

Anthology rights © Robert N Stephenson

Copyright individual stories © contributing authors 2018

Copyright cover art © Bob Eggleton

Cover design © Rob Bleckly 2018

Internal design: Mike Jansen

ISBN-13: 978-1981123056

ISBN-10: 1981123059

BISAC: FIC028040

First published in 2018

(the worlds of science fiction fantasy and horror vol. III)

This edition published in 2018 by Altair Australia Pty Ltd

The rights of the collected authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the copyright amendment (moral rights) act 2000.

This work is copyright. apart from any use as permitted under the copyright act 1968. No part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher and or the authors

Thank you to Alice Stephenson, Mike Jansen and

Rob Bleckly for helping to make all this possible.
The Worlds of Science Fiction,

Fantasy and Horror

Vol. III 2018

Edited by

Robert N Stephenson

Published by

Altair Australia Pty Ltd
Contents

Introduction – Robert N Stephenson

A Feast for the Minotaur - Stephen S. Power

Karel on the Other Side - Joanna Maciejewska

Life in Tatters - Jonathan Shipley

Bringing Down the Mast \- Floris M. Kleijne

A Particular Skill Set - Julie Frost

Lubarbri - Jakob Drud

Eshenak's Omega - Mike Jansen

A Position of Power \- Gustavo Bondi

The Murders in the Rue Planitia – Greg L. Norris

Kill the King - Ville Meriläinen

The Black Prince - Liam Hogan

A Taste of Eden - Colleen Anderson

Light in the Dark - Simon Rogers

They Don't Feed the Garden - James Van Pelt

Down into the Dank - Eric Del Carlo

Even Souls Sleep - Jay Hellis

The Powder - Brad McNaughton

The Acolyte - Ben Julien

Repertoire - Kate Morgan

The Ariadne Singularity - Mike Jansen
Introduction

The world is a changing place of ideas and people, but this year we have seen the terrible nature of a President of the United States in Donald Trump, the hatred of people fleeing war in Australia. Across Europe they face change as people flood across borders because of war. Syria has been bombed from existence and Iraq and Afghanistan are still in ruin after a decade of war. North Korea has developed Nuclear weapons and threatens the world and children starve and die in African nations. This is a year where terrorists have killed people in Paris, Barcelona, London and across the Middle East every week and still the politicians in western countries remove everybody's rights under the guise of National Security.

The Worlds of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror almost didn't happen this year as job loss and the decline in sales of my novels have conspired to bring an end to my one great passion. The world may seem like it has gone to hell in a hat box but the survival of this one, small anthology shows if there is a way hope will shine through. I must thank several writers for assistance, though I will not name them, they will know who they are. In this life good people exist even when the world feels so disastrous; I have been blessed by some very good people. Remember there are more good people than bad, there's more love than hate, more wonderful stories than bad. This anthology brings you hope from across the globe, a collection made up of many nationalities working together to create a work that sits above the differences and hate.

The works here are very eclectic and will not suit everyone's taste; this is not by accident but more by design. Some writers are just creating little spots for themselves and there is a rawness in their voices and ideas, while some are well developed and at a stage where what they produce seems to shine a little brighter. I wanted a mix of all voices here, the raw and the established. Patrick Swenson took a chance on me back in the late 1990s. This chance set me on a path to always develop and grow as a writer as well as an editor and publisher, so in a way what I am doing here is carrying that same trust forward and giving others a chance to start and make a mark. Not every story will be a masterpiece of epic proportions, but every work has been created by someone who has a driving passion for writing, reading and the adventures of the imagination. Be a part of the adventure with all its ups and downs, with its roughness and smooth bends. This collection is for you the reader, so you may find your small inspiration to create. Read on and share this work with others,

Robert N Stephenson

January 2018
A Feast for the Minotaur

Stephen S. Power

USA

Walton. Preston. Howe. Sutter retraces their names on the bunkhouse wall with a shard of burnt kindling, then he adds his own below. His lettering is crisp with practice. The plank is smudged beneath each of their names and dozens more above. Sutter has written his name there too over the past year, but after every mission he's gotten to wipe it away. Eventually the others hadn't.

Sutter tosses the kindling into the fire pit. This time he won't return either, but he has to go through the motions for everyone else.

When Sutter was drafted, the mission number was 2: get in and out of the complex twice with a page, and you went home, your service done. Then they raised the number to 5. Then 10. If someone hit the number, they raised it. Now the number's 20, and Sutter's sitting on 19.

Much of the camp doesn't want him to return. Some of his bunkmates surely feel the same way. They might be the guys patting him on the back right now. Or wishing him luck as they walk him to the door. Or telling him they'll watch his pallet till he gets back. Sutter can't blame them. There's little hope in 20. There's less in 25. They need to know, though, there's an end in sight. Preston's last words to him were, "Twenty and out," what Sutter's been telling them all to keep them going. Only Howe hadn't cared either way.

Howe was a 2 when he'd gone, and that had been a small miracle. The kid was odd. He didn't have a death wish. He just didn't believe he would die, however likely that was on a mission.

The night of his first, Howe refused to put his name on the wall. Sutter had to keep Walton and Preston from breaking him like a stone. Howe didn't back down, though. He said he wasn't dead, wouldn't play dead, and whether they wrote his name on the wall after he left didn't matter because if he didn't return that didn't mean he was dead. Unless they found his body--and bodies were never found in the complex because the locals cleaned their plates--then he was both alive and dead, which would make a memorial absurd.

This notion baffled Walton. He resolved to write Howe's name himself. Sutter had taught him his letters; he might as well use them. Howe went after Walton the way a moth attacks a flame. Walton would have rammed the writing shard through Howe's eye had Sutter not dragged the kid outside behind the bunkhouse, straddled him and explained the names.

They weren't about dying, Sutter said. You put your name on the wall for safekeeping, then reclaimed it. Either way, they wouldn't get it. Until Howe had gone on a mission, he should--then Howe kissed him.

Howe's lips might as well have been a truncheon to his temple. Colors swam before Sutter's eyes. His skin vibrated. He ached for breath, sweating, undone. He had spent so long surviving, he had forgotten what it was like to be alive, let alone to love.

"Keep that till I reclaim it," Howe said. He pushed Sutter off him like a bag of sand, went inside, and slashed an X on the wall, then marched out to meet the soldiers coming to take him on his mission.

Afterwards Walton and Preston asked Sutter what he'd told the kid. "Facts of life," Sutter said, still woozy.

When Howe returned two days later, he washed away his X with piss. Sutter practically cried to see him, remembering the thrill of escaping death instead of simply having staved it off. Nonetheless, Sutter didn't get in the way of the outraged Walton and Preston. The kid had to learn. The bunk had to see him learn. Howe laughed with every punch and kick, looking at Sutter, unquenchable vitality, invincible.

