Dr. Marina studied the vials. "New York, Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles," she murmured, reading off the labels. "These are major cities on Earth." She peered up at him. "When did you find these?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Any idea of what they are?"

"This can't be what it looks like. It just can't be." She slipped a test pen from her shirt and passed it over the vials. Immediately the end of the tester glowed red, emitting a harsh shriek. She backed away from the cabinet, eyes wide, fixed.

"Well, what's your prognosis, doctor?"

She straightened, pocketed the test pen. "These vials are filled with a liquid carrying the Kloakan plague."

"Aren't these the samples you were taking back to research a vaccine?"

She shook her head. "No! These are enough to infect an entire world."

"Actually they are samples. Sales samples, you might say." Skeem and Skoff were standing by the viewport, the former wearing his brightest smirk, the latter holding a pulse gun on them. "Sorry to have eavesdropped on your private cabin line, Doctor."

"I'm not getting this right. These vials of plague are yours?" Dr. Marina demanded, incredulous. "You're planning on turning the Kloakan Plague loose on Earth?"

"Such righteous indignation about a simple business transaction." Skeem idly tapped the viewport window and smiled. "Madon Interplanetary Realty made record real estate profits on that unfortunate situation on Kloak. It occurred to our directors what a splendid investment opportunity it would be if something similar were to happen on Earth."

If Risole thought he was good at pulling Dr. Marina's chain it was nothing to the look she gave Skeem. "You are talking about mass murder here, Mr. Skeem, not a business transaction!"

Skeem shrugged. "We Madons tend to be more practical and less philosophical on such matters. Will you excuse me?"

He reached past Risole and pulled out the case of vials, cradling it like a baby. "There's so much I admire about you, Dr. Marina, such a pity. But business must take precedence."

"Fnmntujr db ndhjtnn nfntnt." Skoff lifted the pulse gun, clicking off the safety.

"Mr. Skoff suggests that if you two humans would like to bid each other farewell, now is the time."

Moving closer to Dr. Marina, Risole put his arm about her waist. She looked at him, surprised. "You know the best thing about being a cybernetic andrex, Skeem?" he asked. "Those turds at the army medlab gave me the niftiest model too. I'm finally starting to appreciate it."

Skeem made a bored face. "If it's something not profit-oriented, I can't find myself too interested. What is it?"

"Strength." Risole wrapped his free hand around a support beam and tore it from the deckplates. He hefted it and before the two Madons could blink reptilian eyelids he threw it at the viewport behind them.

A typhoon exploded in the corridor. Dr. Marina's cry was obliterated by a rush of air howling through the broken plexglass. Skoff and Skeem, the latter minus his smirk and clutching the case of plague vials was plucked from the deck and sucked into oblivion. Alarms shrieked and lights flashed up and down the corridor. Abruptly, emergency shutters clanged down over the broken viewport. Air roared from vents, building up cabin pressure. Silence settled around them. Her arms were wrapped tightly about his waist, her glasses askew. He could feel her heart thundering against his chest. He looked down into her upturned face. "Shall we dance?" he offered.

~*~

He hadn't lost the touch. His hands moved over the controls, feeling the vast bulk of the ship respond, dropping toward the cloud-wreathed blue world in the forward viewscreen.

"Orbit achieved, Control Center," he said into the throat mic. "Awaiting landing confirmation."

"Roger that. Maintain position until clearance schedule is approved. Cleveland Space Center out."

"Copy that, shuttle out."

A heavy case was dropped beside him and Dr. Marina settled herself into the opposite chair. She was wearing her best enigmatic expression and he couldn't detect much of what was behind it. "Looks like you're the bearer of tidings," he ventured. "Good or bad?"

"That would depend on which planet you happen to be on," she replied smugly. "I just finished speaking to Counselor Ghak on Kloak regarding that little episode we had with Mr. Skeem and Skoff. They've put a freeze on all Madon Interplanetary Realty dealings on Kloak and are planning a full investigation into their activities."

"Now that's good news. I can just picture a Kloakan lynch mob heading down to their office right now."

She nodded. "It might come to that. The plague seems to have initiated about the time the Madons started arriving on Kloak."

Risole made a wry face and turned back to the controls. "Gimme a minute, time to input the landing sequence."

She watched him work the controls, adjusting minor inputs, scanning the readouts. "You really love this ship, don't you," she observed.

Risole grinned. "Yeah. I started out in orbit scows, moved up to starfreighters and piloted troopships in the war. Nothing as Gucci as this, though."

"It's yours, you know."

"How's that?" He looked up, startled.

"That's the really good news." She savored the expression on his face. "This ship has Kloakan registry. Since her owners are now floating in space you can file a salvage claim."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all. I would guess a cruiser of this type has a net worth of two point five million creds."

The enormity of the situation flooded over him. He swallowed hard.

"Of course, that's after decontamination and a period in quarantine. I also suspect we'll find a sizeable stack of creds tucked away in Skeem's cabin."

He shifted his gaze from her amused and slightly mocking expression to the case sitting on the deck. "So what's in the steamer trunk?"

"My research information on the Kloakan plague, case histories, data discs, vaccine prototypes." The sky beyond the viewport lightened as the ship dropped. Clouds floated past, painted by a westering sun.

His eyebrows raised. "I hope that plague sample you mentioned isn't in there," he mused. "I noticed you dropped it kind of hard."

Dr. Marina pondered this, watching him. "Oh, you can rest assured it's in quite a safe—" The tester in her breast pocket began to pulse red. Slowly, then gathering speed.

"Hey, your little widget must have a short," Risole observed. "Either that, or one of us is a candidate for a body bag."

She gazed at him and her eyes darkened, filled. This was a side of her he had never seen, somehow vulnerable, almost frightened. A tear slid down one cheek.

He cleared his throat, aware of a sudden foreboding. "What is it?" he demanded.

"I'm the sample."

~*~

The isolation ward was a dismal copy of the one he had seen on Kloak. Antiseptic white walls, floor; spectral figures in white atmosphere suits moving among the machines and dangling cords. The difference here was there was only one patient on the sheeted bed.

"You must be Mr. Risole," said a voice at his elbow. "I'm Doctor Bell."

They must have some rule against non-conformity, Risole thought, taking the offered hand. White lab coat, first stage of male pattern baldness, fishy brown eyes, beginnings of a second chin. "Yeah, that's me. What's the latest on Dr. Marina?"

"Not very good, I'm afraid." A professional shrug. "Her kidneys have failed, lungs are disintegrating. We're giving her as much neomorphine as we dare. It would appear the patient's condition will finalize in a few more days."

"Finalize? You mean die?"

