

Everything Follows

A Short Story Collection

By

Gabe Sluis

Everything Follows

Copyright © 2017 by G. Sluis

Published at Smashwords

First Edition

Cover Photo: Gabe Sluis

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Cheshire Cat is the only thing allowed on this stereo.

For Orrin Sluis and Gabe Courtney.

I hope you two enjoy my stories when you are old enough to appreciate them.

Special thanks to friends for their thoughts:

Roni Waters

Coty Austin

Lauren Sonnier

Becca Gow

Mike Serrecchia

Josh Sluis

My Mummy and Dad
TABLE OF CONTENTS

The First Day of Spring

My Corner Store

Sara Joy

Story of a Graffiti Artist

The Visitant

The Ship in Question

Drake Denver and the Ninja Gang

Reflections From A Ditch

The Most He Ever Spoke

The Blue Beetle

The First Day Of Spring

There was no amnesia. There was no confusion; no postictle period where the brain takes time to reboot. One moment he was asleep, in dreamless slumber, the next, he was fully awake. And his heart was racing.

The doors to his cryo-chamber parted horizontally. The restraints holding him shrunk away. The tube attached to the port on his right clavicle popped off. Geo shrunk downward to a squat. There was nothing he could do to stop it. His stomach coiled into a knot, blasting out all the warm water that had recently been pumped into his intestines.

He rolled his eyes as blood filled his head from bearing down. It's almost passed, he told himself as he felt his stomach loosen. Part of him knew that freezing himself four months out of the year was crazy, but it also felt right. It felt right to be frozen by scientists, rather than by nature, since he didn't have a home to hide in all winter.

On a stool to his left was a neatly folded stack of clothes. Beneath the stool were his shoes. All showed signs of wear, but were freshly cleaned, pressed, and folded. A few months ago, they had been thrown on that very stool, dirty from a long day and splashlets from river mud. Geo pulled a palm-sized sticky pad off his right breast and another that was on his left shoulder blade. He flung them to the floor and dressed.

Fully clothed, Geo touched the doorplate. The frosted glass turned translucent and the door retracted. In the big room in front of him, a line had formed of all the others who had awoken and dressed. The common looking people, all clothed in worn, laundered and pressed clothing, stood chatting amicably. Geo stepped in line, nodding to a few recognized faces.

The room was a long, wide hallway. Computer terminals stood every few individual rooms, with clear, flat monitors encircling a desk. Some monitors were still active, displaying vital signs and information on rooms that still had opaque corresponding doors.

A gravely voice screeched in Geo's ear.

"Well, ya lucky butt? Did it feel like a nice long sleep? Huh?!"

"Good spring to you too, Pook," Geo said.

Red blinking lights made the old and young man look backward. A cryo-suite door opened without activation by its occupant. A pair of medical techs ran past pushing a cart. The techs looked disinterested, yet compelled by protocol to hustle.

"There is always one! One each year," Pook announced. "Hope it's no one we know!"

"Sure, Pookster," Geo said.

"Hey! You'd better take this season serious! Don't you forget how I saved you last winter!" Pool said, jabbing a finger into the back of Geo's shoulder.

"Okaya, Pook. I got it."

Pook began to say something more, but the line had finally come to a head. Geo stepped into the next available cubical, where a nurse worked discharge. The cubical was all white. The nurse stood behind a diaphragm high counter that was devoid of any instrumentation. The woman was clothed in dark blue scrubs, black hair pulled straight back from her forehead. She had golden eyes, a gene modification that had become popular with the residents of the City. It was a luxury Geo would never be able, or want, to afford. The nurse looked up at Geo and then in the air to his left.

"Geo Westphal, thank you for choosing Maton Laboratories for your cryogenic suspension needs. Was your experience a pleasant one?"

"Yeah, fine," Geo said. He waved his hand dismissively and preempted the next questions. "No, I do not want to pay for any additional services. I don't need to have a highlight of current events or a genetic report on my physical condition. And yes, I want the shunt out."

Geo pulled his shirt away from his right collarbone, exposing the white plastic port.

The nurse, used to being interrupted by this particular class of clients, was unflapped by the distraction to the script she was required to read. Instead, she drew out a small white gun from below the counter and inserted a cartridge into the barrel. She leaned across to Geo, who stretched his neck in the opposite direction. She attached the gun to the port and explained as she injected.

"The bio-foam I am injecting may feel unpleasant at first, but it is imbedded with an antiseptic that should relieve any pain associated with the packing of the arterial incision. Please keep the site clean for the next three days while the skin heals. The foam will be absorbed as you mend naturally, and minimal scaring will result."

Geo looked away as the nurse pinched two tabs on the plastic shunt and pulled it straight out. The skin was red beneath, but closed around the foam and did not bleed.

"Yeah, yeah, I understand," Geo said, having heard this speech several times.

"Sir, I am required by law to provide you with three more pieces of information prior to your release," the nurse said.

Geo shook his head and rolled his eyes, "Go ahead, the hard sell, I know it's all crap."

"During your procedure, a full body diagnostic was performed, showing several abnormalities that have the potential to be life threatening. Would you like to have an interview with a physician to discuss the findings?"

A nose snort. "No."

"If money is an issue, payment plans can be arran..."

"Next!" Geo interrupted. "Come on, tell me the date."

"You have been awoken on the 6th day of March, 762 Malitivian Years," the nurse said. "And finally, you should be aware that a side effect of the drugs used in your rapid re-animation may cause you to be unable to sleep for the next 24 hours."

"This is the most productive time in my year, lady!" Geo said. "Last year I stayed up three days, easy! Can I go now?"

"Once again, thank you for choosing Maton Labs," the nurse said. The next line she delivered with maximum irony in her voice.

"We hope to see you next winter, Mister Westphal."

Geo was out of the cryo office in a flash. He zipped down a hall, down a fight of stairs beside an escalator, through the lobby, and the front doors. The light hit him first. Real sunlight, filtered through overcast clouds, but still intense- the way indoor lighting never was. Then it was the air. Sweet and clean, scrubbed by another impossibly frigid winter. The sidewalks and roads were all cleaned and pristine. The city workers had been busy while most had been hiding indoors.

Directly outside the cryo-building, there was a hum of activity. The concrete plaza in front of the doors was a madhouse. A minor throng of street people had congregated, groups of compatriots awaiting members discharge, think-tanks of the finest homeless minds scheming up plans based off of rumors, and unsure souls standing in place.

Geo, on the other hand, was not there to socialize. He was waiting for no one and was sure of his next move. He wound his way through the crowd, not expecting to stop.

But of his own will, he did. He couldn't explain why, but something about the pitch had him mesmerized.

A man was handing out yellow fliers to everyone who entered his invisible sphere of action. He was light skinned, slightly hunched over, brown hair parted in the middle, and voice going a mile a minute.

"Hey there, hey there, hey there! Have I got an opportunity for each of you! The Deep Sea Fishing Corporation is hiring! Come down to our weekend hiring event! How would you like to spend the summer out in the great WILD north! All positions available! Near shore! Off shore! Floating processors! Deck hands! Maintenance! Cook staff! No experience required! All you must do is pass a simple physical test, and you could be enjoying the experience of a lifetime!

"Substantial pay! On average, workers make upwards of two hundred dollars a six-day workweek! Room and board provided by the company for just seventy a week! Overtime optional! Take this opportunity to return to the City with a pocket of cash!

"The North Sea calls, ladies and gentlemen. Adventure is calling your name!"

The man was flaming fliers about, head cocked back, bellowing with excellent enunciation. At the end, Geo stepped forward and grabbed a flier. He stared down at it as the pitchman reset.

"Hey, friend? What's it like up there? Is it like what they advertise?" he asked.

"No idea. Never been," the pitchman answered, and swung around to begin again.

At the first 'hey there,' Geo snapped back to. He folded the flier into four and shoved it down in his back pocket. He walked past the spouting man, not the only one passing out fliers, and continued on his way.

Geo got off the subway at the Foot of the Highland station and road the escalator to street level. He looked both ways as he darted across a three-way intersection. The single story brick building he angled toward had a large picture window that was tinted and streaming bright colored text, advertising sales and deal inside. The breeze caught the door as he pulled, making it seem as though he yanked it open.

"Ah, geesh, sorry Babu! Didn't mean to fling it open like that!" Geo apologized as he closed the door lightly and wound his way through the salvage and pawn.

"I've come to expect you to storm in like that. Every time," Babu said.

The middle-aged man sitting behind the counter was overweight everywhere but his head and arms. Black hair and a grey goatee adorned his young looking face. Babu put down his tablet and leaned back in his high stool.

"So! How did your winter pass, my lazy friend?" Geo asked, smacking his arms down on the counter.

"Oh, you know. Business is just different without walk-ins. More delivery orders on little stuff. People pick up hobbies while housebound. I stay afloat."

"I'm sure the Expeditionary Force residuals help," Geo commented.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Profits keep the shop open, residuals keep me fed."

"Gaaah," Geo mused, "I should have done that when I was young. But man, back then, the thought of leaving the City freaked me out. You liked being out there? In the middle of nowhere?"

"Oh, sure. I was pretty interesting. I think I hated parts of it at the time. Being at some of the small outposts close to the City was a lot harder than when we were out on an exploration. When we had important collection and surveying work to keep us busy, I was happiest. In retrospect, the Expeditionary Force was the best thing I ever did."

"Hmmm," Geo said.

"And now, they got kids from the 2nd up on the moon, doing algae studies! Times have sure changed since I was in," Babu said.

"You ever been to the North Sea? You know they got all those fish camps up there..."

"Oh yeah! Spent some time on an icebreaker in the north. I have been to the jungles south of the Islands and as far west as the Nematic Deserts," Babu said. He paused and caught a whiff of the implication imbedded in Geo's question.

"What is it? Considering looking for some work outside the City for the summer months?"

Geo drew out the yellow flier from his back pocket and spread it out on the counter. He spun it around for Babu to read.

"I don't know!" Geo said. "I mean, the thought has crossed my mind in the past. Then stuff would work out and I never needed the money bad enough."

"So what's changed?" Babu said, picking up the paper and looking at it closely.

"I don't know, Babu. I mean, there are always people pitching fliers outside the cryo on the 6th. Usually, I just ignore 'em. No one does anything out of others best interest, especially on this day. They try to prey on us 'silly' seasonals. But this time, it really made sense!

"Maybe I suck it up. Live in close quarters with a bunch of dummies and work a monotonous job for half a year. I could do six months. I know I could. And if I'm smart and don't spend more than necessary, I could get myself a place down in, like, the Ferris district, or something. Not have to cryo myself over the winter. Be a normie and work a standard job rather than runnin' around like a madman all the time."

"You feeling your age, Geo?"

"Naw. Naw, it was just a photo finish this last winter. And 'Ol Pook always seems to be there to rub it in. Maybe I could just use a change."

"Job fair starts tomorrow," Babu said, smacking the flier.

Geo snatched it from him. He folded the paper and shoved it back away.

"So, any good tips? I'm wide awake and could use some quick cash, whether I decide to go north or not!"

"I take it the car I found for you wasn't as lucrative as you would have liked?"

"I don't want to talk about that..." Geo said.

Babu raised an eyebrow and laughed.

"Alright, buddy, let's see what I've flagged," Babu said, waving Geo back behind the counter.

My Corner Store

There are two corner stores at N and 24th. They face each other and sell a similar array of sundries: chips, candy, cheap wine, common yet expensive beer, cigarettes, lotto tickets, ice cream, sunglasses, and most other randomness found in stores scattered across Midtown. The outsides of both are plastered in beer sale poster, prices on cigarette cartons and current lotto jackpot payouts. They may be more expensive than the major grocery stores and have a surcharge when you use a debit card, but nothing beats the convenience of walking to the edge of the block when you run out of milk for cereal or need a single dose of Sudafed.

So there I was, in need of creamer for my coffee at ten in the morning on a Thursday, so I grabbed my keys and my debit card on account of wearing running shorts without pockets, and made my way out of my apartment, and onto the sidewalk. It was a beautiful spring day, the kind of day that makes you love living ten blocks from the state capital. The big trees with their fresh green leaves canopied the street and cool concrete sidewalk on the edge of the street. A smattering of cars parked parallel on the north side of the street as the south side was cleared for weekly street sweeping. Weekdays are generally quiet out, with most the residents gone at work. The street was deserted as I button-hooked into the store, my store, and made for the refrigeration units.

I nodded to the young man behind the counter. He was tall, dark skinned and wearing a turban. I had spoken to him before and found out his parents owned the store. He was in school and came in on days he didn't have class to help them out. He was watching a small TV on the crowded counter as I located my incidental item.

The strange thing is that I don't even remember how it began. Looking back, I just remember watching the whole thing like security footage, framed on the edge of the counter and the man in front of it. His skin was dark, but should have been as fair as mine. The newcomers' arms were thin, with sporadic colorless tattoos. His tank top was cut low in the sleeves and he was far from clean cut. The blade he held outstretched in his right hand was so dull... It reflected none of the beautiful morning sun.

"Open it. I want all the cash. You better show me the drawer so as I know it's empty," the robber said without shouting.

He shook a little. His eyes blinked rapidly. But he stood fast.

The owner's son didn't move. A shake of the knife unfroze the young Sikh. He opened the register.

"Put it in a bag," he said, stepping forward.

And then he noticed me.

The dirtbag jumped slightly and swung the knife my way. "Where'd you come from?"

I stood in place like a moron, coffee creamer forgotten in one hand. All sorts of thoughts danced through my mind. I am a capable guy. I outweigh this jerk by at least twenty pounds. A bottle of half-and-half hurled in his direction would be a decent distraction right before I rush the punk.

But my eyes went to the blade. He held onto it high up on the handle, thumb pressed on the side of the metal. I looked the man in the face and shook my head. My body was cold all over.

The guy behind the counter passed a black bag over, the kind they would put beer in for a discrete walk home. It was a less than impressive haul. The knife remained trained on me as his snatched the bag and offered a threat.

"Is this it? If you are holding out on me, I'll come back and slit your throat."

The kid shook his head and swore to his compliance.

And like that, the robber was gone, darting out of the shop and up the block in the direction of my apartment. I was numb, tingly all over. I almost collapsed, my legs like rubber, but I managed to stay on my feet. The two of us remained in place, still in shock, for a moment or two longer.