Howe's been gone three days. No one survives that long, which makes it Sutter's turn.

At the door Sutter tells the bunk the route he'll take through the complex: front hall to the steward's rooms, down the back corridor to the kitchen, then through the pantry and the hole in the wall to the corridors above the library. Nods all around. Locals haven't been seen in that section lately, and if their recent losses indicate this has changed, then Sutter could find the pages they would have dropped while failing to get out. The locals don't care about pages. It's a smart, if unsentimental plan, but that's why the bunk admires him.

"Don't follow me if I don't return," Sutter says. "It'll be too dangerous." A few chuckle. He always says this. They wouldn't believe he does so because he can't reveal his actual route.

A squad pushes through the door. Sutter doesn't fight them. He's a professional. He'll let them march him up the tortuous cliff path to the complex. He won't leap off when the entrance comes into view. He won't need them to draw swords to make him enter. Howe, on the other hand, made the soldiers carry him his second time, then shove him through the door. The third time Sutter watched them whip him out the front gates and presumably up the path. Howe laughed at them too. What could they have done to him, really?

Sutter tried to help Howe the way he had so many others. Every day after Howe's first mission, Sutter drew the kid a map of the complex in the bunkhouse's dirt floor and marked where pages and locals were likely concentrated. This information had been gathered and shared since before Sutter had arrived, and it was revised after each successful mission. Sutter also told Howe how to search. Move fast. Move silently. Stay out of any light. Take no chances. Be a rat. When you find a page, get out by the straightest, most quiet path. Take nothing else. The soldiers would confiscate it anyway along with the page after you emerge.

Howe said he had no idea where he found the page, no idea how he had returned to the entrance and that he'd go where he would and take whatever he wanted. If the locals had a problem with it, then he'd have a problem with them. He was no rat. He didn't cower or skulk.

Sutter tried to explain what the locals were and what they could do to him. Howe waved Sutter off. Sutter cursed him for a fool and said he was done with him. Howe shrugged and went to the mess to complain about the filthy food and poisonous beer. Sutter cursed him again.

Nevertheless, he didn't complain when Howe joined him on his pallet that night. For that Howe let Sutter teach him the letters of his name.

On the windswept plaza outside the entrance, crows peck at the shapeless heaps of those who chose the soldiers' swords instead of the complex. Sutter touches the wooden door, which replaced the exploded original. He goes into his rat mind. He sees the route he'll take. He opens the door, slides in and closes it quickly so the sunlight doesn't act as a beacon. Sutter stands perfectly still. He listens. Smells. Feels.

No sound. No acrid stink. No vibrations in the walls or floor.

His eyes adjust. It's not entirely dark inside. Illuminating gems are embedded in the walls at regular intervals, but they don't reveal much. They more emphasise the shadows. At least their eclipse can give away a local. The corridor to the front hall is clear. Sutter's disappointed. It's too small for a local, so he'd been hoping Howe would be waiting for him there.

Sutter got used to Howe waiting for him around the camp. He couldn't get used to his questions. As little as Howe wanted to hear about the complex, he wanted to hear everything about Sutter. Where was he from? What had he done out there? Did he have family? You didn't ask these things--camp was outside the world--which was why, Sutter suspected, Howe pressed him.

Early in the morning before his second mission, Howe crawled to Sutter's pallet. He whispered, "How do you do it?"

"I've tried to tell you," Sutter said, rolling away.

"No," Howe said, "you've tried to tell me what you've told the others so that they might return. That's not how you've managed it. That they can never know, can they? What would they think of their hero then?" He blew on Sutter's lips. "You gave yourself away to me, though."

Sutter rolled back. "I don't know--"

"I'll show you," Howe said. "I'll bring you back a present." He crawled away.

Sutter couldn't sleep from that moment on. If Howe had discovered where he went in the complex, he should have been back in a couple of hours. After a day, Sutter was glad Howe must have been wrong. After two, he was ashamed of his glee. After nearly three, he was shaking so hard at the thought of losing Howe that the rest of the bunk thought him ill. Their concern enraged him, and he nearly went after Walton and Preston himself. Sutter was starting to hallucinate from exhaustion when Howe returned. When he showed Sutter what he had, Sutter wished it was imaginary, but, strangely, his secret discovered, he could finally pass out.

He slept so hard he missed Walton writing his name on the wall for the last time. Howe found that hysterical.

Sutter inches toward the front hall. Why the locals don't sit there like dogs at a kennel gate, he can't understand. Maybe they're on eternal patrol, the wizard's last guardians, loyal long after the army invaded the complex and killed their master. Maybe they're trying to get out, having been summoned here when the wizard's library below exploded in self-defence and scattered pages throughout the complex. Maybe they're fighting their turf battles and can't be bothered with the pagers until the pagers bother them. Avoiding them would be far easier if the locals could be understood, but what chance do rats have to understand dogs? Best to avoid them entirely.

Sutter walks slowly to the middle of the room where a runner crosses the hall. His footsteps muffled, he hurries not to the steward's rooms to his right, but to the small stairway ahead to his left.

Shards of wood cover the runner, and he trips over a ragged panel. That wasn't there during his last mission. Did Howe not make it out of the front hall? Where is the local now? Alarmed, Sutter bolts for the stairs.

He winds up to a thin wooden balcony extending from the wall opposite the complex entrance and above the huge door leading out of the front hall. Half the front railing has been torn away or shattered. Sutter flings himself down. He's told everyone in camp never to come up here. It's a deathtrap. There's no safe way down if a local block the stairs. That no local is waiting someone out, means that someone didn't get down. Howe would've had a chance, though, because he discovered that Sutter's been lying. There is another way off.

Sutter crawls to the back corner of the balcony's far end. An iron sconce is set in the stone blocks above the wainscoting. It's like every other sconce in the complex with one difference. It's slightly askew. When Sutter saw it while foolishly hiding in the balcony on his first mission, he thought the skew a trick of the shadows. He straightened it as he does now. A soft click comes from the wainscoting beneath it.

Sutter thought Howe would make him wait a few hours before revealing his souvenir, but Howe could barely contain himself. He led Sutter behind the bunkhouse and pulled from his pants a scarlet tassel on a golden cord.

Sutter blanched. "How did you know?" he said.

"Whenever you draw the map, you extend the lines describing the balcony too far to the right, as if you want to draw a room beyond the wall. One time you scratched them out and said they were a mistake, but nothing's a mistake. All I had to figure out was how to get in." He spun the tassel. The cord wrapped around his finger. "What treasures I found. A whole room full of tassels."

"That's not a tassel," Sutter said. "It's a bookmark."