"Well, yes." His mouth drooped in regret. "The ironic thing is her research data is right on the mark. I believe in a short time we can produce a vaccine which will inoculate both humans and Kloakans from the plague. Yes, it really will be a shame to lose her."

"So into the astral toilet for poor old Doc Marina, huh?" Risole had a mental picture of his hands wrapped around that fat, complacent neck. He pushed his face closer, nose to nose. "So tell me sawbones, how do you think it would feel if you were finalized?"

"Well, not something I would find enjoyable..." He inched back from the latent menace in Risole's eyes.

"Do you know what I am?"

"Er...yes," he replied, sweating. "I believe you're a military-issue cybernetic andrex, plasteel skeleton overlaid with protoflesh exterior and full sensory inputs."

"Right on the mark, Doc," said Risole relaxing into affability. "I hear they started producing a female model lately."

"Yes, that's true," he admitted. "It's a pretty standard model, although there is an outlet, here in Cleveland as a matter of fact, that can replicate original features. But I understand it can be quite expensive." He shrugged, pursed his lips. "I trust you're not thinking we can initiate an andrex transfer for Dr. Marina, Mr. Risole. Our medical facility is sadly overworked and our budget is so underfunded."

Risole looked out into the ward, at the lonely sheeted figure on the table. "Okay, doc. Here's what I want done. And forget about your budget, it's on my tab."

~*~

Sunlight. Flowing past the frilled curtains of the private room, splashing over the pillow and sheets. She stirred as the warmth touched her face. Her eyes opened, blinked and looked slowly about her. A man sat in a chair by the bedside.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," smiled Risole. "Don't expect a kiss until you've brushed your teeth."

Dr. Marina stared at him, at the curtains and the sunlight beyond the window. "I'm alive," she whispered. "Why am I alive?"

"I'd say you beat the odds." He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

She shook her head. "I know the odds, Risole. Mortality rate is 98.2 percent for humans. And...I feel strange, so strange."

"Here, try these out." He passed her a mirror and her glasses. She settled the glasses on her nose, pondering the reflection in the mirror. She ran fingers over her hands and neck, exploring.

"I'm an andrex duplication," she declared, "That's why I'm still alive. Why do I get the feeling you're somehow involved?"

"I have two cases of Aghaid beer left and I hate drinking alone," he admitted.

"I thought having the Kloakan plague was bad enough but now I have to put up with your chest-beating male pomposity," she retorted but her hand reached out, covering his. "I'm exactly the same as I was?"

"Well, they forgot to duplicate your butterfly tattoo, so I had them add that later.

Dr. Marina nodded. "That's right, it was on my left shoulder." He pulled down the sleeve of the hospital gown, searching. "I don't see it."

"Nope, I told them to ink it someplace else."

"Somewhere else? Where?"

Risole looked down at her and smiled.

Copyright 2010 by Kurt Heinrich Hyatt

Kurt Heinrich Hyatt is originally from Canada and came down to join the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War. He's had science fiction stories accepted by publications such as Starwind, Space and Time, Aphelion, Orion's Child and Allegory Magazine. Currently residing in Arizona, his hobbies include raising tropical fish, weightlifting, and building custom motorcycles.

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FULL MOON GALA  
by Lachlan David

It was only Gabe's second week on the job as a part-time security guard, and he was already running late. He grabbed his hand radio and pulled on his jacket while he raced toward the front door. He didn't even take the time to acknowledge his wife, Valerie, who was sitting in the living room watching some late-night talk show.

"I don't even get a kiss good-bye?" she asked when she noticed he was leaving.

"Yeah, but hurry. I'm supposed to be there in fifteen minutes. I don't want Larry waiting on me."

Valerie caught up with him just as he opened the door and gave him a quick kiss. "I wish you didn't have to work two jobs," she said as she followed him out to the porch in a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt.

"I'll be fine. It's just temporary, you know, until we some of these bills paid off."

"Yeah, I know. But by the time you get home from the plant then take off for work again, I feel like I never see you anymore."

Gabe looked at his watch. "Listen, can we talk about this when I get home? Seriously, I'm going to be late."

Valerie didn't even answer him. She shook her head, went back in the house and closed the door. Gabe considered whether he should go back and apologize, but he really didn't have time. Instead, he got in the car and left for work.

He only had a minute to spare when he arrived at his assigned patrol, the Desert Fashion Hub. It was a collection of small boutiques and eateries surrounding an open air plaza landscaped and decorated with a Southwestern flavor. Paths ran like wheel spokes from the outer perimeter to a wood-slatted patio in the center. The middle of the patio was open to the sky, and except for where the Palo Verde trees in nearby planters hung over the edge, the moonlight shone down on a brick mosaic in the shape of a playful Kokopelli on the ground. That was where he found his partner, Larry, waiting for him. Gabe noticed his short, round silhouette when he entered the mall. Then his silver moustache, comb-over hair and twinkling, gray eyes came into focus as he approached him.

"Eight o'clock, right on the button. Cutting it kind of close, there, aren't you?" Larry said as they met under the patio.

"Yeah, sorry. I had to put in a little overtime at the plant today, so I was running late."

"Oh, don't worry about that." Larry gave him a slap on the shoulder. "I was just afraid maybe you'd talked to some of the guys at the main office and decided not to come back."

"I'll admit, this isn't the most exciting job I've ever had. But I think I can handle more than a week or two of it. Maybe even three or four," he laughed.

Larry smiled, exposing a set of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. "You sound like me when I first started this assignment. But that was seven years ago."

"Seven years? Seriously? They don't move you around once in a while?"

"They've offered a few times. But the truth is, this is the most interesting assignment they've got. And right here," Larry pointed down at the Kokopelli mosaic under their feet, "is the best place in the whole mall."

Gabe looked around at the patio overhead and the planters that framed the outside of it. The trees and flowers were just beginning to bloom, and on that particular night, while the gibbous moon was shining overhead, it created a somewhat serene setting. "Yeah, this isn't bad," he admitted. "If I could just sit here and watch the stars or something, it might be kind of nice."

Larry laughed. "Oh, the others haven't told you the stories yet, have they?"

"I guess not. What stories?"

Larry leaned in close as though someone in that deserted mall might overhear them. "This place is haunted. I've seen it myself."

"Haunted?"

"That's right. That's why they can't keep any security guards on this assignment. Except me, anyway."

Gabe studied the old man for a moment. He wanted to believe Larry was just giving the new guy a hard time, but the look in his eyes was dead serious. If this was a joke, Larry was doing an excellent job of pulling it off. "That's nothing unusual," Gabe said. "There's always a lot of turnover with security guards."