I went to the street-side window and peeked up toward 23rd as the kid called 911. Again, I can't remember what he said to the dispatcher as I looked out for the man with the knife through the window and then out the door. The street was clear as far as I could see. As suddenly as the robber had came, he was gone again, disappearing into the woodwork.

In my defense, I stuck around for the cops to come for at least five minutes, but I had things to do. At least that's what I told the kid. Truthfully, I felt funny about my part in the whole thing, and I just wanted to leave. The silence we sat in waiting for the cops to come and take our statements was unbearable. So I left my name, number and address and left. The kid let me keep the creamer, and I left.

As I walked away, I thought about what had just happened. There was nothing I could do really. The guy had a knife. Assuredly the store had insurance and there was no way I was getting myself stabbed over a couple hundred bucks. It was the smart thing really. I was no coward, I was just smart enough not to throw myself at a methed-out, knife-wielding nut. But despite all the logical reasons for remaining neutral in the robbery, I still felt a muddy twinge of guilt.

Approaching the gate to my apartment, I heard sirens and noticed a flash of white and red light just up around the house on the corner of the street. But something in the back of my mind told me that these were not the cops called to the robbery. Walking up to the intersection to get a better view, I came across a fire engine and ambulance parked a quarter way down 23rd between N and Capital, crews unloading gear and working on a man in the middle of the street.

Standing on the sidewalk, I watched the paramedic directing fire fighters as they secured the man, who had just held up the corner store, to a yellow plastic backboard. As they loaded their patient onto the gurney and loaded him into their big red box, I joined a neighbor also standing on the sidewalk. I recognized him as someone who had an apartment overlooking the alleyway behind my complex.

"What happened?"

"Hit and run. I heard a tire screech and when I looked out, this guy was laying in the road, so I called it in," he said.

I nodded to my neighbor and began to walk back toward my place when I noticed a black plastic bag lying in the gutter. Scooping it up, I knew exactly what was inside. I glanced around, ensuring no one saw my detour and stepped back onto the sidewalk and turned the corner.

Walking back toward my gate, I peaked in the bag filled with stray bills. I paused in front of my address. Down the street, I saw the shop owner's son step out of the corner store and look both ways, looking for the police he called. I took a single step in his direction and stood still. Would anyone know? Would it even matter? I glanced back down at the black bag I held in the same hand as the coffee creamer. A breeze went through the trees as I stood on the N street sidewalk between 23rd and 24th.

Sara Joy

In the habit of her Stoic outlook on life, Sara Joy imagined the worse that could happen. Some might have said it was a downer thing to do; a self-defeating and bleak way to look at life. But this wasn't the case for Sara Joy. It was realistic. Responsible. The old military maxim for planning, Murphy's Law, was the same thing. It prepared her for all contingencies and braced you for the event in which things did go wrong. She didn't really expect these things to happen or dwell on them morbidly, but if life did go sideways, she had already thought out how she would react.

And in this bit of downtime, sitting in an air-conditioned conex off the north coast of Puerto Rico, Sara Joy made a point to think about the worst things that could happen to her. It was her ritual.

Her boyfriend could leave her. She was gone enough for him to meet someone new and run around on her. The life of a navel architect kept her away more than she was home. Most people didn't understand why a plain looking girl from Lincoln, Nebraska would go off and work in the maritime industry having only been to the ocean twice. But it was that the first time that enchanted her. Ever since her parents took her and her older sister to Hawaii for their anniversary, she was in love. The second time to the gulf after graduation was less moving, but by then she already new she was going to Navel Architecture College. Posters of beaches and maps of the world covered her walls instead of handsome guitarists and boy bands. In fact...

She was getting off track. She forgot she was supposed to be worrying. She wondered if meditating monks had this same problem...

Her boyfriend could find someone else. They had recently moved in together because she was over there so much anyway. And what was the point of paying rent for an expensive apartment in New Orleans when you were gone most of the time, anyway? Jeff was tall and decent, but goofy, looking. Plenty of women would be after a nerdy third grade teacher who wore dark framed glasses and cardigan sweaters. She could tell herself all day long that he wouldn't be one to cheat, but you couldn't count on that. There was some universe out there that that exact thing would happen, and what then? What would that Sara Joy do?

What would happen to Sconce, their fluffy white dog? They had just gotten him together. It wasn't a baby, thank God, but it was the dating and living together version of a baby. They were doing all the relationship steps, right by the book, weren't they?

So, what if? What if this job ended early and she got back, to find her sweet Jeff in bed with someone else? She wouldn't fly off the handle, that is one to start with. She was like that in High School, but not anymore. This new way of thinking had helped. The philosophy class that introduced her to the stoic philosophers had helped. Now, at twenty-six, she had a good career in a male dominated field, and a feeler boyfriend, all of which she handled deftly.

She would smile and nod. She understood. Not everyone was built to be alone. Jeff claimed to be fine with it. But people can become stir crazy and need to blow off steam. She would just gather her things and go to a hotel. Get a small room near the office. Save on rent. A place to keep her things. A kitchen wouldn't matter. As long as it was safe, she could eat take-out and stay at coffee shops in the evenings. She wouldn't cry over him. It was completely possible she could find someone better. Her life was long and a minor change in plans wouldn't wreck her. She would leave the stupid little dog. In fact, she loved Sconce, but getting him was Jeff's idea. She couldn't take care of a dog when on the job, anyway. It would be for the best. And when it was the right time, down the road, she would get another dog. A dog she could be home with and train. And go hiking and running with. A Great Dane this time. Something big.

She could lose her job. She might do something wrong and cause an accident- give the crane operator a wrong figure, say. Some guy could sexually harass her and she might want to quit. The possibilities were a mound, but unimportant. The point was, she could most definitely lose her job. What then? Her savings were good. Could she last six months while she looked for work? Sure. What if she combined this with no longer having Jeff?

Other jobs were out there. The Navy hired architects every once in a while. The process was long, but she had all the qualifications. She could live with her sister in Madison while she applied. Work as a barista, maybe.

And what if Maddie got on her nerves? That was a real possibility! She loved her little-big sister, but the two were nothing alike. Sara Joy could go out with the boys and work on pier replacement jobs in the hot, sticky Caribbean. Maddie Bell, not a chance. She was obsessed with makeup tutorials on YouTube and her outward perfect life. She had 'rescued' two orange kittens, a brother and sister. Jerome and Sasha, she named them. It made for a great Instagram post, but her sister knew better. Maddie had paid money to adopt them. They were Juan and Amarillo, but those names were too Mexican and that double L was hard to pronounce.

Her life was hers, and she controlled the direction she took it. But some things were out of her control. And that was okay. The best she could do was to endure it and not let it knock her down. Her sister was the way she was. And let her be. It's all made up anyway. Every human system or morality. Someone made that up. So what if her sister wanted to rename her cats? That was not in her ability to change. If it made Maddie happy, then fine.

What if something worse happened? This was Sara Joy's favorite scenario to explore. This was what initially pulled her into this philosophies' counter-intuitive method of approaching life. Personal devastations were often specific and easy to think through. More tangible disasters were more fun, and why she left them for a post-workout cool down treat.

What if America was attacked? It could be the Russians. It was all over the news, the tensions between the two countries presidents. Most of the population of each respective country was blindly behind their leader. The propaganda was thick on both sides. The pile driver she had chatted with earlier had spouted off a string of talking points straight from the television. And she knew it was exactly the same on the other side. Her, she wasn't that political; none of it really affected her daily life. But, say that now it did.

How about the North Koreans? There had been talk of a secret cyber war being waged between the west and the small, backward, country. The dictator of that country had finally realized the best way to attack the great Satan was not directly with missiles, but rather at the unseen nerve center of the evil giant.

Or the endless other possible groups who had reason to do America harm. If she put herself in others shoes, she could see why they might hate her country. And while she could also agree with some points, America was like her child: sometimes it would disappoint her. And while it could always do better, she still loved it because it was hers.

The clearest detail for this departure, that would allow for the most possibilities, was a devastating attack from a defined enemy, while she was offshore. She settled on China, for sake of the argument. Perhaps they combined the missile attack with a cyber assault. It would be the way to do it.

Sara Joy would be sitting in the mess, watching a silly Sci-Fi movie when the screen came over with static. In the digital television age, static was shocking, like hearing the busy signal when making a phone call. Then the connection would go dead. All connections went dead. The whole island was dark. A storm or earthquake? But the true answer would arrive near sunset. On the north horizon, a bubble of dirty light expanded up into the stratosphere.

The country had been attacked. Missiles, untraceable by normal detection methods had rained down on major U.S. cities. Jeff was gone. Her sister was gone. Her parents were unreachable. Everyone scattered, looking out for themselves, attempting to locate loved ones. Those that knew there was no chance for anyone not beside them were now flapping in the breeze. The only thing left to do now was survive.

What do you do when everything you had built is suddenly gone? No more money in savings. No one else to think about when making decisions. All you have left is the clothes on your back and the skill in your hands...

That reminded her, she needed to go online the next chance she got and sign up for a weekend bushcraft and survival class. She would invite Jeff along. Couldn't hurt to see if he would want to gain some skills. He had been receptive when she had shown him how to change the oil and put on a spare on her Jeep. Learning how to make a fire and a shelter in the woods might be a fun little adventure for them. They could even bring little Sconce. That little apartment dog could use some toughening up!

Story of a Graffiti Artist

To begin, you should know, I consider myself a graffiti artist. Street artist sounds like I'm trying to church it up, and a tagger is someone with such little imagination that they just scrawl their name on things. I mean, you will see Big Z tagged along with my art, but that's not all I do. So, that's how I would describe myself, nothing more. Plenty of people have gone legit starting as graffiti artists, too. But on the way to the top you have to make some choices. People don't come knocking down your door, asking if you are Cam Zelamano, the guy who paints, trying to pay you to do big walls. Despite how I sell my soul for money to eat, I'll always be a graffiti artist. I would never call myself an arsonist.

Most of my friends went to McClatchy, which is in Land Park. My Dad is a doctor at Sutter Sac, so he sent me to the Health Professions High School. I got a medical assistant cert through my senior project. My dad wants me to work a bit, then go to PA school next. He still doesn't understand what I really love to do; what I'm meant to do. So, when Tyson found me, I was enjoying my first fall not in school and applying to jobs I didn't want, knowing that one was eventually going to hire me. And cuz of my dad, and needing to eat, I would be forced to take it.

It's whatever though, I ignored all that. Most days I would meet up with the guys and hang out in downtown, primarily. I had been eyeing a wall that held up the river walk and was pretty inaccessible unless you had a boat. The draw for me was that if you painted that wall, by boat or ropes from the top or whatever, it wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Who knows how long it would even take for the evil whitewashers at DPW to notice and send a crew. So, it was a spot that needed the very best I could give. Plus the photos would be awesome.

Most of my crew were not artists. There were a few of us who were serious, but most were just skaters who liked to grab a can every now and again. The others were burnouts who were still in high school or out like me and just liked to party. So when Tyson came up to me and my buddy Enzo doing a column down off the bike path on the north end of 19th, under the train tracks, I had plenty of people in mind to help out with his request.

"It looks good," he shouted at us. We had our backs turned focusing on our task. Enzo didn't do art, but he had a steady hand and put lines or bursts where I asked without making runs. He also put on music for us through a mobile speaker. That made the sudden appearance of the big black man even more startling.

At first, I though he was a cop. Enzo must have thought the same thing cuz he immediately darted to grab his backpack and the speaker to jam. But Tyson held up his hands and I resisted the urge to run.

"Don't worry, I'm just admiring your work," he said.

And he actually was looking at the wall, rather than us. As he looked at my paint, I looked at him. He was tall and had very dark skin. His round, bald head and large hands were the only things exposed in the crisp morning air, which was smarter than Enzo and I still wearing baggy shorts.

He didn't dress like most black guys I knew. He was wearing dark jeans and a plaid shirt under a lighter jean jacket. That kinda sounds white trash as I say it, but it was the opposite; he was very clean cut. And he talked very formally too. I wonder if he spoke that same way around his friends. He kept talking as if he knew us and was totally unafraid of a bunch of punk spray-painters.

"Is that your tag, down there?" he asked, pointing to my name. "Despite what you may think, I never can read any of that stuff. And I've read War And Peace! What's it say?"

"Big Z," I told him, pointing at the spot. "The Z's backwards and overlaps the B a little bit, so I can see how you might not see it."

"Oh yeah, I get it now. I think this looks great. I love looking at the stuff kids paint all over train cars. Those things are so boring to watch when you are stuck at a crossing. They need a little art. You two ever paint any of them?"

"Once or twice."

"That's the hard thing about art. Most people create stuff that is uniquely their style, stuff that they like. And deep down, everyone is odd, you know? So, your stuff appeals to you and your flavor of oddity. That's why most artists, or jewelry makers, or writers, or musicians don't make it, because they aren't appealing to more people than just a small group.

"But you may have the magic combination that breaks through all that, kid."

"I appreciate it, man. Thanks," I said awkwardly. I wanted to get back to it, but it was weird with him standing there like that.

"How would you guys like to earn fifty bucks a piece and help me out?" he said after a bit, continuing our little standoff.

I immediately jumped to the worst conclusion and it washed all over my face. But Enzo, who was silent up to this point, bit the hook faster than me going after free food.

"Fifty bucks? For what?"

"I've got a lot about ten blocks down that way," Tyson said. "It's got a crummy little house on it that needs some work. So, I'll give you guys a hundred bucks, and leave a case of beer inside. Then, on Thursday night, you get a bunch of buddies together and throw a party inside. You can build a little fire in a barrel that I have in the living room, and tag the walls, break bottles, and have yourselves a good time. That's all. I'll be out of town, you guys have a party spot for the night and get some cash on top of it. What do you say?"

Enzo was once again about to jump without looking. I threw an arm across his chest and asked the next logical question. I have a feeling Tyson knew it was coming. "Why would you want to pay us to party in your house and make a mess?"

He grinned. "It needs a makeover, pretty bad. I pay you to make it a bit worse and insurance gives me a chunk of money for new paint and carpets. Win, win, really. What do you say?"