Sutter presses the wainscoting with his thumb. There's another click and a panel swings in slightly. Sutter pushes it. His hand recoils at something scabrous on the wood. In the light coming from beyond the door he makes out a word written in dried blood: HOWE.

He made it.

Sutter is too relieved to be afraid of the light acting as a beacon while he scrapes away the letters so that another pager won't see it and the locals won't smell it. He crawls through and closes the door. The sconce grinds back into place.

Sutter emerges in a comfortable high-ceilinged study lined with bookshelves. Bright gems in sconces with brass hoods provide a warm light. Doors lead to a bedchamber, a privy and a small laboratory with a summoning circle. Vases full of flowers that reject withering freshen the air, and in a pot in one corner, improbably, stands a tree ever-laden with dwarf apples and tangerines. On the sideboard stands a black bottle that when corked fills with water having just a hint of lime. A matching pot replenishes itself with hot stew whenever covered. A man could live here forever if he didn't get bored of fruit, water, and stew.

It had been the wizard's bad luck, Sutter figured, that the army had caught him before he could reach his warren.

Howe sits barefoot on the plush red carpet. He's flipping through a huge tome Sutter's never seen before. It's full of diagrams and runes written in gold ink. Howe's skin looks golden too.

Howe says without looking up, "So the library below--"

"Keep your voice down," Sutter whispers.

Howe doesn't. "--and the pages scattered around, they're all fake?"

"Decoys." Sutter crawls beside him.

"This was the wizard's real library."

Sutter nods. Howe has lost the stench of camp. He smells like the flowers.

"Books are boring," Howe says, flipping clumps of pages with calculations, "especially these. You've probably read them all, right?"

"No."

Howe laughs. "Of course." He slams the tome shut. "I bet you've spent every minute you've been here before holed up in the bedroom, shivering like a rat under the bed, only coming out for food. No wonder I found the lights muffled with pillows." He puts a hand on Sutter's back. "You're shivering even now."

Sutter wants him to shut up before the locals hear, then he wants to cover the lights, but he can't bring himself to throw off Howe's hand. Howe knows it too. He slips his hand beneath Sutter's tunic and tickles his spine, making him shiver more violently.

"And after three days in the dark," Howe says, "you'd bring back a page from one of these books."

"A useless page, as far as I could tell," Sutter says, arching his back. "Nothing like what's in that book. The army can't know any of this."

"Just like the pagers can't know you've been lying to them about your routes. What a magnificent joke," Howe says and pulls Sutter down on top of him.

Afterwards, Sutter nestles in the crook of Howe's arm, the storm in his heart subsiding, his breath steadying, then Howe starts in with his questions. "Why did you ever leave this place? And once you did, why didn't you tell the captains about it? They might have closed the camp. Who knows how many men wouldn't have died on missions; but you saved yourself instead."

Sutter's shivering returns. "I don't want to talk about camp," he says. "We're outside it, twice removed from the world."

Howe pulls his arm from under Sutter and props his head on it. "What's else is there to talk about?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"I do." Howe says. "I just want to hear you say it. Don't be a rat with me."

"Why are you doing this? Everything could be so perfect."

They hear clomping outside. Huge feet. Sutter freezes. Howe stands up.

"That's Red," Howe says. "He stops by each day."

"Get down. Don't move. Be quiet."

"Why? He can't find us. He's done some damage to the railing, though, trying. Hey, Red!"

The footsteps shuffle. The local snorts, considering.

Sutter grabs Howe's wrists. "They can break through walls."

"He hasn't yet." At Sutter's terrified expression, he says, "He won't, either. Stupid creature. I call and call, and he can't figure out where I am." Howe gets an idea. "Have you ever seen one?"

"Not up close, and I don't want to get any closer."

"I'm going to." He yanks free and steps to the door. "We really should meet the neighbours."

Sutter tackles him and holds him down. "Don't."

"Let me go. I told you, I won't cower. I will not skulk."

Sutter spreads himself over Howe and bears down. Howe knees Sutter in the crotch. Sutter, evacuated, rolls off him.

"Did you think I was going to stay in here with you forever?"

Sutter winces and clutches at himself.

"You did!" Howe laughs. "You care. And here I've thought our little tryst was just the only way you could get me to keep your secret."

Sutter winces again.

"I should have told the bunk about you," Howe says. "I should have made you understand real danger. Real life. Here, I'll show you."

Howe gets on all fours, undoes the door's interior latch and pokes his head out. The light from the room pokes out farther. Past Howe and the broken railing Sutter can see a red-furred shoulder, a turning horn, a tightening eye, and the air vibrating as the local roars at Howe.

"Red!" Howe waves.

The local reaches over the railing with a clawed hand and scrapes for Howe.

He laughs and calls again. The local rips away more railing. Howe looks backwards between his legs, eyes shining, and yells, "This is why I volunteered. To sit on the lip of a volcano and watch it erupt."

Sutter pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. He can barely lift his head. His legs are water.

"Come on," Howe says. "You'll miss it."

The local bashes the railing. A piece snaps off.

Sutter crawls to Howe, who shifts his bony hips to make room for him.

Now the local grabs the railing, hauls itself up, and grips the balcony floor with its other claw. Its huffing fills Sutter's mouth with the tang of copper and iron. It stares at him with yellow eyes.

Sutter disappears into his rat mind. He must protect his burrow. He grabs Howe's hips and leans forward with all this weight.

Howe pushes back. "What are you doing?"

Sutter digs in with his knees and shoves harder. If he gives the local what it wants, maybe it will go away.

The local drags itself down the balcony towards the door, the railing shattering beneath its muscular red chest. Howe kicks at Sutter, but Sutter grabs his ankle with one hand and drives his unbalanced body through the doorway. Howe collapses onto his belly, and Sutter grabs the back of Howe's thighs, pinning him. Splinters fly from the local's relentless claws. Howe keens. The balcony creaks and bends down, and an immense shudder runs through the wall.

Sutter slides toward the local, and Howe pushes him along like a board in a sawmill. The balcony snaps. The local lunges, and two black claws as thick as Sutter's wrist and as long as his forearm curl under Howe's armpits. Howe kicks furiously. Sutter loses his grip and he thinks Howe might squirm away, then the balcony tears away from the wall, and as the local falls it drags Howe with it.

Sutter springs backwards and flails at the door with his feet until it closes, then he grabs his pants, hugs them and gnashes the ragged fabric.

After a while there's silence outside. Later Sutter's mind goes silent too. He pulls on his pants and calms his fingers enough to knot the drawstring. He listens at the door. Nothing. He taps it. No response. He knocks. Did the rubble shift? He scuttles to the bedroom, bars the door and hides under the bed.