"Yeah, but not as much as here. About once a month, when the moon gets full, strange things happen. This spot under the patio builds up some kind of energy, almost like it's alive. Then things start moving around. At first, you just catch a little something out of the corner of your eye. You think it might be a shadow or something. But then it happens again and again until you find yourself spinning in circles trying to catch whatever it is that's running around here. But you never do.

"Yep, it's happened to all of us here. Scared the bejeezus out of me when I first started, but I was so curious about it, I stayed to try and figure out what it was. All the other folks, though, they won't stay. Next thing I hear, I'm getting a new partner. Sometimes they leave even before they've seen it. The guys who've been here before start talking about it. Then before you know it, the new guy's requesting a transfer. That's what I thought might have happened to you."

Gabe chuckled and shook his head. "No, I haven't heard anything about this place being haunted. You're the first to mention it. You still come back, though, huh?"

"That's right. I wait for it every time there's a full moon and try to catch a glimpse of it."

"So, what is it? Some kind of lost spirit? A goblin maybe?"

"Not sure. I never get a good look at it. The only thing I know for sure is it's harmless. No one's ever been hurt by it. Sometimes I almost think it's playing with us."

Gabe looked up at the moon that was just edging over the opening in the patio. "It looks like we're going to have another full moon pretty soon."

"Four more days."

"All right, then. I can't wait. I want to see this thing first-hand."

Larry smiled when he realized Gabe wasn't afraid. "I'm sure you will."

The two men began patrolling their sections of the mall, Larry circling the parking lot on the outside, and Gabe circling the plaza on the inside. They finished their shift at midnight, and Gabe was finally able to go home to be with his wife.

When he pulled up in front of their small house, it was dark and quiet all except the front porch light and their cat, Mookie, meowing to be let in. She purred and rubbed against his legs as he fumbled with his keys. Then she slipped past him through the door when he opened it. By the time he got to his bedroom, Mookie was already waiting for him.

He opened the door slowly to avoid waking Valerie, but the horseshoe her mother had insisted they hang over the doorknob in hope for future grandchildren rattled against the door. Mookie ran in, jumped on the bed and began purring loudly as she kneaded the blanket near Valerie's feet.

Valerie shuffled her legs under the blankets then rolled over. "How was work?" she murmured almost incoherently.

"It was okay," Gabe said as he undressed for bed. "Not much happening. You know, same as the last time."

Valerie didn't say any more but fell right back to sleep. As Gabe slid next to her under the covers and placed his arms around her, she sighed and snuggled against him. He kissed her softly on her bare neck and considered waking her up, but they both had to work in the morning and needed their sleep. They would have to wait until the weekend to try again for their first child, something that had eluded them since they were married three years ago.

~*~

Four nights later, Gabe was still assigned to the Desert Fashion Hub with Larry. He hadn't forgotten the old man's story, but it had escaped him that this was the night of the full moon. The two men met in the parking lot when Gabe arrived.

"I'll take the parking lot tonight," Gabe told Larry after they greeted each other. They had developed a pattern of alternating which side of the mall they would patrol. Gabe took the plaza the night before, so it only made sense that he would take the parking lot that evening.

"Nope, not tonight," Larry said. "You get the plaza again."

Gabe was curious about the old man's insistence. "Why?" he asked.

Larry's eyes gleamed, and a mischievous grin curled up the ends of his moustache. "It's a full moon tonight. Remember?"

"The ghost?"

"That's right! It usually comes out around the end of the shift, and I want to make sure you see it."

Gabe laughed mostly from amusement, but there may have been a little bit of uneasiness, as well. He didn't believe in haunted places, but Larry was so determined to prove it was real, he began to doubt his own skepticism. "Okay, that...that sounds like a plan. You take the parking lot and I'll take the plaza. We'll see if the goblins come out tonight."

The men parted ways and Gabe circled the plaza for the first half of his shift with little more than the gnats and an occasional mosquito to keep him entertained. Everything else was still and quiet as he shined his flashlight into dark storefront windows and planters filled with desert flora. At ten o'clock, he heard footsteps echoing through one of the entrances. He shined his flashlight in that direction to find Larry coming back to check on him mid-shift. He had stopped in front of a soda machine and was feeding a dollar into the slot when Gabe found him.

"Have you seen anything yet?" Larry asked when Gabe's light landed on him. He leaned over and fished his coins out of the change dispenser then stood up with a cold can of root beer.

Gabe met him in front of the machine and pulled a dollar out of his own pocket for a drink. "Not yet."

Larry took a few gulps from his can and belched. "Don't worry. It'll happen. Some nights I can feel the energy building up under the patio beforehand, but nothing happens until the moon's straight overhead. It's like it has to shine right on that little Indian guy with the crazy hair. I think he might have something to do with it."

"You mean the Kokopelli?"

"Yeah, that thing. I can never remember all those Indian names."

"Maybe he's the one who's running around here."

"Could be. Like I told you, I can't get a good look at him."

The men finished their drinks together then went back to patrolling. As Gabe strolled around the plaza, he tried to convince himself that the ghost story was no more than an old man's yarn. But after a while, he caught himself wandering toward the middle of the plaza to see if he could feel the energy. He stood on top of the Kokopelli and waited. After a few seconds, he even lifted his hands in the air, palms flat, as though he was expecting rain.

"Do you feel it?" he heard Larry's voice cutting through the semi-darkness.

Gabe's face flushed hot as he realized he had been caught. He expected Larry to start laughing at any moment then tell all the seasoned security guards at the main office how he had suckered the new guy into thinking this mall was haunted. "I can't say I do," he admitted and turned around to find Larry standing at the end of a path with a large, meandering snake etched into the surface. "I guess I fell for it, after all."

"You didn't fall for anything," Larry insisted. "You just wait. When the moon gets higher, you'll feel it."

"Yeah, okay." Gabe walked out from under the patio feeling like an idiot, while Larry retreated back to the parking lot.

The rest of the night moved slowly. After walking countless circles around the mall, Gabe finally stopped at a bench located alongside one of the concrete paths and rested his feet above an etching of a large bear. He wasn't supposed to sit down on the job, but he had a good view of the entire mall from where he was, so he doubted it would get him in trouble. Besides, he had caught Larry doing the same thing just the other night.

The mall became quiet with only the slightest breeze to rustle the leaves on the Palo Verdes and a few crickets chirping in the shrubs. He looked up to see the moonlit sky, but it was difficult with the trees overhead. One grew in each of four large planters, and when they were much smaller, they probably made a nice compliment to the sage and agave that grew around them. But over the years, they had been allowed to grow too large for such a confined space. They created a canopy over the entire plaza and even covered much of the patio. They looked unkempt and out of place.