"Insurance fraud..." I mutter under my breath, considering it. "This isn't a set up to call the cops on us as soon as we go in there, is it?"

"No, kid. It's not like that. I'll get the police to come by after the fact for the report. But I'm just looking for a couple gents to do me a favor."

"Alright, we'll think about it," I answered before Enzo could.

"That's what I like to hear. Beer will be inside. It's the yellow one on Q and Ninetieth. Thursday night if you could. And after I find the place trashed, you will find a pair of fifties right there," he said, pointing to the base of the pillar. "I'll put them under a rock, Friday around noon. We cool?"

"Yeah, we're cool," I said, still surprised by the whole exchange.

That's when Enzo asked for his name. He didn't elaborate beyond the given. We did the same. Tyson nodded and walked away.

Not much got done on that wall the rest of the day. Both of us were pretty excited and Enzo couldn't help texting everyone. I walked down to the lot that Tyson told us about and leaned against the chain link. Staring at the place, I struggled with the feeling that what we were just told was too good to be true. But at eighteen, it's hard to reconcile the wisdom you are told versus the wisdom I had yet to live. I knew, standing there, looking at that crummy yellow house, one pillar missing, the upstairs patio being held up by a pair of two-by-six's nailed back to back, that this party was going to happen.

Enzo text everyone, and word got so far around, I had some of the guys texting me to see if I had heard about Enzo's party. Girls were invited and I found myself looking forward for the next two days to go by fast. Soon, all my worries were forgotten. I stocked up on extra paint. If this guy wanted us to tag the inside of his house, I was going to go into my idea notebook and practice some of my sketches. And if Tyson actually left us the money on Friday, I might have enough to get all the paint I needed to start the river wall project.

I was totally caught up in an envelope of good feelings with false foresight telling me nothing could go wrong.

Enzo and I got there right at nightfall on Thursday. We used a tree to help us over the top of the floppy chain link. We crossed the lot cautiously and walked right up to the door. Enzo knocked and I gave him a confused look. We were whispering and being quiet, which was also absurd; we were going to this house to throw a party! It took quite an act of courage to actually open the door, but when we did, it was still inside.

We turned on our flashlights and wound through the house. Tyson had been right, the place was a dump. The carpets were old and had stains in the walkways. Clean spots marked where couches had been. Walls were in poor shape, with some of the windows broken and gaps showing to the outside. The linoleum floor in the bathroom creaked and smelled like piss. The kitchen was missing all appliances and the cabinets were warped with water damage.

The beer was a thirty pack of some cheep stuff. A burn barrel was in the middle of the living room with a pile of cardboard and wood next to it. I went ahead and started a fire in the barrel, wanting to warm the place up a bit. Enzo's phone went off, making us both jump right as I sparked my lighter. He laughed nervously.

"It's Riley. They want to make sure we are really in here," he said.

"Go give 'em a couple flashes with your light then," I said, standing back, making sure the fire took.

Enzo signaled the all clear and I broke open the rack of beers. Riley and Dashawn came in and the party began. Music was put on and beers were passed around. We sat against the walls while we waited for more people to show. I still remember the first empty can I threw across the room. It opened the floodgates. After that can, we were free to be wild. I pulled on my respirator and wandered up stairs to start tagging. Girls came and suddenly we had over ten people, music and an indoor bond fire. It was a great night.

The case went fast. I have never seen thirty beers disappear that quickly. But an older kid in our crew, Chad, pulled out a small bottle of Fireball. Riley discovered that the beer was cheaper than I thought, 3.2%, and he went into a minor rage. We all laughed as he took a slug of the fireball and punched a hole in a wall. A girl named Jenny came over and started talking to me about my art and I let her spray a little.

It was more than two hours of this, and strangely only just after eight when the party was broken up. Some old white guy, a neighbor I guess, came over and started yelling. Everyone scattered they way underage kids do when they have been caught. I threw my gear in my backpack and was out a window just as the old guy came in and hit the fire with an extinguisher. Heart beating hard, head swimming, I ran across the lot and jumped the fence, escaping into midtown.

I went without Enzo to pick up our payment. I couldn't explain to you why I didn't get with him first, I just didn't even think about it. Maybe in my mind, this whole thing was my deal and he was tagging along. Once I got paid, I was responsible for giving him his cut. So, I road my bike over to the spot, and just like Tyson said, there was a rock, larger than the rest of the railroad base, up against the wall. I pulled it off the ground and under it was a little plastic bag wrapped around some cash. Pulling it open, I found two fifties and a note. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and then read the note.

Want to earn more? Safeway by my place. Everyday through this weekend at 2 pm. I'll be drinking coffee. -T

So I went. Of course I went. The guy just paid me and my friends to have a party! I didn't think he would pay us to do that again, but maybe. How could anyone turn down an invitation like that?

It was after one, so I peddled right over to the store. I ordered a small iced coffee at the indoor stand and sat on one of the couches so I could watch everyone come in and out. I didn't wait long. At two minutes after, Tyson walked in. He didn't look at me, he just got his coffee, something hot, and sat near me in the lounge. He smiled and sipped his drink.

"You guys did good last night," he said in a volume only I could hear.

"Yeah, but some guy ran us out and blasted the fire with an extinguisher," I said, working to achieve his same volume.

"Which was also great for two reasons. He will be a great witness if I need him to write a sworn statement. And," he said with a slight pause, "he used up his fire extinguisher for next time when I have you burn the whole place down."

It was all so casual. We sat sipping coffee in a grocery store down the street from his house I just had a party in last night, leaving it trashed, and now here he was telling me to burn it down. You can imagine the look on my face.

"What? Why? I thought you were going to remodel it?" I kept my voice low and remained in position. I wanted to jump up and shout those words.

"Oh, it's getting a remodel," he said, grinning and looking around casually. "From the foundation up."

"Then why burn it down? Why the party? Why me?"

"You know the permitting that is involved in a total demolition? Tons of paperwork and cost. Plus the place is old and has lead paint or something. Makes that avenue cost even more. Have to hire specialists... But if we just let the neighborhood gang accidentally burn down their party spot, an old house in the middle of a lot with no other structures to threaten, I would have free demolition and insurance money to fund the rebuild."

"We don't really have any gangs here in Sac... not in midtown at least..."

"I filed a report this morning. I took pictures of the mess. There is a paper trail now, which is just what I need. I was out of town. I have receipts from scales in Oregon when my truck past through. I will be on another long run next week when you torch the place.

"So, how much you want for the job?" he asked, setting his cup down on the short table by us and leaning forward. He looked right in my eyes.

I was still confused, but knew enough to give him a number. My father would only pay for medical classes, but there were some art classes I wanted to take at Sac City College. I knew how much a semester cost and I knew how much an airbrush kit I had my eye on cost. So, I just said twice both of those.

"Two thousand."

He sneer-smiled. That's totally a thing, and if you saw his look you would agree. He chuckled and sat back.

"Smart kid! Somebody taught you how to bargain: ask for the stars, expect the moon. That or you have watched a lot of TV. Okay, so let's cut to it. I'd say seven-fifty and you'd counter with twelve-fifty. I can do that, so are we good?"

"I want it now," I said impulsively. I swallowed hard as he considered it. My own buried reasoning struck me, so I added it. "If I get caught or whatever, I don't want to be coming back for payment."

Tyson bobbed his head in reluctant agreement. "I'm going to take a leak. You go in right after I'm done and I'll leave the money on the sink. In return, you give me your home address and do the job sometime early in the week. I'm back Friday morning again, so not when I'm close."

I nodded, and pulled a scrap of my notebook out to comply with his request. He took the slip of paper and walked into the single, lockable bathroom. I got up and stood outside the door.

And just like that, he was out, without even looking at me, and I was in, door locked and heart beating hard.

As he said, there was a stack of cash on the sink. Twelve hundreds and a fifty. He must have known he would need cash to pay me... And that he would successfully talk me into burning his house down. I shoved the cask into my front pocket and left. I tried not to think about it.

I felt like a robot leading up to the night I burned Tyson's house to the ground. I tried to avoid thinking about all aspects of the pact I had just made. The money was all but spent, set aside for painting classes at the city college and the airbrush kit. I figured it was just a defense mechanism to ignore the reality of the small green diesel can I had swiped from my dad's garage. But Tuesday night, as I walked to midtown Sac with the gas can in an old backpack, wearing different color shirts in layers that could be easily shed to avoid BOLO descriptions, I was forced to confront my thoughts.

It was easy when I thought about it, mechanically. Kick over the burn barrel, douse the place and go. But was this the type of person that I was? I already said I'm not an arsonist. But when an opportunity like this presents itself, you don't turn it down. I'll admit, I'm a little bit of a teenage scumbag. This is up my alley. And if it weren't me doing the job, it would be someone else. I mean, Tyson was set on burning the place down anyway. Why shouldn't I be the one to profit? I don't want to be some reprobate tagger forever. This money could get me to the next level...

It was dark in midtown. The only light came from the yellow streetlights as I stocked along the sidewalks with my hood up. My mind was made the moment I went into that bathroom and saw the cash. This part was just the movie of memory I'd have in my head of the event. I was on autopilot as I hopped the fence and crossed that naked expanse of the lot. I felt exposed until I reached the house and put my back to the front door. I scanned the surrounding houses and buildings, afraid I'd see a silhouette spying my movement. The night was clear and quiet, so I slipped in through the front door.

Once inside, I stood still, letting my eyes adjust and listening for the presence of anything else. That's when I noticed the boxes, beat up couch, and table. In the living room were things that were not present when I had been in the house last. Looking through the junk, I realized what it all was: Tyson's old junk he wanted burned up with the house. Property he no doubt documented after the party so that he could show the insurance people. I shook my head at his cleverness and unslung my backpack. I unscrewed the cap on the diesel and kicked over the burn barrel. Ashes plumed up everywhere as I began to pour fuel around the floor and couch. I even gave a healthy douse to the boxes piled up on the table, for good measure. I stooped down to the couch and found a section of tweed cushion that had a hole in it. I ensured it had been soaked with enough diesel to catch. Then I pulled a single cigarette from my hoody pocket and popped it between my lips. With the spark from my yellow bic, I brought the fuse to life. Positioning the cherry tilted down hill, I stuffed the butt deep in the tear, so that when it burned down to the end, the non-exploding diesel would catch the rest of the cushion in flames. With the table covered in boxes close enough to pick up the spreading fire, the house was doomed to burn.

That's when I felt the anxiety come over me. I had a minute or two to get out and away before the flames really began to show, but it felt like time was racing. I broke out in a sweat and my heart pounded like I had mainlined a gallon of coffee. The most accurate thing I could say was that I fled.

I ran. I ran for three blocks until I couldn't anymore. That's when rationally came back to me. I threw the old black backpack and hoodie into an alleyway dumpster and put on a Boston cap. I was torn between what to do next. But, the memory of giving Tyson my home address informed me of what I had to do. I walked back to the fire.

I had fled east after leaving the house. To be smart, I went around and approached from the north. I was a couple blocks away when I heard the sirens. A block up and over, a white fire engine blew through a deserted intersection, heading to the fire. Part of me was glad and the other part was horrified when I came in sight of the lot and saw the flames. The whole block was lit with the flickering, eerie, black smoke filled light. The engine was delayed outside the chain link gate as a firefighter worked with bolt cutters to snip the lock and give them access to do their job.

I stood back and watched as figures readied their gear, connected hoses to hydrants, and began to put water on the roof. A second engine soon arrived along with a SUV that had lights and fire markings. After not too long, they stopped putting water on the structure and focused on wetting down the ground around the house. They realized that the ugly old place was beyond saving and switched to defensive tactics. That's when I knew it was time to leave.

I wasn't the only one out on the street watching the scene. But I had heard that often times, arsonists are caught by standing with onlookers, watching their handiwork. And I'm no arsonist who gets off on the fire. I just needed to know a big black man wouldn't be knocking down my door demanding his money back. Satisfied, I walked away.

I never saw Tyson again, thank God. In the months and years after my little job, when I'd ride into midtown and past the lot, I'd look on at the spot. It didn't take long for the lot to become unrecognizable to what it was when my friends and I had a party in the yellow house. The burned down ruins were hauled away and a new house was built in a totally different spot. A rough-faced cinder block wall was erected around the property and it looked like a little fruit orchard was planted along the driveway leading to the new home.

I can still say that I consider myself a graffiti artist, even though I've moved on to working on canvases rather than concrete walls. But, if you got to see the tiger fighting a cobra along the Sacramento River near Front Street a couple years ago, know that the tag on the bottom right was Big Z. I would never become the artist I am today if it wasn't for a dark night in midtown and a little yellow house that just had to go.

The Visitant

It was the strangest prison intake process he had ever been through. He had his clothes taken from him- that was normal- but the replacements did not fit. The imposing creature facilitating this process bristled every time he reached the tall dark-haired human, who was proportionally similar to the other new prisoners, just larger. In fact, this man was almost the same height as the Chi'kashdta that was in processing him.

The flat-faced alien let out a bass note to express its displeasure. "He has no name? I thought these silly men stopped that tradition generations ago? No matter what we do for them, they will not become civilized?"

"The largest pants should work for now," the supervisory Chi said. "Give it two pairs and it can make its own coverings."

They ushered him out the door, along with the other new prisoners.

The other men, tromped off in various directions, leaving the tall man standing outside the intake building, half clothed.

He swung his head around, confused at the open space and freedom he was just given.

The door behind him opened and the bass note was repeated.

"Get out of the way, human! Why are you standing there like a fool? Do you have no brain as well as no name?"

"Where do I go?" the man asked.

The silver-scaled alien pushed past him.

"You know the high-tongue? Most of you idiots only know the pidgin..."

The tall man walked after his uninterested jailer.

"You don't know about the reservation? I thought most of you had been here or were born here. It seems like you get thrown back as soon as you are released. You just can't make it in civilized society long!"

"I have never been here before."

"Well, do your retraining and don't come back!"

"I was sentenced to five learning blocks."

"Follow the rules next time!"

"And the rules here?" the man asked.

"Find a job!" the Chi bass noted. "Pay for a cell. Tourists come up every third day. Be productive and learn your blocks! Now go away!"

The Chi turned and unzipped his mouth, exposing a semi-circle grin of sharp teeth. A warbling chirp escaped that even the inexperienced man could recognize as a growl. He took a step back, and the Chi stalked off.