In a couple of days, if the local has forgotten about him and wandered off, he could make a rope from the bed sheets, get down and get out. He couldn't close the door behind him, though. The next pager would get inside and figure out what he's been doing, and once he made it back, perhaps with the tome Howe left on the rug, the whole camp would know. Sutter would be safer here with the locals unless his twentieth page did, in fact, get him sent home. Unlikely.

He curls up, shivering. His rat mind tells him to stay under the bed. No one could find him with the secret door shut and the balcony destroyed. This is a good home, he thinks, even without Howe.

Sutter closes his eyes. He sees Howe reading. What if the book let him learn how to bind? What if he could control the locals? He could lead them down the cliff path to free the camp, his hometown, his whole land. He could make up for what he's done. Sutter can't believe he's never thought of this before. He's been so caught up in surviving each today that he never imagined what he might do with any tomorrow.

Sutter crawls into the study. Howe's tunic and pants are splayed over the tome. Everything could have been so perfect. Sutter pinches a corner of the scaly cover, shakes the clothes off, then pushes the tome to the bedroom.

While he can read the runes, much of what they mean eludes him, and what might be names could be sobriquets instead. The diagrams seem to describe shapes to be traced in the air and on the ground. Traced with what, he doesn't know. The calculations are entirely opaque. What Sutter can piece together, though, excites him to the point of pacing the room. He has a whole library to help him understand this book, he thinks, and he goes back the study. Running his fingers along the spines, Sutter feels a laugh like Howe's erupt from his throat. Invincible.
Karel on the Other Side

Joanna Maciejewska

Poland

When he said, "I'll meet you on the other side" I thought he meant the other side of the shopping mall, not the afterlife.

You see, Jean-Pierre was all kinds of crazy, but he loved life as much as he loved himself. So, when I heard his words, I gave him as little as a nod and took a turn, running into the mall's biggest food store. I never looked back.

I pushed through the customers, slid through the aisles' turns, and I focused on losing my pursuers, not on his words. Following the route in the corner of my retinal display, I left the food store, chased by the smell of oranges and strawberries, and ran into Toy Extreme.

A woman screamed when I leapt over a child. Seconds later, when I was passing a five-foot-tall stuffed Tod the Croc, the blast wave hit the shop and I understood the woman wasn't screaming because of me. Before the explosion and polyprene stuffing enveloped me, I realized which "other side" Jean-Pierre had in mind. That bastard planned it all along.

What came later was pain mixed with screams by a DJ from Hell. Tod the Croc didn't survive the explosion, and I think neither the kid nor his mother made it either. My body suffered multiple injuries, but the flame-resistant stuffing from the ripped toy spared me the fate many others in the mall shared.

Dazed and wounded, I crawled from beneath the toppled shelves, coughing out fluff, and before I passed out, I could swear I heard Jean-Pierre laughing.

Yes, it came from the other side.

When I woke up to the beeps of medical machinery and the overwhelming smell of sanitary disinfectant, I hoped for a moment I'd been mistaken for a victim, but one glimpse at the guard by the door voided any such thoughts. I guess they had made it clear anyway with all my limbs cuffed to the hospital bed.

In the long hours of consciousness, denied the luxury of drug-induced sleep, I had enough time to consider my situation, and the more I thought, the less I liked being alive.

Stealing a miracle drug fell under industrial espionage, a crime that would land one in a labour facility for the rest of their miserable life, but blowing up a mall counted as terrorism, a fast track to death row. That is, if the terrorist confessed and exposed other conspirators, otherwise the track became slow and painful. And I had no names to give them except one which belonged to a man already dead.

"You knew the risks." Jean-Pierre's voice echoed in my head while his semi-translucent silhouette paced around the room, and I shut my eyes in the hope he'd go away.

I wanted to reply, to point out I knew the risks of stealing from an indigenously evil company, not killing a bunch of somewhat innocent citizens. I wanted to reply, but Jean-Pierre was dead, and hallucinations meant they put drugs in my meds to make me talk.

Go away. He was still there when I opened my eyes. His amused expression irked me, and I wanted to scream at him. Instead, I asked a question that gave the investigators no clues or latching points.

"Why did you do it?"

I wanted to hear the answer. Even though his words would be conjured by the figments of my mind, I hoped my subconscious had picked up something that could explain his actions. Jean-Pierre shook his head making it clear I wasn't getting my answers so easily, and I wished I could scrape the grin off his face.

The door slid open, and a man with a data pad walked in. Groomed and handsome, he didn't fit the bill of a ruthless investigator, and his cologne smelled of a trap.

Jean-Pierre's silhouette leaned against the opposite wall. His face reflected a mixture of amusement and curiosity, and although he didn't say anything, I imagined he'd pick the words he spoke so often: This will be interesting.

As the man pulled the chair closer, I saw my profile on the pad's display, and the access card on his jacket told me I had just met agent Levyn. He caught my gaze, and the presentation was over without even a single word spoken. I rested on the pillows, waiting for the rest of the meeting to unfold, but the agent stared at the pad, as if all the answers hid in the shining diodes of its LED display.

His finger danced over the screen, in patterns too quick to justify research, and I wondered whether he was secretly playing Sudoku, but then the lights in the room dimmed, and I stretched to see his pad's display.

With one move he wiped off a set of tick boxes and the screen went blank.

"Looks like you've gotten yourself into quite a mess, Miss Sernoff." His pleasant voice lost its appeal when used with a formal tone. "My name is agent Otto Levyn and I'm your only chance of getting out of it."

Living on the edge of society makes one sensitive to the smell of bullshit, but something about agent Levyn suggested he believed his own words. I smirked at Jean-Pierre, seeking support in his usual mockery, but no silhouettes lurked in the shadows. The peace guards had to cut off the drugs.

"Make your offer," I said.

Agent Levyn's smile made me wonder why he didn't pick a sales career. "Lifting all the charges of terrorism and industrial espionage. You'd be deemed a victim of psycho-manipulation and sent to a rehab facility."

I arched my eyebrows. Better than death row, and probably more comfortable than a labour facility, but a prison was always a prison.

"The standard therapy takes six months, but it would have to be doubled to convince the public of your case's severity," agent Levyn continued. "After that time, you'll be free to return to society in whatever way you choose, even in as minimal a way as it was... before the recent events."

I said nothing for a long moment. I was wrong. They didn't cut off the drugs. They had to increase the dose, because agent Levyn was a hallucination if he just said: "Hey, Karel, we'll keep you in rehab for a year, and then you can go back to your anarchist way of life. No biggie."

It wasn't an offer, it was insanity, and my state had to have worsened if my brain conjured such absurdity. I had to tell the doctors to be more careful with their drugs, otherwise they'd make my synapses rave-dance before the guards had learned anything useful from me. Not to mention, I preferred my grey mass somewhat unaltered.