Gabe was pondering all of this when something skittered through the shrubs next to him. The same thing happened on a previous night, and it turned out to be a stray cat that kept him company for the rest of the evening. It had probably returned to visit him. As he approached the shrub to coax it out, he heard the sound again. This time, it sounded like it was in the tree above him. Gabe looked up, but he didn't see anything.

"Here kitty, kitty," he said and gave a little whistle. Then he noticed it. Something moved just out of sight and headed toward another tree. Gabe turned around to see it, but again, nothing was there.

There was more movement in the tree tops, then in the shrubs. Then something pattered across the concrete path to another planter. When he turned in the direction of the movement, the leaves were still moving as though something had been there, but he never caught sight of what it was.

A chill ran through him as he realized this could be the ghost Larry was telling him about. "This is crazy," he whispered to himself. He knew it had to be a cat. Just to prove it, he went straight to the patio and felt again for the mysterious energy Larry had mentioned. This time, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood up, and the air around him buzzed with a lively, melodic current that made no sound. There was music in the air, but it was tangible, not audible.

The trees rustled again, and this time, he saw the leaves scatter. He tried to follow the movement, but as Larry said, he found himself spinning in circles while trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. He came close a few times, but it was always just out of sight.

When he had completely lost track of where the creature had gone, he finally looked up at the sky through the opening in the patio. Some of the tree branches had grown past the edges, but for the most part, he had a clear view. The full moon glowed right overhead. And when he looked down at the plaza floor, a jagged beam of moonlight broke through the branches and framed the Kokopelli under his feet.

"Larry!" he hollered when he realized this had to be it. His voice echoed back to him from the storefronts.

The radio hanging from his belt crackled, and he heard Larry's voice. "I'm coming, Gabe. What's going on in there?"

He felt a little silly that he hadn't thought to use his radio. He detached it and hit the button. "I think I saw it! That ghost thing you were telling me about."

Larry whooped into the radio. "You saw him? Is he moving around?"

"Yeah, it was moving, all right!"

"He's something, isn't he?" A moment later, he heard Larry running into the mall as fast as his old legs could carry him. "Where's he at?" he called out from across the plaza.

"I think it's gone." Gabe was surprised to find he was actually disappointed.

"Yeah, that fella doesn't hang out here for very long. I'm just glad you got a chance to see him."

Gabe was almost dazed by the experience. He kept looking around hoping he would catch another glimpse of the creature before the night was over.

"You're not going to run out on me now, are you?" Larry asked as he placed his hand on Gabe's shoulder and gave him a shake.

A smile stretched across Gabe's face. This time, he was the one with twinkling eyes. "What, are you kidding? That's the craziest thing I've ever seen. I want to be here next month to check this out again."

"Ha! I knew it! As soon as I saw you, I knew you could handle it. Glad to have you aboard, kid."

When Gabe came home that evening, he burst through the bedroom door so fast, the horseshoe spun around the doorknob and fell to the floor. "Val, wake up!" he shouted as he turned on the light. "Guess what I saw at work."

Valerie rolled over and blinked as she tried to adjust her eyes to the light. She wasn't sure whether to be angry or concerned. "What?"

"Remember what I said a while back about the mall being haunted?" he asked as he undressed and threw his uniform into a pile on the floor. It only took Valerie a moment to recall it, but that was longer than Gabe could wait. "You remember, right? That story Larry was telling me. The one where I thought he was pulling my leg."

"Yeah, what about it?"

"It's true! I saw it myself."

Mookie stood up from where she was sleeping at the foot of the bed and jumped off. She approached his uniform carefully and sniffed it. The fur on her back stood up, and she ran out of the room. Valerie looked after her curiously, but Gabe hardly noticed. He was too busy telling the story of what had happened that night under the full moon.

"That's just weird," Valerie said when he was finished. "It was probably that stray cat again. That's why Mookie's mad at you right now."

"I told you, it wasn't a cat. I don't know what it was, but it definitely was not a cat. I'm going to wait until next month to see if it happens again."

"Ugh! Next month. I don't even want to think about it. I just want this job to be over." She rolled over on her side and bunched the covers under her chin.

"It won't be over until we get those bills paid off. That's going to take longer than a month, I'm afraid." He turned out the light and got into bed beside her. He tried to sleep, but after so much excitement, his brain refused to shut down. He lay there for hours before sleep finally took over.

~*~

It had been a month since Gabe had seen the mysterious creature running through the Desert Fashion Hub. This time, he didn't forget about the full moon but had the date circled on his calendar in bold, black marker. He arrived at work with a new-found enthusiasm that Larry noticed as soon as he saw him crossing the parking lot. "Looking forward to our visitor, I see," he shouted from the entrance.

"Wouldn't miss it," Gabe shouted back.

The two men entered the mall together, but Gabe stopped as soon as they reached the plaza. Larry stood beside him and gave him a moment to soak it all in. "Doesn't even look like the same place, does it?"

"What happened?"

"Looks like the tree trimmers came in yesterday. I don't think they've done this since the place opened ten years ago. At least, they haven't as long as I've been here. God knows, the trees could use a trim, but the place sure looks bare."

Gabe walked down one of the concrete paths and stood on the back of a turtle etched in the middle while he gazed at what was left of the trees. Their main limbs were shortened and bare. The smaller limbs were reduced to nubs. They no longer created a canopy over the plaza but were little more than large, twisted sticks rising up out of the planters. "This looks horrible," he said.

"Yeah, it's not too pretty right now. But they'll grow back," Larry assured him.

"But what about our ghost?"

"What about him?"

"With the trees all bare like this, he won't have anywhere to hide. Do you think he'll come out?"

Larry looked around. "I don't see why not. We still got the bushes and flowers for him."

"Yeah, maybe." Gabe continued to the patio and looked up at the sky through the opening. He had an unhindered view of the stars, and the edge of the moon was just beginning to creep into the picture. The light shined through at an angle and landed on the patio floor just to one side of the Kokopelli. It created a perfect octagonal spotlight unbroken by the tree limbs that usually hovered over the top.

"So, do you want to take the plaza or the parking lot?" Larry asked him.

"Maybe you should take the plaza. You missed this last month."

"All right, then. I'll let you know if I see anything."

Gabe returned to the parking lot and wandered around the outside of the mall for as long as he could before curiosity brought him back to the plaza. He had only been gone half an hour. He stopped at the soda machine under the pretense that he wanted a drink while keeping an eye out for Larry. He showed up within a minute, shining his flashlight on Gabe as he approached.