Gil Magala the Musician watched the tall man walk away from the young Chi and head left along the rim. He sat at his workbench in front of a large open window and continued on with the string box he was finishing. He glanced up every few moments and tracked the progress of the man, until he was out of sight. His passive interest satisfied, he concentrated working on the finishing touches. After an hour, he was done, and sat up straight to stretch his hunched neck and back.

He placed a finger on an insert and gave the box a light shake, letting out a beautiful chord. Looking out at his view of the prison camp, he noticed the tall man had come back. This time from the right.

Magala continued to test his instrument by shaking out a series of chords. The tall man came to a stop in the place he first left, then turned toward the sound of the music. He walked to the window of the Musician, who kept his eyes on the newcomer while he continued to play.

The last chord rung out and sustained, abruptly cutting off.

"Did you walk the entire mesa?" Magala asked the man.

He nodded. "They only fly in and out?"

"The Chi? Yes. And they have a scanner that can tell the presence of anyone not of their blood, if your idea is to escape," Magala said. "I am the Musician here. Magala. I can make and play anything," he introduced himself. "And who should you be for us?"

"They called me Do Ta when I was sent here."

"That is the generic they give to someone without a name. Why do you have no name? Did you give them none?" Magala squinted.

"I said nothing the moment I found out about that scanner you spoke of."

"Are you from a far flung region, or something?" Magala asked, noticing the purple eyes of his visitant. "Still follow the ancient ways of earning a name?"

"I am from a far flung region, but I don't follow any old ways. I merely see no point in telling my name."

"Because you don't plan on staying long? Many young men are sent to this camp and develop the same thoughts. But I tell you, you will not be able to stow away. Men have tried tunnels, but the stone is dense. The mesa is far too tall. There is no chance for escape. The Chi have seen to that. You might as well just play their game. Get a job. Charm the visitors when they come. Work toward completing your blocks and leave the right way," Magala counseled.

The nameless man sighed. "Perhaps I aught to take a break. Rest for a week or so..."

Magala laughed.

"You will need a job to afford a cell. Can you play an instrument? I build them as well. What is your name? I will have to call you something."

After a moments debate, he gave it up. "Aros. And I cannot play any instrument. I seem to have lots of friends who are musicians, but I am not."

"I could use the help, if you want a job. You are tall and could help me gather material for instruments. Does that interest you?"

"I would be honored," Aros said.

"Come on, then," Magala said, getting up from his bench. "Might as well start off and see what you are capable of."

The shorter man led the way and Aros followed, still carrying his extra clothes.

"Out here on the mesa, there are no trees," Magala explained as he walked through the camp.

"So, for instruments, we must be creative in acquiring our materials. Most of the strings I can order through the requisition office. But those cost, so I must turn a profit on each instrument to build the next and still eat. With your height, you may be able to reach further down in the crag."

"I saw a crag at the far north end of the mesa," Aros said. "I went around it."

"Aye, that it," Magala said, pointing to the crack in the rock ahead. "Waste is thrown down the crag. It has been for years. It's the perfect place since the wind coming across the tabletop sweeps down the crag and blows away any smell. And lucky for me, giant mushrooms grow in the crag soil!"

"Giant mushrooms?"

"Yes! I believe they are not native. The Chi must have brought them from another world. They seem to love the near constant shade and soil of the crag. But I can only pick the ones at the topmost ledges. I made a stick with a saw on the end, but the Chi took it from me. With your reach, I could get a good stock."

"Mushrooms are used how? Trade?"

"No, no!" Magala said as the pair reached the crag. He extended his arm out display his picking grounds. The mushrooms were dull white, large capped and stems as thick as a man's leg. The fungus grew all through the wide crag, fruiting bodies plentiful, especially deep down.

"I have a process, a chemical process, where I shape the spongy flesh into desired shapes, then harden them in place. They become tough like leather, then after a few days they dry out and become a wood. My instruments are light, strong and porous. The mushroom wood resonates better than anything you can find! To the Chi, they see some humans as sage mediators of conflict. Me, I am sage at musical devices!"

"You are limited by the quantity of mushrooms you can pick," Aros surmised. "And imprisoned, you are even more limited."

"Yes! I am brave enough to use a ladder, but that is disallowed by the Chi. I am different in that way. Most others are far too height adverse to let me hold their legs as they dip into the crag. With your upper body height, I could get stock to work for months to come," Magala pleaded.

Aros laughed. "What got you locked away up here?"

"A miscommunication with a Chi business partner. And you?"

"There was a vault hidden behind the monument at Kaearnes. I ran into one of those human scanners you spoke of. I wasn't expecting that..."

"Kaearnes is carved into the wall of a river gorge... You got into a vault?" Magala asked, confused.

"Heights may bother you," Aros said, smiling at Magala, and walking to the edge of the crag, "But the acrophobia that is intrinsic to all of your race is not present in me. In fact, the opposite."

With the lighting of arms, Aros dropped down into the crack.

Magala's eyes went wide. He spun around, nervously making sure no one saw them. He ran to the crag, sliding to his knees and inching to the edge. He fought the panic as he peered down at the drop, catching sight of his new employee.

Aros sprung from ledge to ledge, back and forth across the crag, at ease with the sharp taper of rocks.

"Big ones from down here better?" he called up. "I would like to come down in this muck only once before I leave. I will collect as many as will get me comfortable lodging for at least week. A mesa may hold all of you, but for me, I will escape this prison as soon as I've had a nice rest."

Magala was speechless as giant mushroom after giant mushroom were launched up to the surface from the depths of the mesa crag.

The Ship In Question

Bax-no Tien wound through the bright city streets with full clothing coving his abnormally tall body. He wore a hood, mouth shield and goggles that reduced the light to a limit his eyes could handle. His gait was long and slow, his legs exhausted by the planetary gravity. He entered an establishment lining the way.

The private house was by exclusive membership. An automatic scanner, concealed by the street entrance threshold allowed Tien to enter unchallenged. Entering a coatroom, the off-worlder removed his headgear and overcoat, remaining in his under dress. A pistol and short sword were held on his hips by a custom black belt rig, unscuffed and with no signs of practical use.

The private house was of classic decoration: high, tiled ceilings; wood furniture and wall paneling; old-style framed artwork; brass trimmings; leather chairs with brass tacks securing seams; and a light level that Tien could tolerate. Above the bar were enormous portraits of three men. On the left was Dr. Barns, the ancient Earth astronomer that first discovered and named the planet Cyn. Dominating the center was a classical painting of Achilleus, the mythological warrior, riding in a chariot behind his two horses, Balius and Xanthus. On the right was Mazerum the Wanderer, the first of the Star People to set foot on Balius. It was a fitting tribute to the beings that brought or inspired life on the planet, but also comically out of place in such a house.

Abu Rayham sat at a booth near a side window. He noticed Tien walk out of the coatroom. Putting up a hand, he motioned Tien over.

"What are you doing on Balius, old friend?"

Tien smiled wide. "I'm no Xanthus rat!" he said, sitting down. He punched an order on his wrist computer and a chime went off at the bar.

"Sure you arn't, but this is the first time I have seen you planet side in ages," Abu said to Tien. "And at a captains club, nonetheless."

"An extended offload and refit," Tien explained as his drink was brought over by a server robot. Once they were left alone, he continued. "Plus, I have had some thoughts on my mind. I figured I should be unpredictable as I track them down to a plan."

"Well, that sounds suspicious!" Abu commented, leaning back, crossing his legs and resting his arms out extended. "What, may I ask, are you working on?"

Tien glanced around the nearly empty house. "May I use my privacy field?" He produced a fist-sized device and placed it on the booth table.

Abu laughed. "You really never use these places enough my dear Tien. Each booth is installed with a field. It's a perk of the club, no eavesdropping. Now tell me what's the big secret?"

"I'm to meet with someone in an hour," Tien said and relaxed. "I've had a strong urge of late to look into a second identity for my ship."

"A second identity for your ship?"

"Yes, a new name and documents in the event I want to conceal the ships true identity."

"Why would you want a false identity? Are you into something illegal?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Tien explained. "I have just been thinking about the future and contingencies. I have heard that the process is not instantaneous and I would much rather start now than when I find an actual need for it."

"Well, that can't be hard," Abu said with a wave of his hand. "Just install a flip panel where your ship name is written, with the false name on the other side. Then make up a fake ship ID number. That seems easy enough."

"Sure, but something like that will never pass close scrutiny. I'm not looking for a simple fake ID or to steal another ships identity. I want a full, true, second identity. I want it to pass as completely legitimate. I want to be able to take jobs with the identity. Pay tariffs and establish a consistency rating. To get that I have to have a real ship ID that comes back to the ship in question. That requires a certificate of construction, that when I apply for a Five Worlds Ship Identification Number, a shipyard will have on file and can verify."

"Ahh. You have done your research. So no construction certificate, no ID number?"

"That's correct," Tien said. "That's where the pinch point is, I think. I must get a clean ship ID. A cert of construction can be forged easily enough, but when I apply for an ID number on a twenty-year-old ship, questions will be asked. Why am I applying just now? The shipyard the ship was built at will be contacted."

"So, this problem leads you to seek out a professional..."

"It does," Tien said, eyes scanning the room over his shoulder. "I searched through anonymous back-channels until I found someone who specializes in this problem."

Abu sipped his drink. "And this person just produces you clean documents? How? It will probably cost you quite a bit of money, but I'm sure you could figure out how to do all that without depending on someone who answers anonymous adds on the back-channel. The odds for a double cross, especially down the line, are quite high."

"But it's easier this way. Leaving the leg work to someone else."

"And what leg work would that entail?"

"I'm sure," Tien said, "that I would mainly be paying for expertise and discretion. The forger would know just what shipyard to fake a certificate of construction from. It would be a particular shipyard known to him as having suffered a catastrophic event that destroyed their records for a specific period. Then when the investigator from the Five Worlds Spacecraft Authority look into it, the shipyard looks at the copy we have submitted and agrees that this came from them and that verification is impossible due to the loss of their records for that period."

"And the twenty years since construction, to today when you now want a proper ship ID?" Abu asked, a grin growing across his face.

"Any excuse, I'm sure, would work," Tien said. He fingered his nearly empty cup as he sat sideways in the booth, eyes glued to the entrance, speaking absentmindedly to Abu. "Say, the original owner was a nut, or a collector, and saw no point in registering the ship. Or, the ship was damaged and just now repaired. I'm sure the forger provides contact information, which goes to someone on his payroll that confirms the story and produces enough evidence to pass investigation. One does not stay in the business of forgery without having consistent success."

"You are very smart; it looks like you have it all figured out," Abu said. His eyes were grinning as much as his smile. "But you are not totally right, and you've reached the time to meet your contact..."

Tien stopped playing with his empty glass and turned back to face his booth-mate.

"You? You let me sit here and ramble this whole time?" Tien took a breath and narrowed his eyes. "But, I know you! You are a freighter captain just like me."

"And I like to make some cash on the side," Abu confirmed. He punched on his wrist for another round of drinks.

The drinks came and Tien was prompted out of his brief silence.

"So how does this work? I give you half the payment and the second half upon delivery of the documents to submit to the Authority?"

"No, that way you described, I don't do it that way anymore. That was only slightly less amateur than digging up an old ship ID," Abu said. "Investigators denied a couple claims and I figured they were on to that route."

"Do I get to give you the name I want for my ships second identity?"

"You can, but I almost always go with something else. A name is a delicate balance of realistic and forgettable. Most names people want are outside that zone."

"You gotta tell me, how do you get clean ID's then? I've racked my brain and the more complex the plan the more chances I see to get discovered! What's the trick?"

"Trade secret," Abu said, shaking his head slowly.

After an awkward pause, Tien tried to get the conversation back on track.

"How long have you been doing this without being caught?" Tien asked.

"Long enough to have a nose for danger- and an awareness that acquaintanceship can create blind spots..."

Abu stared at Tien, all traces of the grin from his big reveal, gone.

Then Tien grinned, but his was tinted with sympathy.

"Well," Tien said, as if in weak apology. "You were right about them being on to your old scheme. This new kid came to the Administration and he has been on your trail for a while now. He flipped me. I was out looking for a second identity, just like I said, and I got jammed up..."

"So you are the handlers pet, then? Is that it?" Abu said without emotion.

"I really didn't know it would be you!" Tien cried. "I legit thought spreading the word about what I was after would make it look like I was innocent when the forger was caught."

"Then walk out, and say you only saw an old friend," Abu said.

"The kid is smart, he'd know! I gotta bring him back a name."

"Why? So you don't go down for soliciting for false papers? A slap on the wrist!" Abu said, beginning to get angry. "If I go down, he will get all my clients and everything I've worked for! Legit work along with the rest."

"I hafta play his game..." Tien admitted in a low voice. "I actually need that second ID as a primary one. I got in some trouble back on Xanthus. I need a new name and to get out of this system..."

"And he will give that to you with a name..." Abu surmised.

"I've gotta."

"Fine," Abu spit. "I have someone in the Administration. An officer signs off on employee accounts that create new numbers. Someone outside the investigation side. I do all my dealings with them. You get their name and they can't pin anything on me. That's the mole your investigator wants anyway."

Tien nodded. "That could work... That can work. Okay."

"But you," Abu leveled a finger at the thin man across from him. "Had better leave the system and forget all you know about me. I will have to start all over again."

"But at least it's better than being prosecuted and your client list exposed..."

"Shut up! And leave," Abu grumbled. "The name is aBloniss."

Tien got up from the booth and started for the coatroom.

"Wait," Abu Rayham said from the booth, the privacy field down.

Bax-no Tien turned.

"I want his name. This kid who sent you."

Tien took a step back to the table and said softly, "Inspector Kyle Voont."

The spy turned and hurried away, leaving his friend sitting at the booth in the captains club.

Drake Denver and the Ninja Gang

A Note Before We Proceed:

I dug this little gem up and had to marvel at it. I laugh and cringe, but hey, look! I'm also putting it in my book. Trying to date this, I'd have to say 2005 or 2006, as I didn't meat any Samoans to teach me curse words until then. But it feels so much older. This was definitely from a time when I wished I was a musician and didn't even really consider writing more than messing around. And it is in first-person, which I generally detest.