"Is there something wrong with the offer?" agent Levyn's polite tone snapped me from my inner rant.

"How about everything?" I couldn't help it.

"We're ready to keep our side of the agreement, Miss Sernoff. The public is looking for a scapegoat, but if you help us apprehend the real perpetrator, you won't have to suffer the consequences of someone else's actions."

Did I mention the bullshit part? Tooth fairies and compassionate peace guards ceased to exist once you turned five, devoured by the monster called You're-Big-Enough-Now, so an agent expressing concerns about justice--the real justice, not the marketing hype--could send any reality-check sensor off the scale.

"The real perpetrator died in that mall."

Telling them they won't get their evil mastermind, and the scapegoat would have to do, didn't seem very bright, but with surveillance data from before the explosion they had to know that already.

Agent Levyn smiled again. "What makes you think that?"

What made me think that? The blast wave that wiped out the mall and came from where I saw him last? Or the words he said?

See you on the other side...

They didn't ring right coming from self-absorbed Jean-Pierre, and against all reason I doubted what I considered the truth. My eyes fixed on Otto Levyn. I couldn't read him, but the longer I thought, the more it made sense. Jean-Pierre did something other than simply die in a suicide bombing. And the agent's generous offer meant they were desperate for help, for my help.

"Piecing something together?" he asked.

"Just basics. Still don't know why you need me so bad."

Agent Levyn smiled again, and I had second thoughts about him as a salesman. He should have become a politician. With all my inherent and acquired mistrust for government officials, I'd sell my soul if he asked me to. Which, for all I knew, he might have been considering.

"Divulging that information would require your agreeing to help us, Miss Sernoff."

I gave Otto Levyn a look I'd give my ten-year-old son when he did something stupid if I had ever gone insane and decided to have a child.

"You know I have no choice but to agree."

"Considering your past, I need something more than my knowledge." The smile never left his face. "I'd hate to hear later you didn't agree to anything."

I snorted. They did their homework, and it made me wonder how long they had me under surveillance. Or were their personality profilers that good?

"I agree to your terms. I'll help you apprehend Jean-Pierre," I said.

"Jean-Pierre? This is the name he goes by nowadays?" Agent Levyn punched information onto the pad.

I resisted pointing out I was already being useful giving them new information, since I thought it'd come across more desperate than witty, and I preferred to sound smart whenever I could.

"You keep insisting he's not dead," I said instead.

Otto's eyes tore away from the pad. "Because he isn't. He's not alive either."

At first, I thought Jean-Pierre survived and was in a coma, but agent Levyn's expression reassured that I shouldn't bother with simple solutions, so instead of taking part in a riddle contest, I waited for the story to unfold.

"His body died in the blast, but his persona transferred into the Cybernet," the agent said. "At the moment, our gliders are focused on keeping him away from essential operations. Like this one." His hand indicated the room.

I looked at the machinery plugged into my body, eyeing suspiciously the liquid dripping in the cannula, and I questioned my sanity. Maybe the fumes from burnt Tod the Croc caused brain damage? Then I looked at the wall where I last saw Jean-Pierre's silhouette, and the blast wave in the mall was nothing compared to the thought that hit me next.

What if he wasn't my hallucination?

"Miss Sernoff?"

My brain worked like a self-assembly line in a drone factory, piecing facts together into a mockery of reasonable explanation, refusing me the bliss of discarding the absurdity Otto Levyn conjured.

"The vial we stole wasn't the cure for Robinson-Frett Syndrome," I uttered.

"No."

I hoped I didn't look like a little girl about to cry. Risking my life to help the poor appealed to my principles, and the certainty that Jean-Pierre played on this emotion left me feeling betrayed. At the same time, the cynical part of me remarked about the guards' profilers not being worth their salary. Should Otto Levyn have mentioned that first, I'd agreed to help even if they didn't promise me anything.

The agent's face softened, and my feelings toward him did the opposite. I might have reacted to him reading me so easily, but I didn't need his pity. Compassion was easy when one had a well-paying job, a place to stay, and a belief of being one of the good guys. Living on the society's edge taught just one lesson: stop crying like a wimp and man up. Or woman up, in my case.

"The sample you stole was an experimental transferring agent developed for Cybernet security," Otto said. "Something to replace the inconvenient sockets and reduce the risk of tampering with them. We believe that Jean-Pierre, or rather Frederic Yukku, knew exactly what he came for."

I did my best to keep a cool face, but within the confines of my mind I made a long list of things I wanted Jean-Pierre to suffer. And if someone made it possible, I'd swear I'd turn an honest, hard-working citizen for the rest of my life.

"So, what do you want me to do? Talk him out of it?"

Otto Levyn glanced at the data pad, and I bet he did it for the dramatic effect rather than searching for the actual info. "According to tests, your blood contains traces of the substance."

I nodded cautiously. Jean-Pierre insisted we both injected a dose, arguing if we lost the vial during our escape, we'd hopefully still have some in our blood for the independent scientists to examine.

"You want me to go after him, don't you?"

"We want you to distract him and find a way to push him into a host."

"A host?" I didn't like the sound of it. I didn't.

"The agent was designed to allow the glider to come back to his own body," Levyn said. "Frederic's body is dead, but according to the research data, he'll be able to hijack any plugged-in person, and go back to the net once the host is dead."

My eyes widened while I considered all the possibilities. Of course, body hijacks happened every so often, and some ended in a spectacular way, like the man dubbed "Naked Dave" dancing in front of the government building or the triple suicide of the Tangen sisters, but most of the jackers feared for their own life and avoided doing anything too crazy. Jean-Pierre had both nothing to fear and reasons to use his abilities.

"What makes you think he'll trust me?" I moved, making the handcuffs jingle against the bedrail. My drama teacher always told us to use sounds for better effect. "Even if he can't hear us now, he'll piece things together when he meets me on the net."

Otto Levyn smiled, and if he were a politician, he'd just have convinced me he'd fulfil all his election promises. If he were a priest, I'd convert to any religion. But he was a peace guard I was making a deal with, and that warm twitch of his lips promised I would regret not picking death row. At least I'd have the best seat there.

"Fuck you."

Otto Levyn didn't even flinch at this verbal display. "I hoped you'd be more cooperative, Miss Sernoff, provided your circumstances," he said. "When I walk through that door, your chance to--"

"Don't forget to take your lies with you," I snapped.

My heart rate picked up, responding to the chemical cocktail that bastard had been pumping into my veins. My aggression levels spiked--apparently agent Levyn didn't leave anything to chance.

"Very well."

Agent Levyn walked up to the guard at the door. "Get her prepped for transport." And then he left.