"Anything going on yet?" Gabe asked him.

"No, not yet. The moon's still got a ways to go before it's shining overhead. It'll probably be eleven, twelve o'clock before that happens."

"Make sure you call me as soon as he comes."

Gabe took his can of soda to the parking lot to finish it then spent the next hour and a half fighting the urge to go back. He finally gave in and returned around mid-shift. Larry was expecting him and met him at the entrance.

"I was hoping you'd get here pretty quick," Larry said.

"Why?"

"The energy's starting to build up under the patio."

"I thought you said it wouldn't happen until later."

"It won't. The moon's still not right. It needs to shine straight on that Indian guy. But something's going on under that patio."

Gabe went to the patio to see for himself. The moonlight covered the entire Kokopelli, but it wasn't centered. The edge of it barely cleared his arched back. But just as Larry had said, the energy was already building up. He had to stand very still and concentrate to feel it, but it was definitely there.

"It's a little strange," Larry said as he joined Gabe under the patio. "I don't usually feel it this early, and it doesn't usually creep up this slow. It all happens kind of quick-like."

Gabe looked up. "The trees. They're not blocking the moonlight."

"Nope, not tonight."

"Maybe that's why there's more energy."

"Could be."

The men stood there for a while and tried to read the energy as it passed through them. It was like listening to music playing in the far distance. They could detect there was a melody, but it was too weak to follow.

"Do you think I should go back to the parking lot?" Gabe asked after a minute or so.

Larry sighed and gave it some thought. "Why don't you make another round or two, you know, just to make sure nothing's going on? Then come back so we can both stay here and wait for this thing. I'm telling you, there's something different about this night, and I don't want either one of us missing it."

Gabe hurried out to the parking lot and made another quick round, but unless something had jumped out at him, he wouldn't have noticed it. His mind was on getting back to the plaza. When he returned, he found Larry sitting on a bench right above an etched deer on the path. "Did I miss anything?" he asked as he sat down next to him.

"Not yet," Larry said.

The men sat quietly waiting for something to happen. They heard a few crickets chirping, and once in a while, one would leap through the bushes and startle them. When they realized it wasn't their ghost, they both laughed nervously then waited again for the real show.

"Do you feel that?" Larry asked after a while.

"What?" Gabe concentrated on the space around him to see what Larry was talking about. "Yeah, there it is. Just like under the patio."

"Right. But it's all the way out here."

As they concentrated on the energy in the air, the miniscule melody began to take shape. They could feel it under their skin, then it coursed through their pulse. There was no sound, but the feeling lifted their spirits as though it was coming from a live band. The music was alive and living through them. The men began to laugh at each other as the melody made them want to get up and dance, but neither of them was brave enough to be the first.

When the melody had become so strong they were no longer certain whether they were feeling it or hearing it, something moved under the patio. Gabe and Larry jumped up immediately and backed away to the outer edge of the plaza. This time, they could see the creature.

The Kokopelli stood under a moon beam spotlight, a large elderly-looking Native American man with a hunched back, dark, wild hair and eyes to match. He noticed the men, then he looked right into Gabe. A mischievous smile spread across his face just before he placed his long, slender flute to his lips and began to play. The tune was audible this time, loud and playful. And he leapt and danced to it with the energy and agility of a young child.

Slowly, the animals that were etched into the surface of the concrete paths began to rise from the ground and take on more color and shape. There was a bear, snake, deer, and turtle, each of them about the same size as the Kokopelli. They took a moment to shake their heads and stretch their limbs. Then they began to dance wildly under the moonlight to the Kokopelli's tune. The bear stood up on his hind legs and pranced, the snake slithered in frenzied patterns, the deer leapt into the air and the turtle spun in circles.

Larry and Gabe knew they had every reason to be scared, but neither man could convince himself to run. They were entranced by the spectacle that was playing out before them and couldn't imagine leaving before it was finished. Even when the Kokopelli jumped out from under the patio and began to dance toward them, all they could feel was excitement. Before they knew it, the he was dancing right in front of them and reaching out for Gabe's hand.

Gabe didn't hesitate to take it even though his practical mind was screaming that this was insane. He followed the Kokopelli back to the center of the plaza where he released his hand and the animals gathered around to dance with him. Gabe partnered with the bear first, who picked him up and twirled him. Then he and the deer took turns leaping over the snake as it serpentined across the ground. Finally, they all skipped circles around the turtle until they were dizzy and fell to the ground.

Gabe laughed hysterically like he hadn't done in years, and when he was finally able to sit up and catch his breath again, he realized the creatures were gone. The only sounds left in the plaza were his heavy breathing and Larry whooping and hollering as he ran to him.

"Did you see that? Did you see that!" he shouted and shook Gabe's shoulders.

"Are you kidding? Didn't you see me over here dancing with them? Why didn't you come with me?"

"Oh no," he said grinning widely. "That was for you, kid. Didn't you see the way that Indian was looking at you? That was your dance."

Gabe stood up and wiped the dirt from his pants. "Nah, why would it be just my dance? You were here, too."

"Yeah, but I'm here every month, and he's never done anything like that for me. He wanted you."

They talked about it for the rest of their shift, but that still wasn't enough for Gabe. When he came home that evening, he ran into the bedroom and practically jumped on the bed next to Valerie. "Val, you'll never guess what happened!"

Valerie and Mookie both jumped up at the sudden jolt. Mookie gave Gabe's pant leg one sniff, then she arched her back and ran out of the room hissing.

"What the...?" Valerie looked from Gabe to the cat, confused. "What's wrong with you?" she snapped at him.

"Nothing's wrong. It was the best night of my life!"

"You mean that ghost?"

"Yeah, the ghost."

"You are absolutely nuts, do you know that?"

"Wait until I tell you about it." Gabe stood up from the bed and began reenacting the whole scene in the middle of their bedroom. Valerie's expression changed throughout the story from anger, to interest, to bewilderment. She had never known her husband to act this way before. When he was finished, he returned to the bed breathing heavily from all his excitement.

"That sounds...interesting," was all she could think to say.

"Interesting?"

She nodded her head.

"Oh, come on, Valerie! It was more than interesting. It was incredible!" He wrapped his arms around her and began kissing her neck playfully, knowing full well how ticklish she was there.

Valerie laughed and squealed while making a half-hearted effort to push him away. Before long, the two of them were rolling in the sheets together and didn't fall to sleep until nearly sunrise.