I think I published this on a blog, as sort of a serial. I believe only one other person may have read it, and I know that he was unaware that I was the author. Maybe if he reads this again the pieces will fall into place and he can have a good laugh.

As you read this, you must know that I have altered a few things. I have removed young Gabes' maddening use of capitalization on nearly every noun. I thought I was being stylish and colorful. So, I have made some minor edits. Even more, I never finished the story! So, now I have, and if I have done good, you wont be able to tell where I left off a decade ago.

Chapter 1: Intro

In this age and day, saying you're in a ninja gang is seldom taken seriously. And yet, I am. We took off on a one-way road trip to Miami to Robin-Hood some gangsters out of a boatload of dirty money. And as the three of us sped across the Texas desert, I never felt less serious.

I hate stories that start off so strangely written that when you reach the end, you can finally go back and re-read the beginning in order to understand what was first said. So, in consideration, the first bit is completely literal. That should cover it.

Chapter 2: Drake Denver

Drake Denver is the leader of our little group. Or gang. From a young age, Drake thought he had a comic book name. An alliterative name like Lois Lane, Peter Pan, Otto Octavious, Lex Luthor, Peter Parker, or Clark Kent (Ok, well, same sound!!). Growing up with a comic book name, he started to acting like it.

It was Drake's plan to leave unexpectedly in the dark of night for the far off peninsula in search of easy riches. My best guess was that this snap decision was made due to him feeling jilted at the time. Drake Denver always had drama with the ladies. His life was like a soap opera that your grandmother watched on daytime television. He was with a new fussy girl every week or so. His type was simple: gorgeous. As long as they met the pretty quota, Drake went with them. Chinese, Black, blonde, Canadian, or redhead, It made no difference to him.

Drake was the charismatic one of the group. Suave and good looking, but not in that frat-boy way. He was a classic. Think Marlin Brando from the Wild One. Something straight out of old Hollywood. But don't get me wrong. Drake was crazy. Everything was far bigger to him than it really was. Everything was an adventure, a mystery, and a quest requiring a plan. That's how we got in this mess.

Chapter 3: The Gang of Ninjas

Ryan Haley was in the Marine Corps for three years. He was an outstanding Marine and had exceptional scores on all his evaluations. When waiting to go into his commander's office, the young LT in charge of CPL Haley would shake his head and say, "I don't know, Sir. But the boy knows his stuff."

And he did. However, on the weekends, Ryan liked to drink. Ryan would lose his head. And Ryan fought. After one two many times of visiting the brig, the commander got sick of seeing his face. So, at the end of his enlistment, The Corps gave him a pat on the back and said, "Thanks son, but we don't need men like you."

Former CPL Haley knew nothing else but training, weapons, and drinking. Ousted by the Corps, Ryan gave up his latter skill and changed his life. When I finally saw him again, he was quiet and somber. This reserved Ryan was a big change from the guy I knew in high school. He had even taken up meditation and martial arts.

You can bet when Ryan said, with a straight and serious face, that we should be in a Ninja Gang, Drakes eyes lit up. It was like adding fuel to the flames of his imagination.

Chapter 4: Narrators are people too

Me? Not much to tell. I had the car, and no good reason not to take a random trip with my friends. I just finished up college and thought it would give me a chance to write and think about what I wanted to do next.

How did I become the third spoke on this wheel of fate? I went to high school with these guys. After senior year we went our separate ways. Four years later, I bumped into Drake at the gas station. And Drake saw Ryan in line at the movies. We both ended up going to the apartment Drake had with his girlfriend to play some poker. This is where Drake jokingly dropped his Miami plan and Ryan brought up ninjitsu. A week later, I was woken up at 3AM in my parent's basement. It's okay, I left a note.

And we were off.

Chapter 5: Grappling Hooks

We stopped at a flea market in Alabama to get a grappling hook. We also bought some other gear. You would be surprised what all they have at Alabama Flee Markets.

Ryan got his grappling hook and some throwing knives. He also found a mariners book on tying knots.

"I'll teach you guys some good knots," he promised.

Drake got a rooster and a hen. According to him, they would give us eggs. Some to eat, others for more chickens.

"Plus, the rooster crowing would be like an alarm clock!"

I found nothing worth getting accept a Smiths cassette. It was a long way ahead of us and a sound track was better than anything on the radio. Oh wait, I forgot, I also got plenty of gapped tooth grins from the friendly Alabamans.

Chapter 6: The Pow-Wow

"Why do I have to watch movies at 1.4x speed?" Ryan asked.

The old Indian man sat and listened to Ryan for most of the night. Ryan was looking for answers and heard that native wisdom was the best of the wisdoms. We were in north Florida now. Drake would not let us stay in a hotel for fear of leaving a "paper trail" this close to the "target". So, on the third day of their celebrations, we stayed with the Indians. Drake promptly found himself a little native girl and ran off to places unknown.

That left me to walk around the night fires and think. What was Drakes plan? He was mum on the subject of acquiring the cash when we got to Miami. So, I was left to wonder and roam for the night.

The next morning, I awoke in the drivers' seat of my poorly maintained Honda, a tweak in my back. I really needed a new car. In the back seat I found Ryan passed out. Not long after, Drake walked up to the car, looking rough. There was straw in his hair.

"She found out I wasn't really British and kicked me out of her teepee. Why did you guys move the car? I had to sleep in a hay pile."

We didn't move the car. How was Drake going to get us to the gangsters cash when he couldn't even find the car in the dark?

Chapter 7: Gangster Volleyball

We arrived in Miami. We rolled through town, Drake sure of the way. We pulled into a packed parking lot, where a volleyball tournament was in full swing. We watched the action as Drake explained the plan.

Every year a huge five-man team volleyball tournament is held in the coastal city. The competition is open to everyone, yet one team always dominates all others and brings home a big trophy. Some surmise the win comes as a matter of course, but there are always real challengers and wide betting amongst those in the know. The winning team happens to be comprised of a members of large crime syndicate that is involved in most of the criminal activity in the city. Each year, after their completely uninfluenced victory, they have a party on a 40-foot yacht to celebrate. This year, their rivals in crime, the Italians have made a bet that our friends will lose against a team of hired guns. This team, as we watch, has not one, but two, former Olympians.

Drake explained (the final match being decided while we watched) that if the Italians lose the bet, they will bring their wager to a party that was to be held in the marina. And that is when we will strike.

"How do you know all this?"

"Julie told me before we had that fight. Her dad is betting against the Samoans."

CRACK, and a loud cheer. The Samoans spiked the ball for the win. I realized the hired guns had lost. We were hoodwinking Samoans!

I suddenly felt we were in a bit over our heads. Drake couldn't be more pleased.
Chapter 8: 'Ufa' And 'Kefe'

The 57' Chevy exploded right on time. But at that point its sacrifice added to the chaos, rather than start it. The battle had already begun. Ryan and Drake slipped up a line on the starboard side of the yacht seconds before the fun kicked up to full steam.

An argument began between the Samoans and the Italians (which was not in our plan) and progressed to fisticuffs. The Samoans, with the size advantage, and the switch-blade equipped Italians, clashed violently. After the explosion, while making my way into the water and to the line on the opposite side of the yacht, I heard struggling bodies fall and splash into the water below. As I ascended the rope (with helpful little knots) surplus guests took flight from the yacht. I pulled myself through the railing to the deck. My black ninja suit was soaked, heavy, and I was now missing my hood and facemask. I lay on the deck, out of breath and listened to the sounds of battle around me. Prevalent phrases such as, "Ufa!," "You big Gorilla!!," and "Kefe Bolo!!!," were all about the air.

Slowly, the noise started to die down. I pealed my soggy self up and crawled towards the open deck. When I peeked around the corner, the black figures of Drake and Ryan were pulling the incapacitated bodies of the gangsters towards the lifeboat. With the coast clear, I leaped up to join them.

"Ryan's sleep strike worked!" Drake whispered. "Did you get any?!!"

I told him I tossed the two over the side.

Hey, I didn't want to look like a wussy...

Drake gave me a slap on the shoulder and we finished loading the eight sleeping gangsters onto the lifeboat. We got the boat over the side and started to lower it to the dark water below. I thought for a second that one of the biggest Samoans started to open his eyes and I sort of jumped. This knocked loose one of the mini-grenades from my belt and smoke went everywhere. Apparently Drake saw the big guy waking up too, cuz he said, "Good thinking," and let go of the rope. The little boat dropped the rest of the way down.

"I'll get the anchor." Ryan spoke as he dashed away.

"You get the money, I'm headed for the bridge." Drake said and was gone as well.

Chapter 9: Go right

The leather case lay on the oak table in the middle of the two lavish white leather couches. Who has oak and white leather on a yacht, I asked myself. I stood, staring at the case. It was brown and gold, something an office worker might carry. I reached out to open the thin briefcase, and was jolted by the sudden movement of the yacht.

Instead of looking, I snatched up the case by the handle and ran for the bridge. Up the wooden stairs and through the metal door with a round window, I crashed in to see Drake with burning eyes, standing in front of the wheel of our newly acquired yacht. With a grin the size of a blowtorch, and his hand gripping a golden handle with an arrow pointed to FULL STEAM AHEAD, Drake let out his victory yell. Ryan stepped onto the bridge and the grin was contagious.

After a few minuets (and a few more yells) Drake asked a serious question. "So, which way now?"

Ryan and I looked at each other for a moment, and Ryan gave a yielding nod.

"Go right."

"Say 'starboard!' We're sailors, now!" Drake cried.

Chapter 10: The most southern point in the U.S.

Would you believe it or not, there are a ton of electronics on a yacht. As we blasted away from Miami we headed south to the Keys. In the back of my mind, I knew we had a stolen boat, and that at some point, someone would come looking for it. But Ryan and I agreed that keeping the transponder on, so that the Coast Guard wouldn't take us down, was the best move. At least for now.

We stopped at Key West for fuel. Drake ran off to The Porch, a place he had been to in the past for some party, while I bought gas with loot money. And I bought a lot; extra cans strew about on deck so we could get as far as possible without stopping. Ryan said nothing about where he was going, but went off in the direction of the Naval Station we had seen on the way in.

I wanted to check out the Hemmingway House, but by the time I was done with the gas, Ryan was dragging Drake back to the yacht.

"We have to go! Everyone knows about the stolen ship. The Samoans put out a BOLO to every criminal element in the country."

"It's not that bad! There isn't any organized crime in Key West!" Drake said.

Just then, a posse of older men, wearing khaki cargo shorts, untucked pattern shirts and bucket hats, came rushing toward the yacht. They yelled to stop, and when we scampered to depart, they drew Glocks from inside their waistbands.

"Restaurant and shop owners!" Drake cried.

"The worst type of organized crime..." Ryan swore.

I gunned the ship, zipping away. We ducked behind Sunset Key, and then dropped the hammer, heading west.

Chapter 11: Scuttle

Who would have thought the gulf would be full people. At night, all around, there were lights from ships and oil rigs. We ran across crazy looking boats that you would never expect. There were long old things dredging the bottom and kicking out a tail of mud a mile long. Tiny tugs pushing massive barges with cranes as tall as skyscrapers. Well, small skyscrapers, but still massive for the middle of the ocean.

We kept west, until we ran low on gas. With how crowded it was, we were easily able to get to a jack-up platform on our last reserve. Drake took the lead, talking the crew into selling us some diesel. It was expensive and came out of each of our cuts, but we got moving again.

This next part is hard to tell, but I'm going to do it. We are all flawed. By now, you have probably guessed Drake is a psychopath. He is a great guy, but that's a fact. Who knows what Ryan is? Me? I'm just gunna say it, I make stupid mistakes.

When we ran out of gas the second time, we drifted with a current for a full day. The next morning, the batteries were dead and we had no idea where we were. I went below deck to look for a solution. I thought I'd find something we could use. What I found in the back of the ship, below deck, was a funny brass T sticking up. I turned it and it began to unscrew. I thought it might open an emergency hatch or something so I kept going. Water blasted up.

I ran up to the bridge, soaking wet. "We are sinking," I announced.

Ryan looked taken aback. Drake pumped an arm in the air and clapped me on the back.

"Scuttle the ship! Great idea!! Should have though of it myself!!!"

Chapter 12: Dos Pistolas

We were in Mexico. Rescued by their navy, and placed on a train back to the states. Drake was super excided to be deported. Me, I was still mad at myself about the drain plug. Ryan was uncharacteristically quiet.

The old style train chugged out north from Monterey. We ended up in a third class berth. Chicken and children ran about the cramped car. Drake tried to tell an old woman about the rooster and hen he had, and let go of, in Miami. She nodded along, probably understanding nothing. I realized Ryan was gone.

Drake was not concerned He rather stay and discuss poultry, but I forced him to help me find Ryan. We went forward three cars before we found him. And we found him just in time. A gang of Mexican banditos, all wearing matching black leather jackets, surrounded him. On the back was an oversized patch of two cartoon old west pistols. Their leader, a full beard and slicked back hair, was shouting at Ryan in Spanish. They all seemed ready to pounce.

"You better not touch him! We are a gang too!" Drake shouted at them. I tried to pull him back before he could add, "A ninja gang!"

Ryan sunk into a classic fighting stance and waved his hands into an impractical and showy guard position. Drake broke free of my weak grip and cart-wheeled into the center of the banditos circle, beside Ryan. Unimpressed, the Mexicans ducked back, confused by Drakes method of joining his friends side.

Everyone in the car turned to me, waiting to see what I would do. I glanced back at everyone; the tough Mexicans and my expectant gang standing strong against sure death. Then I saw it. What the hell...

I walked into the circle, but skirted the inner ring, begging pardon from the men I crept past. The piano was in the middle of the car on the left side, right next to the bandito leader. No one spoke as I flipped up the key cover of the upright and took a seat on the bench. Before I struck the ivory, I looked back at my gang. Drake was grinning.

I had an out of body experience as I furiously played the most appropriate song I knew, The Mexican Hat Dance. Everyone's eyes were on me. No one spoke; the only other sound was from the regular ticks of the car rhythmically bobbing on the tracks. As I got through the first iteration, I stopped and looked around. Time stopped with the last note. The banditos, in unison, threw back their heads and laughed. Drake and Ryan stood up straight and laughed along with them.