The argument outside, followed by a splutter of medical terms, told me doctors claimed I shouldn't be moved, but my attention focused on the bulky man approaching my bed. He uncuffed my legs only to bind them together, and while he leaned over to do the same with my wrists, I stared at the holster under his jacket.

With my shining eyes and parched lips, I looked feverish, and he had no reason to suspect my burning cheeks came from the military grade combat mix injected into my body. That's why he wasn't prepared when my hand shot at his jaw while the other one darted for his weapon.

The guard's head snapped to the side with the sound of bones cracking, and I had no illusion: it wasn't the man's massive maw, but my knuckles. But I got hold of the gun, and while the guard stumbled backwards, I aimed at him.

He tensed, ready to dash at me--a move that would reduce me to a boneless pulp considering his weight--and I knew I had to pull the trigger soon. I also knew the shot probably wouldn't save me from being buried under the muscle heap. I desperately needed help, and as if responding to the unvoiced Mayday, agent Levyn entered the door, reaching for his firearm.

I changed my target, but Otto Levyn was faster than me. The very moment I heard the shot, I squeezed the trigger. My EMP blast ripped through the room milliseconds before agent Levyn's bullet hit me square in the head.

"Terrorist Karel Sernoff has been killed during an escape attempt in the Gilded Heart Hospital..."

The presenter's voice faded, and although senses didn't exist in the Cybernet, my mind kept conjuring simple understandings for the extra-sensory perception of the digital world. My eyes, or what I perceived to be them, remained fixed on the local news station's feed, where the CCTV camera showed my desperate attack repeatedly. I watched the slow motion of the bullet hitting my forehead and what I believed to be the first blood splashing from my brain before the EMP fried the camera.

Still considering myself to exist, I had trouble in coming to terms with the fact that not only was I dead, but agreed to such madness.

"Took you long enough to get here."

The voice reaching me through the data streams sounded familiar, and nano pixel by nano pixel, Jean-Pierre's avatar took shape.

"You're dead." I pointed a digital finger at him.

"So are you." The smile I knew so well danced on his lips. "But that's temporary."

I didn't have to turn to see around me, but the flesh habits prevailed, and I twisted my would-be-head toward the news stream. "That doesn't look temporary to me."

"That is not, but our state is," Jean-Pierre's voice, rendered as close as possible to the real one, maimed me. "I have it all planned. Once we're done stealing government secrets, I have hollowed bodies waiting. They'll never find us."

I admit, the hollowed bodies seemed a smart move. Husks of humans who lost their identity within the Cybernet were kept on life support and always plugged in, just in case an owner's consciousness returned to their abandoned stead. They rarely did.

"So, what's first?"

"First you do your glider magic and prepare an attack, and then we strike fast and hard."

The clueless users hopped like bunnies around heaps of data, munching on straws while I processed haystacks of information. Sometimes gliders spotted us, but they'd only check our user signatures. Fake, like everything we used, but enough to convince everyone we were just new gliders tasting the possibilities of digital bodies.

While Jean-Pierre planned our grand hacker tour, I took in every detail of the security protocols. The peace guards' tracking apps gave us few thrills, forcing us to rush through the servers and fi-optic lines, but soon I'd learned to weave a web of deception, faking communication and social media activity, plugging in false purchases and search engine terms.

"You're brilliant," Jean-Pierre said. "I knew you could make it."

His voice remained as seductive as it was when he had flesh, but his influence melted faster than ice-cream in root beer. My memories from the mall's explosion were still fresh.

And I knew Jean-Pierre picked me for my skills. Once when I was a law-abiding citizen, I took a course in Cybernet technologies, and through my more law-bending years to come, I honed my skills in any way possible.

"Tomorrow we're going to do it," his voice rang with anticipation.

Part of my mind listened to Jean-Pierre's rant, letting him paint the pictures of wealth and comfortable lives in our new bodies once we cashed in the information, but I didn't ask when our operation suddenly stopped being about curing the sickness, and became an ordinary heist. The other part saw to my security web, managing all the activities of our fake identities.

Remorse must have been a chemical reaction or a glitch between the synapses, because when my netbots carried additional pieces of code scattered across inconspicuous emails, I felt nothing.

The gliders set their snares, while we used speed and decoys to wriggle free, fooling tracker apps and security bots, but each place we hit, they got closer. Their digital fingers grazed our personas, and avoiding capture became harder and harder.

"I think this will be the last one before they catch up," I communicated to Jean-Pierre. "I'm running out of decoybots, and they're disconnecting users city-wide, so it's getting hard to hide."

"Last one then."

The ploy attack launched first, targeting three servers at irregular intervals, and absorbing most of the guard's forces, while we snuck through the binary streams. Running in the Cybernet wasn't so different from running in the flesh.

Our external save points swelled with stolen data, but then a wave of disruption hit us, and the net glitched. My alarms went off and this wasn't a hardware malfunction.

"We've got to go!" I fired up my leftover protection protocols, and they absorbed the first attacks on our security.

Jean-Pierre kept downloading data. "It's just a few bots," he said. "The rest are defending the other servers. You're barraging them there."

"They'll cut us off!"

I ejected Jean-Pierre from the server before he doomed us with an argument. I followed, slipping through the firewall before it isolated the whole section of the Cybernet. I didn't know they could do that with a commercial app. Unless, of course, their app was less commercial than its label claimed.

"That was close," I said.

"How the fuck was this possible? How did they know?"

I almost forgot how quick Jean-Pierre was to sniff out conspiracies when something went off.

"I think they boosted their numbers with freelance gliders. The stuff they did out there was not from the peace guards' book."

Jean-Pierre remained silent, and I didn't care anymore what he thought.

"If they tagged us there, we wouldn't hide for long," I continued. "I can buy you three to five minutes. Go first and I'll lead them away."

No argument came. "See you on the other side."

He vanished in the code while I drew the gliders' attentions. They chased me like hounds, sensing their prey vulnerable. I did my best to block their apps and ensnaring code, but they were good.

When someone fired a personality-distorting virus at me, I declared the end of the chase. The three minutes I played around had to be enough for Jean-Pierre to reach his new body. Before anyone launched more binary magic at me, I broadcasted a string of numbers and letters: a codename. The same codename my bots carried in some messages. The same I left on the last server before the firewall cut it off. The same agent Levyn gave me.

Because just like the last time, I wasn't meeting Jean-Pierre on the other side.

I never got tired of re-watching the feed from Jean-Pierre's capture. The peace guards walked him from the CyberCare facility with cuffed wrists and electro-restrainers at his temples. The media rejoiced at the trial of Triple M, as they dubbed him, "the Mall Mass-Murderer", and agent Levyn himself made a nice speech about the capture being made possible by an undercover agent, Karel Sernoff, whose death had been staged for investigation purposes.