~*~

Two months later, Larry patrolled the Desert Fashion Hub alone. He had just lost another partner to the ghost in the plaza, who he now understood to be the Kokopelli. The creature's monthly appearance had become a full-blown gala ever since the trees were trimmed and allowed the full moon to shine unobstructed onto his image. Larry had witnessed the dance with three different partners since that first night, but Gabe was the only one who had ever been invited to join in. The other two just watched from the edge of the plaza until it was over then headed right for the main office where they applied for reassignment. Larry wasn't sure, but he thought he had seen a wet spot on the last guy's trousers.

Gabe wasn't the least bit afraid. He was the first and only partner to appreciate the mall for what it was. It was his wife who made him leave. Gabe said she was worried that what had happened that night was somehow dangerous. Larry suspected she might have thought he was going crazy. The last he heard, Gabe had been reassigned to an office complex across town.

As Larry circled the inside of the mall, he heard footsteps echoing from one of the entrances. He wasn't expecting anyone, so his pulse raced as he shined his flashlight in that direction. "Who's there?" he shouted. But before the visitor could answer, Larry had already recognized his face. "Gabe!"

"Hey, Larry! How's it going?"

The men shook hands and Larry gave Gabe a slap on the back. "It's going good. I didn't expect to see you here again."

"Well, I took the night off just so I could come by and give you some news."

"What's that?"

"Valerie and I are expecting a baby. And, well..." Gabe felt a little silly even suggesting it, "we think it might have happened right after that night with the Kokopelli. "

"Is that right? See, I told you that dance was for you. Didn't I tell you?"

Gabe laughed. If anyone would take him seriously, it would be Larry. "Yeah, I guess you were right."

"I know I am. Here, let me buy you a drink. How about a root beer?"

"Sure. Sounds good."

The men drank root beer and spent the rest of the evening talking about their night with the Kokopelli. Just before Larry's shift was over, Gabe reached into his pocket and took out the horseshoe that had been hanging on his bedroom door. "I don't think I'm going to need this anymore," he said and tossed it into a nearby planter. As soon as it hit the dirt, the wind picked up slightly and carried a faint melody through the air. It was the song of the Kokopelli.

Copyright 2010 by Lachlan David

Lachlan David is a native of California who currently resides in Phoenix, Arizona. He has been writing for his personal entertainment for many years and is excited to take on the challenge of writing for publication. He blogs at Hypercube Fiction.

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TARZAN AT THE EARTH'S CORPS  
by Walt Staples

"One normally sees what one expects."  
—H.P. Lovecraft

There was a pop and the small blue-green cloud of smoke wafting up from the coffee maker told Gunnery Sergeant Sid Graywacke it was going to be one of those days. The empty Irish Breakfast Tea container exhibited his daughter Ann's touch. The full case of empty Dr. Pepper bottles showed there would be no joy in that direction.

He tip-toed out the door so as not to wake Maggie, his wife of twenty-something years. If he was a bear without his morning caffeine, she tended to be more of a tiger—all 40 kilos of her. He wasn't overly surprised at the idea. Her Moro tribesmen ancestors were noted for being rather "frisky" on occasion. He climbed onto his bike and began pedaling. For the umpteenth time, he fantasized about an electric job, but the battalion medical officer, Commander Obsidian, was on the warpath over his weight.

Maybe someone at the office would foul up and he'd get to work off his sour mood. Probably not, he decided. Quantico's Base Security Detachment was a pretty squared away bunch. On the whole, he admitted, he liked it that way.

As he pedaled, he brought up the day's schedule on the bike's display. He scanned down it and said a Marine word. A congressional junket was to be in Area 14 at 13:00. So much for his cup of coffee at the office. He'd have to dump the bike and head out there to make sure nothing hazardous to politicians was in the area.

He called up the news. There had been a major zombie infestation in LA the day before. Something about a freeway being shutdown by it. The morning's second lead story was about the washed-up California actor running against President Flint. Graywacke grinned wolfishly at the thought of that ham going up against Colonel Mary NMI Flint, USMC (Ret.). As the windshield said to the bug, "Splat!"

As he rode into the detachment parking area, he did see one of the drawbacks to the President being a former Marine. The Corps was now first in line to receive all kinds of neat, new goodies—no matter how unperfected. It is a truism that Marines only appreciated things that smoke, rattle, or leak oil. With Colonel Flint in the Oval Office, now every great new idea the Army's TARDEC came up with ended up coming to the Marine Corps before it had been idiot-proofed on soldiers. Case in point was the M1289 TMI (Transport Marine Individual) or "Timmy." What was the problem with the old M1183E Ultra Hummer? Well, yeah, they flip over when turning at speeds greater than seven kilometers per hour. And the battery charge only lasts twenty-five kilometers between recharges. But they were "green." Besides, he felt stupid straddling a saw horse flying through the air. On top of that, someone seemed to have forgotten that it rains in Quantico. Flying along in a shelter-half was worse than looking stupid; your lower half got soaked.

Grumbling to himself, Graywacke dismounted and locked the bike, then climbed on the Timmy and departed in a cloud of profanity.

~*~

The flight was uneventful until the last thirty seconds. With a ping, Graywacke and his mount's vector changed from forward to straight down. He punched the Emergency Chute button remembering too late that if the Timmy's computer had already begun the deployment sequence pushing the button caused it to reboot and start the sequence again after a twenty-five second pause. The gunnery sergeant leaned to the side to observe the speedily approaching ground. With the gyros also offline, the Timmy rolled 180 degrees to starboard. Graywacke kicked loose and fell rather than be buried in the same coffin with the wonder of technology.

Graywacke had gotten as far as "...blessed are thou among women and..." when he hit the top of the pine, slowed, and rolled as the tree reached the end of its arc and dropped him into two meters of icy water and mud.

As he reached almost solid ground, he noticed the newly issued utilities' heating element was no longer working. He continued to slog forward. He knew to stop would be to invite hypothermia. He'd seen enough good Marines die from it in the fighting around Ittoqqortoormiit during the Whale Oil Campaign.

An hour later, he stopped at the edge of Aquia Creek. The other side was only a hundred meters away, but he knew he was in no shape to swim it. He looked down at himself. He was going to be a laughingstock. The utilities' camouflage pattern had frozen between North American Eastern Mid-Atlantic Spring Digital and Central Baluchistan Mountain Night Tigerstripes. For the most part a layer of mud covered him, drying to a raw umber.

He tossed one idea after another over the side as he tried to come up with a way to cross the barrier. The sound of a movement behind him broke his concentration. He slowly turned his head and froze. A skunk regarded him with black, bead-like eyes. It began to stamp its forefeet, then whirled and lifted its tail.