I think my eyebrows must have been touching my hairline as I watched every soul on the train car howl with laughter. The bandito leader walked over to Ryan ad Drake hugging them both and shaking them through his release.

"Mas, mas!" everyone called.

I had lessons as a kid and the next song in my practice book came to me as naturally as fall after summer. I played Light and Blue, now with confidence. I added gusto to my left hand as the car cheered and the standoff abruptly reversed into a party. I was assaulted with slaps to my back as the grown men danced around to the old time music and the train rolled on.

Chapter 13: Conclusion

It took us a week to get home to Oklahoma. When we arrived by greyhound bus in our hometown, we stopped in at the local Dairy Queen and plopped into a booth. Drake no longer had the case, only an old sugar sack that he kept his things in. He drew out the last stack of money, and split it into three piles.

Four thousand dollars each. I could get a new car, but nothing much nicer than the one I had prior to the trip. Ryan passed over a grand of his, but Drake refused.

"Hey buddy, that's what you contributed to the heist. I'm keeping all mine," he said.

Truly, I didn't mind. That was my friend Drake. Ryan slapped me on the back and slid out of the booth. He went out the front as Drake stuffed his things back in the sack and also got up.

"See ya round!" he said and shot me with a finger gun.

I sat there a while longer.

Reflections From a Ditch

Lying on the ground, shoulder in mud, he had never been this close to true nature. One finger, the nail long and chipped, scraped against the fabric of his uniform pocket. The metal below was firm and unyielding. Adam Vandorm turned his hand over, looking at the dry, scale-like skin of his hands. A thin layer of dirt settled in every crack and seam. Dead, flaking bits of cuticle cried out for better hydration. Every bit of his body felt heavy in a way he had never experienced before.

He could not stop his mind from slipping back, reflecting on the conversation leading him to this place. The slab of bronze in his pocket was whispering to him, and his only defense was forward. In that shining white place, with the girl in the white jumpsuit...

"I believe I should refer you to my manager..." She said.

Adam sat with arms crossed as a man in a green jumpsuit came over and relieved the intern of her seat at the console-desk.

"Mr. VanDorm, I am Tadd Yearout, a manager of the tourism department. I understand you have a non-typical request for an excursion?"

"If it requires more training to be released alone, without a chaperone, or what not, I understand. But this is important to me."

The manager made a small gesture in the air above the console and began to read the display that appeared only to his eyes.

"United States Army Ranger School, 1985? This is a military school?" Yearout asked with a mix of confusion and surprise. "That was the premier combat leadership school in all the military services at the time. According to this it was quite rigorous. I not sure if you fully understand what the how standards of physicality have changed in the years since..."

"Let me stop you," VanDorm said, holding up a hand. "I know exactly how it was. I have an ancestor who went through this school at this time. I will prove to myself that my family line has not weakened. I want to see, firsthand, the struggles my line survived. My last tour, I went to a slave plantation. If I can handle that..."

"The physical requirements are staggering," Yearout continued to dissuade.

Vandorm puffed out his chest. "Maybe you don't recognize me. I am an Olympian. I placed silver in the septathalon last Olympics. That means I am the best in this continent and, I was the second best athlete in the world! You can't tell me some five mile runs and backpack hikes are too much for me."

The sun was pale. Cotton splotched skies danced overhead. He tried to roll over, but that backpack he thought he would be going on training hikes with got in the way. He hated the thing. His kidneys and the space between his shoulder and chest hated it more. His feet felt like someone had smashed the soles with a sledgehammer. His stomach was more than empty; it was shriveled and might never expand back to normal. His strength was gone.

The story he spun to the manager was not complete. He didn't say how he had to go back in time to do more than see his great-something-grandfather. He didn't say how finishing this school would put him back on track, how he had felt depressed and a failure ever since the silver medal three years ago. And with one recycle under his belt, lying there in the ditch was teetering on the edge of failure, again.

He could flip the coin in his breast pocket. He could rest in the space between. Go right back, energized. If he did that, no one would know except him and the Keepers.

No. That was the same as failure. He thought about the face of Specialist Olivet, who he had come to school to see. He didn't put himself in the same training squad, but as one of the few black men in attendance, a silent bond of kinship was made between the two.

"This era was not as enlightened as we are accustomed to," Yearout said, as they walked back into the pre-travel training center.

"I have seen much worse. Specialist Olivet survives just fine."

"We will have to insert support personnel for this specific request. We will have to create records for you, acquire period uniforms, gear, and so forth. Specific training will have to be pulled from another department and tailored to you. I believe you will have to shave your beard..."

Vandorm scratched at his throat. The bumps from shaving with an old fashioned razor were the least of his concern. He was on the verge of closing his eyes and letting what happen, happen. If a Ranger Instructor found him, he would be ejected. But at day fifty-nine, he had reached the end of his soul. He thought he was done ten days before. Somehow he had continued.

But no more. This was just the reality. He was not up to it. His eyes burned and he wasn't sure if he was going to cry.

"What are you doing, Ranger?"

Vandorm slowly rolled his head toward the voice.

"Roster number four thirty-three? Ranger Vandorm? I've been watching you lay there for the past three minutes," the southern accent said.

In the tree line, a thin man, wearing BDU bottoms, a brown Army sweater, and a patrol cap sat, squatting back on his heals. His arms draped over his knees and he was chewing on a piece of long grass. A walking stick was leaning against a nearby tree.

"Is this it for you? Or was that just a long trip and you are slowly getting up?"

"I don't know if I can, Sergeant."

"Can you get up and walk two hundred meters, Vandorm?"

Adam Vandorm struggled with the answer. He was sure the Ranger Instructor would say, 'Then do it. And then walk the next two hundred. Before you know it, you'll be there,' or some other nonsense. He had heard plenty of talk like this from the RI's. He had one, that despite when you asked, he always answered that there was five miles left to the movement. There could be ten feet left, but he would answer five.

"Vandorm," the Ranger Instructor said, coming down from his spot above the trail, "What if I told you, in two hundred meters, the march is over? Just down there, the others are waiting, sitting around a little pond, just relaxing. So, why don't you dig down deep and find whatever it is gunna take, get up, and wonder down the trail for a few more minutes. You do that and you can drop that tick off your back and go for a swim if you like, I don't care. Or, I can take that number off your hat and you can find your way to a truck whenever you are ready and you can go on home to Betty, or Susie, or whoever. How about it?"

Vandorm found the best thing to do was be silent. He took a second, blinked his eyes, and found it. It was not a magical moment of calling on hidden strength or shouting it into existence from the ether. Rather, he just got up.

The young Ranger Instructor stood in place on the trail as the time traveler walked away.

Every step was automatic. It did not feel like he was consciously making the decision to put one foot in front of the other. Instead, it was like squeezing the very last bit of toothpaste from the tube. It was by will alone he moved. If he yielded for the smallest rest, he would fall. Forward momentum took over and attempting to not fall flat on his face kept him going.

And then he reached a clearing.

"Better late than never, Ranger." A voice with a clipboard said. "Drop it and take a break."

Two more steps and Vandorm dumped his pack. The blood rushing to his head made him sway back and forth. Once he was back, he looked to the right.

There on pine needle covered grass next to the little pond was Olivet, sitting on his butt, upper body slumped over slightly bent knees. He nodded to Vandorm.

We made it, brother.

Gold. A tab instead of a medal this time.

Vandorm smiled, and jumped into the pond.

The Most He Ever Spoke

"I think Time and Space is God," Aros answered.

The battle was over. Both sat, slumped against a wall, in a tunnel, far underground. Both were bleeding, not mortally, and both were exhausted. Each wore similar armor. Their masks, lightning bolts dripping into and from their eyes, pealed off, and cast aside.

"Who are you with?" Kyle asked.

"I don't claim any religion," he answered. "I am not one to belong to any group."

"And what's the point then? Easing others pain? Is there something after that we should be working towards, in the now?"

"Some live for the moment. Some build monuments to stand against time. Others, like us now, do as you say. We work to protect others. But time is unyielding, in the end, moments will pass and monuments will be swept away. I don't remember anything before I was born, so why would I live past death? I think the point is to resist God. Continue to exist. Do not live as subject to Gods power. Perhaps if I can do that, I will become a god myself."

"So you don't want to die?" Kyle asked. "You want to be immortal? You chose the wrong hobbie, working with me."

Aros smiled. "Maybe I did. But you needed help. I figured I'd do that first."

The Blue Beetle

The doctor sat at his computer, and Payton was annoyed. She had not caught his name. They may have told her at the counter, but it didn't stick. It probably would have if he introduced himself, or if his whole staff hadn't seemed so disinterested in basic customer service. But that was the problem with the general practitioners. They saw gobs of cranky clients like Payton, all day long, each with a complaint, and it probably took a toll.

She understood all this but she was still annoyed.

The doctor barely looked at her as he confirmed the questions the nurse or assistant, who also did not introduce themselves or their role, had asked. He tapped away on his keyboard. There was no physical contact. This man was not a healer, rather an authorizer of treatment and prescription.

"So, I will unlock a prescription for three hundred miligrams of Bakalam. You can pick up a weeks worth at a dispensary at a time. And we will have you back in three months to revaluate," the doctor said.

"No," popped out of Paytons mouth. She was not usually like this. Customarily she was happy to go along with authority. But this young doctor, probably half her age, had only been in the room five minutes.

That got the doctor to look up at her.

"I'm sorry," she backtracked. "I didn't mean it like that. What is Bakalam?"

"Bakalam is a pain reliever and inflammation reducer. One after breakfast and one before bed. A complete list of instructions will come along with the medicine when pick up your prescription."

"But it wont fix the pain in my hips?"

"The inflammation in your hips is caused by the combination of the mutated T3N3 flu you caught last month and your genetic predisposition to polymyalgia rheumatica," the doctor explained. "As you got older, arthritis, to some degree, probably would have been part of your life anyway. At forty-five, it was a way off yet, but that flu strain has been acting in strange ways."

"So there is no cure?" Payton asked.

"Unfortunately, pain management is the best we can hope for at this point."

"Bakalam is addictive?"

"That is why I am giving you a weeks worth at a time. It is important you only take what you need, and not self medicate."

"So, I'm going to get hooked on this stuff? I've heard about drug addicts and that phrase, 'chasing the dragon.' I don't want to be stuck on pills for the rest of my life!"

"We will have you back in three months to reevaluate your condition," the doctor answered.

"And hope I magically get better?"

"This is just the first step. We need to track how this progresses. Research on the T3N3 mutation is ongoing. I've heard magic used to exist five or six hundred years ago, but today all we have is science," the doctor concluded. "Be patient and we will do our best."

Payton shuffled to the lift and leaned against the wall as it rose to the roof. When the doors opened, the aching pain changed as she righted herself and walked out on the landing pad. Just the act of standing still hurt her joints. The cold air didn't help with the ache either. A gentle chime sounded and a blue light pointed her to one of the six small landing pads on the roof. Her mind was distracted by inner thoughts as an automated voice directed her to a staging location and cautioned her to remain in place. She shivered in the winter wind that blew sharply across the rooftop.

After a short moment, the sound of whirling blades reached the building and a dark blue aircraft descended onto the pad. Eight small blades slowed the controlled descent and the pilotless craft touched down. The ground light at the staging area blinked and directed her to her craft. As she shuffled, the thought of her pain getting worse and requiring her to use a cane almost stopped Payton in her tracks. She was not old enough to have a cane!

The door to the cab slid open on her approach and she stepped in. The warmed interior immediately hit her and she took a seat in the firm, but comfortable, front passenger seat. With her four-point harness snapped in place, the automated voice of the pilotless air taxi began its standard lecture to passengers. Peyton zoned out as the smooth male voice spoke at her. She looked out a small side window as the aircraft lifted off seamlessly, transitioning to forward fixed-wing flight with the smallest jolt.

Peyton tried shifting her weight to her left, to take the pressure off the right. The constant hip ache subsided to a degree, but after a minute, the left hip was on the doorstep of agony. She shifted to the right. Her tailbone ached terribly when she shifted her weight back, sitting in a slouch. The harness made it impossible to lean forward and center her weight on her thighs. She felt like she might go mad, focusing on the pain...

"Welcome to the Audio Entertainment Collective, what show are you interested in listening to?"

"The News with Kristan Kaights," Payton answered.

After a brief pause and a flourish filled jingle, a serious woman's voice came on over the speakers.

"Thank you for joining me, Kristan Kaights, as I present The News: stories and reports hand selected with the listener in mind.

"This week in the news, NerdPal, the rogue terrorist group responsible for several recent break-ins and thefts, has struck at Balta Unlimited, the bio-chemical firm associated with government research, refinement, and development.

"In the early morning hours of the 22nd, laboratory vaults were found to be broken into, via underground tunnels and looted for samples which were stored there in deep freeze. This bizarre robbery method is in stark contrast to previous events, such as the attack on Fegge Tower where communications equipment anti-freeze devices were shut off, causing City wide chaos for over 30 hours. That attack was determined to have been the result of a planted employee by NerdPal, who gained access to the restricted area. Investigators have found a three-foot tall tunnel, inexplicably dug out from an underground chamber of the old City, and over to the Balta vaults.

"Some point to a possible resurgence use of practical magics by NerdPal in the commissions of these crimes, but government investigators deny any such conclusions.

"What was stolen, you may ask? Most were samples from years of exploration by our illustrious Expeditionary Forces, collected from around the planet. Most of these collections were bits of flora and fauna which the government grants out to companies, such as Balta Unlimited, to develop products and medicines..."

Peyton was shifting and fidgeting in her seat, unable to remain comfortable, when the story began to interest her.

"... Balta is well known for developing common every day drugs like Aspirin and Hoxlic, all the way to Bakalam and Turvasod. Jean Crozzman, head of public relations for Balta had this to say:"

Another female voice came on in a lower quality voice recording, "Some of the samples taken are priceless and potentially irreplaceable. We have insects from the Southern Jungle-Rainforest, which were collected over twenty years ago. Medicines and vaccines for diseases have been synthesized from some of these remarkable creatures. But not all have been fully processed. Some, only preliminary findings were made. The recent mutation of flu viruses that are causing chronic issues is a great example of breakthroughs Balta Unlimited was close to reaching. Now without source material and no expeditions planned to that wild region of the world, many projects will be placed on hold."