I'd thank Otto Levyn for clearing my name, but how did he expect me to go back to my normal life when he had dubbed me a peace guard rat? I guess we both knew his first offer was nothing but a way to get me to listen.

I wandered data streams, and watched Jean-Pierre's trial. Security apps left me alone, and no one attempted to track me. I recreated my protective web, and I fished for information but still didn't know what to do.

Jean-Pierre got sentenced to death, and they executed him in an underground cell shielded by an EMP field away from satellite reach and transfer points. Later I checked the streams for his signature, but the peace guards cut him off for good. The lying bastard was dead.

The hype died, and the world moved on, focusing on more important news like the double penis transplant or senator Efnon's exploits gossiped to include several call girls and a llama. And just when I started to wonder whether agent Levyn had forgotten about me, my spy app picked up an encoded message. It contained the words I didn't expect:

"Your original body is waiting for you."

It was me, fleshy, malnutritioned, and drugged, but me.

I checked the medical data, DNA, and even the camera feed. Nothing suggested deception, and agent Levyn sat by the bed. I couldn't find any info on the room, and I understood how much effort Otto Levyn must have put into concealing that I was still alive when he could have simply loaded his gun with a real bullet.

"Well done, Miss Sernoff," he said when I holo-walked into the room.

"I see you kept your part of the deal." I sent the message to his data pad. "More or less."

There was something apologetic in his smile. "At least you don't even have to spend a day in rehab."

"So, what happens now?" I watched him through the camera's indifferent eye, and ran apps in the background. I wanted to know whether he believed his answer.

"Specialists from GenoCorp already neutralised the chemo transmitter in your body, so once you're back in, you'll be yourself and nothing more. And if you want to return to your old ways, I'll get you a new identity."

"Alright."

Otto Levyn didn't move and didn't try to notify anyone. I played with the thought of making it visual, my holo-persona changing into dust and flying into my body, but it felt like a cheap show.

The identity download began. Karel Sernoff opened her eyes and looked at agent Levyn. Then the hardware short-circuited, blacking out the hospital, and Karel--with only part of the consciousness loaded--gasped for one last breath. She died before Otto Levyn realised what was going on.

Once backup power kicked on, I watched him from afar while he shouted for doctors and tried to revive the body.

Karel died again. I think I was getting used to it.

The new body bore all the marks of malnutrition and muscle deterioration one could have expected after three years in CyberCare, but at least Ruth Huggle had the money to ensure her body stayed plugged in for so long.

I wondered what happened to her, whether she chose gliding in the cyber or some virus wiped her, but since I collected her body an hour before her contract expired, she wasn't coming back, and I felt no remorse.

The doctors jumped around me, excited to see one of their patients at least figuratively get off her bed. I let them do their magic, drank gallons of stimulants and nutrients, did simple exercises, and--when no one was looking--got used to my new face.

Ruth had pleasant features a healthy diet and some workout would enhance. I spent a few weeks in CyberCare, and before they released me, I asked them to remove my Cybernet socket.

"No more gliding for me," I enjoyed my new soft voice.

The doctors proceeded, but I caught their glimpses. They were sure I'd be back once I had enough money to pay for more time in CyberCare. Gliding was addictive, and people only came back because of a foolish sentiment to flesh. A sentiment that died quickly in the stench, poverty, and general hopelessness real life offered at bargain prices.

I said my farewells while CyberCare staff refrained from replying "See you again!" And I stepped out into the real world. No one waited for me, no one noticed, and it felt comforting.

My stomach, kept on the liquids for years, longed for a steak and chocolate, but first I had to find a place to stay. Ruth's credit card expired, but the bank account still had money in it, and I ensured small sums trickled in from inconspicuous sources.

A place to stay, some food, and a job. I'd lay low, live a lawful citizen's life, and ensure any doubts about Ruth's identity were put to rest. Email to her sister who lived in another town, visiting her mother's memorial, morning coffee in her favourite cafe.

Even if I couldn't get my old life back, at least I was in control once again.

The waitress job was enough to pay for a small apartment, and I had few other needs. Only a month or two more, and Ruth would disappear anyway, when I'd go back to living on the edge, away from the system's prying eyes.

I flipped on the light and I froze, staring at the man who sat in my armchair.

Agent Levyn smiled apologetically and moved his hand. I twitched, but instead of a gun, he held a bottle of beer, and unless we liked the same booze, he took that Raspberry Full Dark out of my fridge.

"I hope we can skip the part where you pretend you don't know me." He took a sip.

Of course, we could. I had to know how he had found me.

"I'd ask you to sit down and offer a beer, but you skipped that part too." I pulled another beer from the fridge. "So, let's get straight to the part where you tell me how you tracked me down and what you want."

Agent Levyn leaned back in the chair. "Your plan at the hospital was good. Our best technicians confirmed the cable overloaded when you tried to go back to your body, and the circuits fried. They also claimed you couldn't go back into the cyber with your consciousness snapped in half by that glitch."

"And yet here you are." I sat in front of him. He looked relaxed, and I couldn't see any weapons, but he knew better than to shoot me. I'd just go back to the Cybernet.

"For a while I thought you died there." Respect flashed in his eyes. "But after the initial chaos and frustration, I remembered a small detail. The way your body looked at me in its last moments, that fear in her eyes." He shook his head. "Only later I realised she wasn't staring at me, scared of dying. She was staring at my badge. So, I started digging."

I nodded. I overloaded the connection shortly after the download started to avoid revealing that I had shoved someone else into my body, and if anyone else had been in that room, they'd have probably missed it. But not Otto Levyn.

"I found out that on the night you supposedly glitched into inexistence, a single cyber-death was reported in another part of town," Otto continued. "A nasty man who evaded justice with bribes and legal loopholes. His time of death matched yours. So, I started searching for reclaimed hollow bodies... Ruth Huggle."

"And now you're here. Alone. Why?"

"Partially, because I was curious." He leaned forward, considering my eyes. "Why did you run?"

"Because GenoCorp wouldn't let me go," I had no reason to keep it to myself. "No matter what they told you, they didn't remove that chem." I didn't share my suspicion that the drug altered one's persona, not the flesh, and I didn't need the chem anymore to get in and out, no matter which body I chose. "If they could, they wouldn't have gone to such lengths when Jean-Pierre was executed."

Agent Levyn sighed. "Their solution did feel a bit sudden." Curiosity flashed in his eyes. "So, what will you do now?"

"I guess that depends on what you will do, agent Levyn." He found me once, he could find me again. If I wanted a body, I had limited choices, and if I didn't want one, the choices didn't get any better.

He grinned like a little boy, and I wondered whether it was the Raspberry Full undermining his usual composure, or he had that bit of playfulness buried deep beneath the armour of protocols and procedures.