Afterwards, Graywacke was pretty sure he hadn't screamed like a little girl. Finding himself on the other side of the creek, he noticed the mud caking his boots and utilities was still dry. His breathing returning to a slower rate, he gritted his teeth. Just let 'em laugh, at least the ones with fewer stripes and rockers. He turned to start the long walk, slipped, and landed face down among the bulrushes.

Wearing a new coat of mud, he stomped away from the creek taking care to stomp very carefully. It occurred to him he must look like the hero of the book he was reading before bed, Tarzan at the Earth's Core.

He passed under the edge of a line of pines. He heard a buzz from above and halted. He tried to remember where he had heard that sound before. Drone! He turned and ran back to the wood's edge just in time to see the Pinkeye drone flying into the distance. He uttered a medium-long string of Marine words, turned, and clomped back in his original direction.

~*~

Captain Jack Karst frowned at the screen on the wall of the base security office. It was no secret that he didn't buy the Rand Corporation study the Air Force had commissioned that showed distraction made multi-tasking more efficient. Frankly, he was tired of constantly being bombarded by talking heads and the emoting of denizens from the shallow end of the gene pool. It didn't help his mood that all the military history, hard science, and farm channels had been moved up to the premium tier. And the cooking channels just made him fat. Without looking around, he snarled, "Turn something else on, Garnet. I'm tired of this zombie-zombie-zombie crap! What else is on?"

Lance Corporal Eileen Garnet pulled up the TV schedule on her display. "Let's see...five documentaries on zombies, eighteen reality shows, sumo wrestling bouts on four channels—"

"Yeah, the wife and I watched them last night," Karst interrupted. "Gomez is going for Yokozuna Grand Master."

Garnet continued, "—a discussion of whether zombies should continue to be counted in Cook County elections on the news channel and an old movie, sir."

"What's the movie?"

"Uh, Oliver Stone's 'Sadam,' sir."

The captain sighed. "Leave the zombies on."

Lieutenant Mitch Flowstone, Karst's XO, bustled in. "Captain Karst, sir, something's come up!"

The CO looked down at his 50 kilo lieutenant. "Talk."

"Sir, a Pinkeye drone spotted a target in Area 14. A.I. indentifies it as a probable zombie."

Karst's eyebrows flew up. "Did the Pinkeye engage it?"

The smaller man seemed abashed. "Ah, no sir. APVs operating in the continental United States are unarmed except for those operating along the Canadian border and in Illinois. The drone lost the target after it entered some trees."

"What did thermal show?"

"Sir, it's a zombie. It ain't got a thermal signature."

Karst made a face like someone mentally kicking himself. "Oh, yeah. Right."

Flowstone looked at him expectantly. "Orders, sir?"

The captain's stomach grumbled in complaint over the morning's coffee intake—eight cups and counting. Karst appeared to be thinking furiously as he rubbed his belly. His hand stopped as his pupils went to pin points. After a moment, he rapped out, "Get on the horn to base command. Tell the duty sergeant what's going on. Tell him to tell the colonel I suggest the base go to condition red. Call the alert platoon. I want them here yesterday. Next, notify Headquarters Marine Corps. Also, Arlington Hall. Call the tower and tell them to expect aircraft coming in from the Barracks in DC and from Camp Lejune. Oh, yeah, there may be something flying from Oceana and Cherry Point."

Flowstone glanced up from the screen of his Raspberry. "What about Pax River, sir?"

Karst nodded furiously. "Yeah, yeah, them too." He stopped and looked in all directions. "Where's Gunny Graywacke?"

Flowstone seemed about to pat himself down, then answered, "Sir, I'm not sure. I saw him leave on his Timmy a couple hours ago."

Karst barked, "Find him!"

Flowstone turned to Garnet and barked—or rather—squeaked, "Lance! Find Gunny Graywacke!"

The tall corporal looked down at him from her seat and rapped out a business-like, "Yes, sir." A five beat and she asked in a small voice, "Er, sir? How?"

Before Flowstone could scream—well—squeak at the unfortunate enlisted woman, Karst told her, "Check his chip. That'll tell you, Lance."

"Yes, sir." Garnet tapped out a sequence on her desk pad and waited as the GPS satellites interrogated the chip buried in his spine to triangulate the Gunny's position. Her voice was hushed as she read her display. "Sir, Gunny is in Area 14."

~*~

While the two officers were at the armory drawing their weapons, Garnet's phone buzzed. She answered, "Base Security, Corporal Garnet speaking."

The voice at the other end announced, "Eileen, this is Maggie Graywacke. Is the gunny around?"

Garnet mentally switched to panic mode. "Uh, well, er, the thing is...he...uh...uh..."

Maggie's tone hardened, "Eileen, I've been married to the Corps long enough to know that when a young Marine starts tap-dancing like that, Sid is either in deep trouble or with another woman, which is the same thing. Now, give."

"Uh...uh...I...uh..."

Her voice held the quiet of the cobra. "Eileen, dear, I run the gunny. What do you think I could do to you?"

Garnet felt sweat form on her forehead and trickle down her sides. "Well, ma'am, we sort of misplaced the gunny...um..."

The voice from the receiver became even quieter. "You misplaced a hundred kilo Marine Corps gunnery sergeant? How?"

All 2.04 meters of the lance corporal blanched. She swallowed, quickly crossed herself, and shakily answered, "Ma'am, the gunny went out to Area 14."

"So?"

"He ain't come back yet."

"Again, so?"

Garnet took a deep breath. "The base is under zombie alert. One was spotted in Area 14."

There was silence on the other end for a three beat. When she spoke, all menace was gone from Maggie's voice. "I see. Thank you, Eileen." She paused, then continued, "And Eileen?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"If anyone should ask me how I found out, I don't see that they have 'a need to know.'"

~*~

Graywacke knew he was approaching a fire trail. He stopped and listened. Was that the whine of a vehicle engine? He started to trot in that direction. As he broke through some brush, he saw an M1183E Ultra Hummer with two Marines in full combat gear. He opened his mouth to call to them, but the driver mashed the pedal and the vehicle sped away, its electric motor making a high whine. The sergeant in him noted the gunner appeared to be having trouble unlocking the machinegun's mount.

Private Jamal Arete looked down at the single-rocker driving. "Sergeant? What do we tell the old man?"

Arlee Kamm returned the look as he answered, "The simple truth. He's going to find out somehow. Officers always seem to know when you're blowing smoke. And there'll be a lot less pain if we just own up."

Back on the side of the fire trail, Graywacke watched the Ultra Hummer disappear with disbelief. Hadn't they seen me? Man, this is as bad as that book! All the characters almost meeting and then just missing each other. Just wait 'til I get to the office. Those clowns are going to have their heads out the next time they're out here on a field problem!