The narration cut back to Kristan Kaights.

"So, with these seemingly random NerdPal attacks, we must wonder what the groups overall goals are. On their anonymous digital information kiosk, only accessible on location at Bengie Square in the Ferris District, NerdPal claims responsibility for all their suspected attacks. They state their goal as, 'randomized chaos across the City to bring about a departure from the intrinsic collective feelings, which prevent humanity from spreading out across the world.' Is this a genuine desire for decentralization? Or is this radical notion a cover to promote their larger self-interests?

"In this reporters opinion, the recent strike seems to be a maturity in the groups ability level. I say, the Fegge Tower attack was part of a larger plan, needed to facilitate this Balta robbery and forthcoming operations. The attacks preceding these two seemed to be training and promotional strikes, bringing awareness of the terrorist group to the public eye. Who is backing this group? I think the suspected use of magic to dig the tunnel into the Balta vaults is more relevant than the police think. And the choice to steal ultra rare items, only attainable by Expeditionary Forces, who are currently preoccupied with their moon mission, is also telling. Perhaps their goal is to create more funding for the Expedition Force, who are currently a fraction of the size they have been in the past..."

The air taxi again experienced a small jolt as it transitioned from forward fixed-wing flight to vertical landing. The automated touch down was smooth and the door slid open. Cold air rushed in as Payton unbuckled and moved out of the craft. She had to use her hands to help her to her feet. Her first few steps were awkward and painful, even after the short time spent sitting. The pain was bad, but it got better, or she became more used to it, as she walked away from the blue air taxi.

"Continue playing on nomad," she commanded. The audio story continued as she made her way to the walking tube, which ran over the sidewalk. Inside it was not much warmer than out, but the wind was gone, which made a big difference. Winter was almost over, and some people were beginning to walk around uncovered outside, but Peyton would rather use the walkways until they were taken down.

"Regardless of the motivation for NerdPal, these illegal and frightening actions must stop. We are fortunate to have only loss of property thus far come out of this group, unlike some unmentionable crime syndicates this city has seen in the past. The News with Kristan Kaights extends an invitation to NerdPal to come on for an interview and defend their actions. Until then, tune in every Tuesday and Saturday for new editions of the show. You can also find us on the Open Road, where you can chat with me or my staff, without having to travel in person to Bengie Square! Goodnight, and that was the news."

The silence following was a wall. Peyton kept walking, on the edge of exhaustion, but this time with a thought in her brain that blocked out all the pain. She couldn't live like this. She had ordered the pain meds delivered to her apartment, but that was not the answer. She would not live by those pills. Her life was not worth living in this constant annoying pain. She had always been a happy person, and over the last month, she had only felt cross. The news report she had listened to was a sign; it came to her at just the right time. This was the veiled sign in the road pointing her down a path to a real solution.

She reached the front of her building and took a deep breath. A nap, then a pill, maybe, and then she would start her research. But definitely a nap first.

The air was crisp. The snow and ice had all but melted. A cold wind blew from the north as Peyton walked down the sidewalk, counting addresses. It had been several blocks from the closest landing pad, but her gait was smooth and untroubled. The pain was still there, under it all, but down deep. It was not on her mind, the salvage and pawnshop was.

By her count, the next building was where she would find the man she was looking for. From the shops Open Road sign, Peyton got the impression that the owner would also be the sole operator. As she approached the door, a man came out. Thin, hawkish, and oblivious to her, he blew out the door and across the street without looking both ways.

She froze for a moment hoping that was not Babu Bim Maddox running away from her. She was about to call out when it occurred to her; this man was too young, probably, to be the shop owner. Payton grabbed the old style door and went inside.

"Hello, Hello!" a friendly voice said from the back of the shop.

Peyton waved a hand at one of the cameras she saw peeking at her, hidden amongst the shelves of things. Few places she went these days were not meticulously decorated with defined styles in mind. It was a reminder to her that the whole City was not cultured the way she had become accustomed. In fact, the brutish charm of being in a place like this made her feel alive.

In the back, she found the owner of the voice. At first look, she knew she had found the owner.

"Are you Mr. Bim Maddox?" she asked.

The older man smiled. "I am indeed. But please, call me Babu! My friends call me Lazy Babu behind my back, and no one calls me mister! What can I help you with?"

"I am Peyton Magellant. I came to ask for your help."

"Please! I am always up to hear a request," Babu answered.

"I would like you to show me where you found sample T-64619."

"Oh my! From my expeditionary days! Forgive me, but I took thousands of samples over my career. I would have to dig into my records and see about the T series..."

"It was a blue beetle found in the river lands of the Southern Rainforest-Jungle," Payton said.

Babu nodded along. "And what exactly do you want with a beetle sample I took over twenty years ago?"

"Well, a whole lab of samples were stolen recently. Many of these samples, according to my research, had your name on the field notes, stating you were the collecting technician. I have developed an affliction which I believe that beetle may hold the key to cure or ease."

"And what makes you think that?"

"My son is good with computers and was able to get a copy of research notes for the stolen samples. That blue beetle seemed to have some interesting proteins that the scientists had not yet gotten around to testing. Do you remember anything about it? Where you found it? Anything could help."

Babu pulled out a pad of paper and a pen and began to sketch. He started with a map, and then began working on the creature. Without looking up he spoke to Peyton.

"I remember that beetle, and I remember that trip. The Expeditionary Forces haven't been back to the jungles in the south since. We took more samples there than anywhere I had been before or since. But it was dangerous, and quite a long journey. This beetle was not plentiful, and only found among the tall grass along the river. I took three, I believe. I would have to check my journal notes."

He looked up and turned the paper toward Payton.

"I used to keep record of what I did every day I was not in the City. I was not great about it. Some times I was exhaustive about the weather and location and such. Other times I would only write a couple words. All very clinical. Now that I'm older, I wish I had spent more time detailing my thoughts in there. But, it's still a good reference for requests like this. I can check and send you what I have."

Peyton was examining the paper closely. "That's great. Anything helps."

"Are you hiring someone to find some of these beetles? You work for a company, I assume?"

"No, I'm a private citizen. I haven't looked into hiring former Expeditionary Forces to go south, yet. I figured you might be a good place to start, since I don't have much money. Definitely not enough to fund a big trip..."

Hesitantly she asked, "Would you be interested in coming with me?"

Babu began to laugh, but thought it may come across as rude. He stopped himself and collected his thoughts. "I am far too old and out of shape to be leaving for the wilds. You haven't asked anyone else?"

"I've asked others," Payton said, "My son, and some friends. But they can't see themselves leaving the city on my crazy little quest. So that's why I figured some veterans might be more inclined..."

Babu slid the paper back into his reach. Next to his rough sketch of the blue beetle, he wrote a name and Open Road address. "Visit this man. He was my unit commander on that particular exploration. He is older than me, but still fit and tough like rubber. If anyone will go with you, watch your back and do it just for the fun of leaving the City behind, he is the one."

"This means the world to me Babu! Thank you!"

"Hey, anyone brave enough to leave the City to collect some ingredients for medicine is worth helping! Just let me know how it all turns out! And if Commander Lalor can't help you, I might be able to give you a couple more names."

"I will!" Payton promised.

She left the shop with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. But the first step out the door, into the cool morning air, and the little pill bottle came out of her pocket. Peyton shook out a single tablet, smaller than her pinky fingernail, and popped it in her mouth. Sliding the bottle safely away, she retraced her steps back to the air taxi pad, several blocks away.

Jermaine Magellant sat at his elaborate computer setup. He was reclined back twenty-five degrees with his head perfectly cradled in a position of comfort. On two of the three screens in front of him, he had a complex game map and unit layout. Blue lights illuminated his face, sharing with the shadows of the dim chamber.

On the third screen was a miniature of his face and the larger face of Payton. Her voice came through the speakers hidden about his desk with presence-perfect clarity. Beside the pane through which he spoke to his mother was an open road signpost for the former Commander Lalor.

"He looks legit, Mom," Jermaine said, looking at his game rather than the camera.

"I'm just really worried trying to hire a man like that. What if he thinks my idea is ridiculous?"

"Your idea is pretty ridiculous, Mom."

"I just think I could do this on a small scale. Do I really need a guide?"

"Go alone?" Jermaine asked, turning his head to face his mother. "And how are you going to afford the trip? Much less, get down there? It's not like there is a train or flights. You could get to the Islands, and then what? Row a boat? Hike?"

"I figured maybe you'd like to get out of the City. Maybe..."

"Are you serious?" Jermaine interrupted. "First, I'm the leader of my clans scout army. I can't be away for more than eight hours without total chaos. People depend on me. They have invested real money into this game!"

"Perhaps you could cash out. Use this as an opportunity to stop living a cyber life. You could go to the Southern Rainforest-Jungle in my place..."

"Mom, it's just my life. this is how I choose to experience it," Jermaine said, turning back to his active screens. "Send that commander a message. Meet with him and see what he thinks. Some people are into leaving the City. I am most definitely not one."

Payton did not answer. Jermaine took the pause as an opportunity.

"Things are happening. I've got to go. Let me know if you need me to do any more research for you."

He ended the video call before she could protest. The third screen changed over to game related research. Music faded back up and the chatter of his army returned.

Payton hustled out of the coffee shop she had been in with Lalor. The old man had been smaller than she imagined for an Expeditionary officer. But he did have alert eyes. And he looked tough as rubber, just as Babu described. He had given her a great number of things to think about as she skirted down the side of the wide hall, avoiding the flow of theater patrons milling about the exit.

Even though the way was carpeted, every step on the thoroughfare hurt her hips. She glanced down at the time on her watch. She decided to sit and use the phone rather than walk home in the half hour she had left before her next pill. A bench with two nice ferns was unoccupied a short distance away.

While she usually hated using the phone in public for sensitive matters, time was short and the call she needed to make would distract her until pill time. She grabbed her phone and pulled up her doctor's number. A young lady's face appeared, smiling politely.

"Mrs. Magellant! How may I help you today?"

Payton smiled a forced smile. "Hi. Yes, I need an advance on my prescription from Dr. Vandasce."

The woman's eyes scanned back and forth, looking below the screen before she responded. "Let me transfer you to the doctor."

"No, I..." Payton began, but was cut off by the hold screen. With an exasperated sigh, she lowered her phone to her lap. Something in her wanted to scream, but she shoved it down. She never acted out on frustration. In the past, this sort of thing would have barely affected her. But lately, she felt so out of sorts...

She took a deep breath and lifted her phone back up.

Two minutes later, her doctor appeared on the screen.

"Hello Mrs. Magellant, I understand you wanted an early refill on your prescription? Has something happened to this weeks supply?"

"No, No, you see, I am going out of the City some time soon and I'm going to need some extra medication for my trip."

The doctor furrowed his brow and slowed his speech. "Leaving the City? When would is be?"

"Oh. Well... I am not totally sure yet. We are working on the plans as we speak, but it could be in the next few days if we get the funding we need..."

"Funding? Where are you going? The Southern Islands?"

"The Southern Jungle-Rainforest," Payton said, feeling silly.

"I really don't think leaving the City, for anywhere, in your condition is a good idea, Mrs. Magellant," The doctor said, as if speaking to a child. "And I'm afraid that for that reason, I can't give you extra medicine. I know you are on your third week of this medication and the process of being regular with it can be hard. Are you taking it in the correct intervals? Do you need to schedule an appointment with our dependency specialist?"

"I am taking my pills at the right times!" she said defensively. "And I don't need to see anyone, except to get a small stock for this trip. A trip I have to go on. Please, I'm not hooked, I just can't be in pain if I'm not in the City to refill a prescription!"

"I'm sorry," the doctor said. "I just can't do anything for you at this juncture. Please, I encourage you to schedule with our depen..."

Payton ended the call. She wanted to scream again. Instead, she mashed her lips together. Putting her phone down again, she glanced at her watch. Ten minutes left. What's ten minutes, she thought.

Feeling a bit vindictive, she pulled out her pills.

Payton and Lalor stood when the Vice-President of Operations and a lawyer entered the small conference room. The two parties shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. They all took their seats and the lawyer informed them he would be recording the conversation for record.

"So, I understand you wish to request funding for an expedition, Commander Lalor?" Vivi Anne Sundra said to open the conversation.

"That is so, Madam Vice-President. But I am just the guide. Mrs. Magellant here is heading the expedition. She is the much more qualified to speak on her own behalf than I am," Lalor said diplomatically.

"Ahh," both replied, shifting focus to Payton.

"And then what brings you Balta Unlimited? We are not in the investment business."

"Well," Payton began, "With the recent loss of many of your samples, and a personal stake in the matter, I wanted to offer my services in exchange for funding to undertake an excursion to the Southern Rainforest-Jungle. I plan on bringing back, primarily, a species of beetle, which showed promise in various research trials. I believe it would be beneficial, and monetarily wise on Balta's part, to obtain new samples from a private party, rather than depend on the currently distracted Expeditionary Forces."

"Before we proceed," the lawyer cut in, "I need you to tell the two of us, for the record, of any and all contact, and/or involvement with any groups, including, but not limited to NerdPal, which conspired to subvert the security of our company."

Payton was flushed with anger.

"Is that why you agreed to take our meeting? You had to know we would be asking for funding for this. You could have just said no!"

"It is not in our companies policy to fund private parties collection efforts. And even if it was authorized in our charter, Mrs. Magellant," Vivi Anne said. "Very Frankly, I would not put money down backing an inexperienced woman and an aged expe vet's far flung idea to go off to the South alone. Have you ever been outside the City, Mrs. Magellant?"

"Her plan is solid, and a quick strike," Lalor cut in. He spoke without the ire Payton had in her voice. "I had been an advocate for such special teams before I left the Expeditionary Forces. They always travel in heavy deployments with a triad of ships. I felt that special units that could wisely deploy to target areas and perform short tasks would be an essential capability, especially in cases like this where replacements are needed. And furthermore, I would not be going on this trip if I felt the members were not up to the task."

"That was quite inspiring, Commander," Vivi Anne said. "But we need Mrs. Magellant to tell us she has no involvement with NerdPal."

"Say the words, please, for the recording," the lawyer prompted.

"I have nothing to do with NerdPal or any stolen samples," Payton said getting up from the table. She left the room, pulling out her pills and taking one. Lalor was at her heals, eyeing her shaking hands and labored walk. As they approached an elevator to take them to the ground floor, her stride normalized and she began to calm down.

"Remember, this was just the first try. I thought it would be the most beneficial way to get funding, but there are others," Lalor said.

"We are going to be stuck chartering a fishing boat that will take us months and then have to hike through wild lands for hundereds of miles..."

"There is money in replacing those samples," Lalor maintained. "We may just have to reach the point where we secure a loan and pay it off with what we bring back. It's not ideal and leaves room for nothing but success. But convincing someone to fund this adventure is a tough sell."

A young man approached the pair as they waited at the elevator. He was dressed in formal business attire, hair perfectly frozen in its conservative style. He stopped beside Payton and pressed the up button.

"Ms. Sundra has sent me to inform you," the young man said, continuing to look at the closed elevator doors, "that should you return with several requested samples, a list will anonymously be sent, that payment from a non-company related entity can be arranged."

Payton was unable to respond. Lalor picked up the message without missing a beat.

"Our prices will be substantial after learning the official policy of Balta Unlimited."

The messenger nodded, looked at his inner wrist bracer, and walked away as he tapped on the screen as if something new had just arisen.

"See," Lalor nudged, "there is value in this idea."

Another meeting. Payton squirmed in her seat. The sound of her new clothes on the drawing room chair was odd in her ears.

Lalor had recommended the new clothes. Payton had drained her savings, spending the stored up money on Adventure Clothes, which seemed to her to be code for three times the price of regular outfits. But seeing as they were designed for toughness, durability, and hydrophobia, as well as the line being owned by the man they were meeting with, she agreed that they might be worth the price. And she couldn't lie, they made her feel more adventurous just wearing them.

Their host swept into the room. Lalor popped up; Payton attempted to look like she was not struggling to her feet.

"Mr. Nagar, thank you for seeing us," Lalor said.

"Cal, call me Cal, Lalor. No need to get all formal around your young lady friend," the tall, thin, silver haired man said.

"And you must be Payton," he added. "Forgive me for not using surnames. I find them silly. It adds a barrier of formality I want to avoid with my subordinates, or betters in the case of Lalor, here."

"And which camp do I fall in?" Payton asked, attempting to be as off-the-cuff clever as Cal.

"That remains to be seen," Cal answered and winked.

The group sat, and Cal took the lead.

"So, Lalor, you refused to say what this was about when you spoke with my secretary. But seeing as you are a former Expeditionary fellow, and you asked to meet me at the Gentleman's Adventure League... Plus my new friend Payton's outfit... And the fact that I know you two, just yesterday, took a meeting at Balta headquarters, I have a pretty good idea why you have come to see me."

Cal flashed a confident smile at both. Payton smiled back, but shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Well, then, keep going, Mr. President," Lalor said, crossing his arms.

"You are looking for funding to leave the City, on an errand of some nature." Cal leaned forward in his high backed chair.

Payton got up without warning. She forced a smile again. "Please excuse me for a moment, I need to use the lavatory."

She darted away before either man could answer.

"So what do you want from the League?"

"Logistic support. Front us the funds to make a short trip to the Southern Rainforest-Jungle," Lalor said.

"In return for what? I would have to coordinate assets from multiple members. Each would require differing margins of return. And what guarantee would I have in a successful outcome?" Cal questioned.

"We would return investments from the League as a whole at one and a half times the value of the contribution. We hope to be able to make a profit from the acquired samples that would more than fund the expedition, upon our return."

"You could open a wider profit margin by offering spots on your adventure. Most of the members of our League did not serve in the Expeditionary Forces. Having a mission lead by a former commander would be highly sought after by plenty of us rich hobbiests."

"We are not taking any guests," Payton said, walking back into the room.

Lalor noticed the slight change in the fluidity of her movements. She seemed more relaxed. Her eyes were glassy.

"If you wish to sponsor tourist adventures, sell this as a test run to the members. But this trip is personal and I will not allow it to be complicated or turned into a heavy expe style deployment."

Payton spoke fast and sure, more energetic than before.

"I can understand that, sure," Cal said. "I think I can quietly drum up funding. But you must realize the league will want to send someone with you, for insurance reasons. This fact is unavoidable."

"If this is the only way, then lets be done with it. I am tired of trying to convince people of the merits of this trip. If we don't leave soon, someone else will steal my idea, or come up with it on their own," Payton said.

Cal nodded. "And Lalor, if this trip goes well, you may consider the tours!"

Lalor chuckled, and looked over at Payton. Though his face did not show it, he was deeply concerned with the current condition of his partner.

Payton sat in the comfortable, yet firm, seat of the air taxi. The heater was on, she was strapped in, and the only light in the cabin came from computer displays, which were usually absent in pilotless air taxis. The silence was backfilled with a constant static of wind and the drone of their parent aircrafts' engines. There were three others strapped into seats with her. The familiar form of Lalor was ahead of her. To her left was a thin man, which despite his middle age, had thick hair combed over like a schoolboy. In the pilot seat was a large fellow, with thin legs and a barrel chest. The pilot had a clean skull and wore an Expeditionary Vet hat that marked all his deployments.

Out of the silence, a voice spoke in the cabin.

"We have reached the drop zone. Prepare for detachment," the automated voice said.

"Hang on!" the pilot shouted, more excited than the somber feel of the cabin dictated.

Payton was annoyed at the outburst. She put her head back into the rest of the seat while one hand, hidden in her pocket, played with the small pill bottle inside.

Light flooded the taxi cabin as the belly doors of the mothership opened, revealing the silver clouds below. The yellow taxi dropped away, giving the passengers inside four seconds of weightlessness before the vertical lift and guidance propellers managed the fall into a swooping, forward flight.

Payton was breathing hard after the stomach turning maneuver. The pilot let out a whoop and punched the bulkhead above him twice. Lalor turned his seat to silently check on Payton. She nodded to him, annoyed by his over concern.

Next to Payton, the insurance rep vomited into a white paper bag.

"Doing okay, Mr. Rennis?" Lalor shouted over the hum of the aircraft.

"Better now. Thank you!" he answered.

"On the ground in five!" the pilot announced.

Payton looked out the window, shocked by the amount of green below. The upper canopy was a solid, uniform jade, with very little variation of the landscape. She had studied all the photos that the Expeditionary Forces had brought back from their deployment here twenty years prior. But after looking at the remarkable, but plain landscape, she put together the fact that professional photographers were probably the source of all the great photos and chose to publish only the most eye-catching sites.

A small laceration cut through the jungle, winding around in any way but a straight line. The pilot pointed out to Lalor the sand bar in the middle of the river that they had come for.

"Hasn't washed out from last year when the sat pics were taken! Good luck for us! Here we go."

With the standard soft touchdown Payton had come to associate with air taxis, the craft was on the ground. Drops of water streaked down the windows as a mist fell on the landing site. Everyone unclipped and the pilot opened the doors.

The quality of the air hit Payton like waking from a dream. The atmosphere was thick, almost tangible. At first, she thought it would take her breath away, but she kept moving her lungs. It tasted sweet on her tongue and warm in her chest. After a few breaths, she couldn't ever remember what it was like to breath the cold, sterile aircraft gas, or the nondescript city air. All the pain and anxiousness she felt went away as she turned up her nose to get a better angle on sucking it down.

Lalor was at the back of the craft, pulling out bags. Once the pilot finished his checks on the craft and landing site, all gathered for a briefing.

"Okay, Mr. Meeks will be staying here at camp. We have twenty hours before we need to return to the sky for our pickup home. That means there will be a rest period. But not much! Let's do seven hours to start, just to get the hang of what we are doing, and then a six-hour break, as needed. We can do a final six hours and pack up to go.

"Payton and I have lists and cards for samples we are looking to find. Mr. Rennis, you are free to observe, or assist in any capacity you wish. Questions?"

"Let's get moving," Payton said, digging into her bag. "Wet suits and into the river first?"

"We can do that," Lalor said. "You have one too, Mr. Rennis. Thermal and organism protection is built in."

"I believe I will come along," Mr. Rennis said. "Do you have scooters for the river?"

"The water is not deep enough to use scooters," Payton said, stripping down to a bathing suit and pulling on the black rubber. "The main samples we are looking for are along the shoreline, in the grass. So we are going to swim to find them."

"The river is rocky as well," Lalor added, snapping gloves into place. " You should be able to go upstream with no problem, using flippers and pulling yourself along with hands."

"I'm ready," Payton said, holding fins in one hand and shouldering her pack full of sample containers with the other.

"The beetles are not going anywhere," Lalor said, grinning at her excitement.

Payton turned off, tromping through the sand towards the oncoming river. At the edge where the river split around the pile of rocks and sand, Payton stopped. She put down her fins, and fished her pill bottle out of the pack. She took the cap off, and a magic, invisible hand batted it away. In shock, she stood still for a moment, sinking slightly at the knees, hands held out like claws.

The bottle hit the ground and the small blue pills ejected out. Payton sunk to her knees, shrieking, and tried to gather them back up. But the river took them, and even though the water was not raging at the point of the split, most were gone. Every pill she grabbed for, turned to dust under the water. Lalor stood by her side.

"I thought most pills had a coating so they wouldn't dissolve into the water when people flush them," he said, keeping his voice low.

Payton craned her head in his direction. "Now is not the time!"

She grabbed at her pill bottle, still resting haphazardly on the rocks and glanced inside. At the bottom was a single blue diamond, held in place by the smallest drop of water. Payton threw the pill bottle back, knocking the surviving tablet into her mouth. She swallowed and chucked the husk away.

"They were prescribed, Lalor! I don't know why they dissolved! They weren't street drugs or something! Now I'm out of pain medication until we get back to the City!"

Lalor studied Payton for a moment before placing a hand on her shoulder. At first, she wanted to pull away at the gesture, but then she realized he was using her to steady himself as he stood on one foot to pull his fins on. With both on his feet, he turned around to face Payton and walked backward into the water. At knee deep, he twisted and fell, swimming away.

As the anger subsided, and the last pill began to do its work, Payton shifted over to sitting and pulled her own fins on. Before she climbed into the river, she took one last look at the waterproof flip cards she had secured at her wrist. She flicked past the other cards, holding no feeling for them. The last card had a picture and description of the sample she had come so far to find. The blue beetle was the only sample that mattered.

Five hours in to the rest, Payton had enough. She was in agony, slightly feverish, and the common painkillers she had popped had done nothing. She could not sleep. She lay in pain on her sleeping mat, staring up at the star encrusted sky. The comet was at its furthest orbit, and while it was not close enough to be seen in the daylight anymore, it was brilliant away from all the light pollution of the City.

She was not going to be able to sleep. The insurance man snored next to her. The pilot sat in front of a small fire. Lalor was on his side. Patton rolled off her back. The weight directly on her hip felt like grating glass.

She knew, for the sake of the pain, she had to get moving. Deal with it now, so that it could be better later. This was the reason she had gone further than most people had ever gone from the City. She pulled on her suit with great difficulty and crept to the stack of collected samples. There, she filled her bag with empty jars, and began to leave.

Lalor was again by her side. He flicked on a headlamp and smiled at Payton.

"It's not too bad, is it?"

"The worst it's ever been," she answered.

"Eight more hours till we leave. We will find the little guys."

"Did you want to wake Mr. Rennis?"

"His fault for sleeping," Lalor answered as the two reached the water.

Payton lay in the water, stomach resting on rocks, weightless on her hips, hands combing through the grass along the bank of the river. It was silent of man-made noise. All she heard was the movement of water and the call of birds and insects. She paused for a moment and admired the fact that this was untouched territory. Apart from her, with her high tech suit, everything there was the same way that it had been for hundreds of years. As she gazed around, the sample cards on her wrist caught her eye. The picture of the blue beetle stuck out. Above that was her watch, counting down the seconds. Panic set back in.

From the depths of the Rainforest-Jungle, Lalor tromped, swinging g a machete. He reached the waters edge, saw Payton, and walked up the shallows to her.

"I've got everything on my cards, and some of yours. Find anything?"

"I am close. Can we extend for a few more hours?"

Lalor crouched down near Payton and brushed through the grass with her. "We can't extend on this trip. The pickup craft has already launched. It has limited fuel and the pickup is set."

"But I haven't found one yet!" Payton shrieked, and burst into tears.

"Come, it's time to head back," he cooed. "This trip was a success, other than the beetle. We can try to sponsor another trip with the funds. Come back and try again..."

Payton wept.

Lalor looked at his watch, and guided her back toward the aircraft.

The two swam in silence, Lalor leading, Payton flagging behind.

Traveling back downstream was easier, and Lalor reached the sandbar. He pulled off his fins and walked to get the camp broken down. Payton crawled slowly, dreading getting back to her feet.

In the thin grass of the shore, she paused.

In the mid morning light, golden rays shining down through the mist of the canopy, Payton saw them. The brilliant blue beetles were smaller than she expected. They scampered up and down the blades of river grass, munching here and there.

Payton screamed. This scream was so different from the others, Lalor turned back.

He ran back, smiling broadly as Payton scooped up beetle after beetle and put them in a sample jar.

Peyton triggered the freeze and leapt to her feet, yelling again, triumphantly.

Lalor dipped down and plucked two more beetles.

"When we found something like this in the old days," Lalor said, handing a beetle to Payton, "I used to eat one."

"Eat??!"

"Sure, why not? We have anti-poison meds in the kit. You think this may hold the cure for your hip pain, so why not! Of all the strange stuff I've eaten, maybe that's what has kept me in such great health..."

Payton looked down at the little blue beetle, then back up at Lalor.

She popped it in her mouth like a pill, and munched down.

Thanks for reading my book! If you got this far and liked what you read, I encourage you to leave a review on whatever site you downloaded it from. Any feedback is appreciated!

Wanna find more of my stuff? Three more short story collections are a click away:

Beyond the Gate (2013)

Five Days On Pimu (2014)

Movement (2015)

And of course the novels:

Other Worlds Than These (2013)

Saving John (2013)

Arrow Of Time (2014)

Don't forget the podcast! Just search Tales From The Multiverse and enjoy readings of your favorite short stories.

Check 'em out!