~*~

Karst glanced up as the two Marines approached. "What's the word, men?"

Kamm led off, "Sir, we sighted the target about three klicks east of here."

The captain gestured at the map panel on the side of the command Hummer. "Show me."

"Yes, sir." Kamm plugged his datalink into the panel and a dot of light with coordinates appeared on the display.

Flowstone asked, "Did you engage the zombie?"

The sergeant's mahogany features darkened as he blushed. "No, sir."

"Why not?"

Kamm's jaw hardened. "My fault, sir."

Karst crossed his arms. "How so, Sergeant?"

"We had the power to the gun mount switched off to save juice so we could get back to the motor pool without stopping to recharge. Arete couldn't get the gun unlocked manually, sir."

Flowstone jumped back in. "How was it your fault instead of Private Arete's?"

The sergeant's jaw tightened more. "Sir, I was in command."

Karst broke in thoughtfully, "Probably just as well."

The lieutenant's eyebrows rose. "Sir?"

"According to the rules of engagement, we're supposed to call on the zombie to surrender."

The other three looked at him in amazement. Kamm forgot himself enough to let slip, "Surrender? They ain't got enough working brain left to talk, much less surrender!"

The CO smiled sourly. "Yes, well, we're suppose to give them the chance to surrender. Part of DoD's 'Kindness Offensive.'"

The sergeant snarled under his breath, "'Offensive' all right."

Karst looked at Kamm mildly. "Problem, Sergeant?"

"Sorry, sir." He shook his head. "It's just...just I wish we could just blow things away like we used to, sir."

The other raised an eyebrow. "And when was that, Sergeant?"

After a moment Kamm grinned. "I guess about the time my grand-daddy went through Paris Island, sir."

The captain chuckled. "That's okay, Sergeant, everybody says it was better in the old Corps. Personally, I think we were shooting people from fighting tops then." He inspected the location of the red dot. "Hmm, right next to Puller's Swale."

Arete asked, "Puller's Swale, sir?"

Karst grinned. "Yep, Private. That's where a butter bar named Chesty Puller managed to lose a model T while showing a sweet young thing a good time back in 1919."

"Lost it, sir?"

The CO laughed. "Completely out of sight. Couldn't even find it thirty years later with a mine detector. Which goes to show, even you might grow up to be a lieutenant general, Private Arete." He touched the screen. The dot turned from red to blue. "What the—Hey, Garnet, come here a minute."

The tall, lanky lance corporal came around from the other side of the vehicle. "Sir?"

"Gunny Graywacke should show up as a blue dot, right?"

"Yes, sir."

Karst spoke musingly, "I just tried to check the gunny's position. This thing says he should be right on top of the target." He looked at the two enlisted men. "Did either of you see Gunny Graywacke?"

Both looked at each other in confusion. Kamm shook his head and answered, "No, sir, we only saw the zombie."

The captain paled and said slowly and softly, "Gunny and the zombie are in the same place, but you saw only the zombie...which means...Gunny must be inside the zombie..."

As they stared at one another in horror, Kamm shook his head and said to no one in particular, "Man-oh-man. I would've expected Gunny to eat the zombie."

Garnet distractedly offered a canteen cup of coffee to Karst, who took it just as distractedly.

Just on the other side of a brush windrow, Graywacke smelled one of the reasons for life—coffee! He broke into a tired shamble in the direction the breeze blew from. Somewhere out there was caffeine!

He tore through the briars, holly, and honeysuckle. The Marines clustered around the vehicles froze for an instant, then combat honed reflexes took charge.

Arete seemed to fly up to his machinegun. He grabbed the handles, jerked them to line up the target, and, having forgotten to unlock the mount, nearly threw himself off the top of the M1183E.

Kamm knew an instant of panic as he forgot whether he'd left his M19 in the vehicle. His hand bumped the butt of the assault weapon hanging from his shoulder and he was a Marine again.

Karst dumped scalding coffee down his front as he grabbed for his sidearm, while Flowstone leaped into the command Hummer to call in an airstrike.

Garnet lifted her machine pistol, took aim, squinted at the approaching creature, and called out, "Don't shoot! Don't Shoot! That's Gunny!"

The captain, pistol half-drawn, whirled. "What? How do you know?"

Garnet lowered her weapon to her side. "Sir, I've seen that walk a zillion times. That's Gunny's walk."

Karst glanced at the figure, then back at the lance corporal. "What do you mean, Garnet?"

"Sir, he always walks like a bulldog with something stuck up his—like a bulldog, sir," she finished lamely.

Kamm, holding a bead on the target, asked, "How can we be sure, sir?"

The watchers looked at each other. Karst suddenly brightened. He shoved his sidearm back in its holster, grabbed the empty cup from the ground, ran around to the other side of the command Hummer, poured coffee in the cup, and held it aloft. "Hey, Gunny, coffee's up!" The figure broke into a kilometer eating run.

Graywacke took a deep draught, not caring about the third degree burns to his tongue. "Sir, there are still possibilities for this stinkin' day."

~*~

Maggie Graywacke handed her husband a Dr. Pepper as he lay in his recliner. "Hard day at the salt mines, Hon?"

He took a sip and flashed her a grin before returning his attention to the sumo wrestlers. "About what you'd expect for an organization that got started in a bar."

Copyright 2010 by Walt Staples

Walt Staples spent far too many years thinking the unthinkable for a living. He maintains this has had no effect on him though he admits to a predilection for collecting odd people and an inordinate thirst for Dr. Pepper. While his physical position is generally indeterminable, his heart is firmly located at 38.9 N, 78.2 W. He is a member of a number of organizations which shall remain nameless with the exception of the Catholic Writers' Guild and the Lost Genre Guild – both of whose blackmail payments are in arrears. He also wastes everyone's time at his blog, Variable Credence.

Note from the author: This story is set in the universe of Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator, created by Karina Fabian and published here with her permission. Who'd have thought zombies would become just another annoyance to be handled by government regulations and commercial enterprises? Check out the answer in Karina's new novel at KarinaFabian.com.

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Thank you for reading this issue of Residential Aliens. This compilation is copyrighted 2010 by ResAliens Press; individual stories copyrighted by their authors. Opinions expressed within this issue do not necessarily reflect those of the authors or the publisher. Each story is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this issue are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except in brief quotations in printed or online reviews.

About Residential Aliens and ResAliens Press: Residential Aliens is a magazine of spiritually infused speculative fiction published by Lyn Perry, owner of ResAliens Press, online at http://www.ResAliens.com. You can discover more great stories at Smashwords - http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/resaliens