"The files you stole from the servers. They were real data and I'm sure you have copies somewhere," he said. "I'd like them back."

"In exchange for?"

"I can have a team here in five minutes, ready to take you alive, so you won't sneak away into the cyber." His smile faded, a smooth exchange for his former serious expression. "Or I could just leave after having a beer."

I arched my eyebrow. "And you wouldn't report me?"

I could taste the bitterness in Otto Levyn's grimace. "Me and you had a deal, and GenoCorp decided to screw us both. I have a chance of keeping my end of it, and I will."

I chuckled. "But only if I give you the data we snatched from the servers."

He shrugged apologetically. "Some people won't sleep well until the files are recovered. So, if I said I'd recovered them, they'd rest assured there were no loose ends."

"And if I refuse?" I couldn't help asking, though it was only a prelude to the real negotiations.

"I guess I'll have a lot of explaining to do when the spec-ops arrive to collect your body." He shrugged. "And the hunt will be on."

Otto Levyn wasn't stupid, and he knew I'd manage to kill myself before he restrained me; the resolution neither of us looked forward to, and it was time for my bargain. It could have only been one thing.

"The Robinson-Frett Syndrome cure. Get it for me, or get me to it, and all the dirty governmental secrets are yours," I said.

Otto Levyn laughed. "I was hoping you'd say that. If I had to offer it next, I'd be out of bargaining chips."

He reached into his pocket and tossed over a data chip.

"All the passwords, security data, and emergency access to GenoCorp's servers. If you sync well, you can get in during a routine control."

"Deal. The files location will be sent to you the usual way." I didn't ask where he got it, but the data he gave me had to be real. He wouldn't risk cheating.

"Got used to the code name?" A grin came back to his face. "I'm sure I could offer some extra thrills while you're on edge."

I shook my head. "I might do business with you, but I'm not a rat."

His eyes told me Otto Levyn didn't expect me to agree.

"I better get going." One last sip from the bottle, and then he walked to the door. "Safe gliding."

For a peace guard, he wasn't too bad. I had enough time in the cyber to check his file, and one line stood out highlighted by his shrink. Honest and idealistic. Not the best traits for a nowadays guard who had to dance along the strings of political correctness and weave between interests of various influential parties.

These weren't the best traits for someone like me either, who intended to play cat and mouse with the law and live on the edge of society, but they got me a good deal after all, so I couldn't complain.

And that's why before the door closed behind him I said, "Until our next business arrangement, agent Levyn."
Life in Tatters

Jonathan Shipley

USA

The stink of hot drill lubricant filled the dig site, permeating every breath, even through the protective rad-suits and helmets. Tather leaned back from jackhammering the lode, caught a whiff and grimaced. Part of him thought it was business as usual mining tetratritium on Asteroid-383-something-something-something, but another part was thinking _what the hell?_ The stink was suffocating. No one could work in these conditions -- then his silent earbud sputtered to life and the calming music washed over him again. Tather took a deep breath and relaxed into the familiar rhythm. Yeah sure, bad mining conditions, but that's what he signed on for. And in another day, it wouldn't matter anyway. Tomorrow he would be free. Free from his six-month mining contract and free to return to his home world of Caledonia. It was enough to keep him going through the stink and heat and constant exhaustion that was life as usual in the mine. They could only bring in small auto-machinery at this depth, so harvesting a tetratritium lode was a lot of bio-muscle work.

At last the sonics shrilled. The miners in their heavy suits socketed their powerdiggers and shambled to the upward end of the tunnel. Tather followed into the containment area where a high-pressure spray cut the worst of the stink from their rad-suits. Then into a second chamber where they stripped off suits and helmets and shelved them according to numbers, then queued up for the last detox chamber. Tather waited his turn, then stepped into detox with seven other naked miners. No secrets in detox, as the old joke went. Then his earbud sputtered and went dead, jolting him out of complacency. What he was seeing was no joke. The other miners were old and haggard, and he wasn't sure why. He remembered that most of the original Delta-G crew had been near his age -- kids just out of common school looking to make good money at a shit-hard job while they figured out what to do with their lives.

So, where had those kids gone? Off to other Delta crews, apparently, as personnel was shifted around, but why replace them with these old geezers. Or maybe not so old, he revised. It was the hollowed, sickly look that made them look old. Wait -- was that old man in the corner Bardos? They had been in Sons of Caledonia militia service together. But now he was ancient. How had this happened?

Leaning forward, Thather whispered, "Bardos?" Then again, "Bardos?" The empty look on the man's face never wavered as his head nodded in time to unheard music.

The lights shifted, and the opposite door slid open. Tather watched in growing confusion as the old miners shuffled out into Purgatory. It was what they called the cooler, halfway livable stretch of tunnel that had been turned into living quarters. The active mine was -- well, Hell. Tather didn't know who came up with the names, but they fit like a skin-tight bodysuit. And Heaven was going back home, or wherever. Anywhere but here. But those were old thoughts. What was going through his head were new questions entirely.

The group of them dressed in loose grey bodysuits, each with a numbered badge. They dressed in exact time to an unheard beat, Tather noticed. There was something horrific about that although he couldn't quite put a finger on it. Then they continued down the tunnel to the refectory. Beyond that was the dormitory. The room arrangement reflected the perpetual mirror image of events. They woke, breakfasted, got dosed with rad blocker in the containment area, then out to the mines on the other side. At the end of the work day, it was the opposite -- full detox scrub, supper, then sleep. Nothing else existed, just Hell and Purgatory. It made him very thankful that his contract was almost up . . . again those were old, familiar thoughts.

He forced himself to think back. His plan for this job -- everyone's plan, in fact -was to get in while young and strong with a high-paying, short-term contract, then get out before picking up rad symptoms and on to a brighter colony world like Pomme La Grande. For someone just out of school, it seemed like a good plan. But now, seeing these old men working the mines alongside him, he was thinking the plan was not so good.

Reaching the refectory, he plopped down on a bench with a groan and just sat there a moment, letting his aching muscles relax. Then he ate because the others were eating. And stopped. He recognized the high-nutrient slurry they always ate, but today it tasted like inedible slop. But the others were cleaning their bowls without hesitation. He remembered doing the same, and the questions began flowing again.

Suddenly Tather noticed someone else in the room. Someone in a radiation suit, even this side of detox, and one of the chunky suits not intended for a human body. He tensed. Damn aliens. There were non-homs all around through the corporate asteroid, but usually strictly segregated -- so why wasn't this one staying segregated? The day he had to sit in detox with aliens was . . . beyond disgusting. He shook off the thought and noticed no one else as paying attention to the visitor?

Then the chunky suit came right up to him and started talking. "Your time for a full tox screening, please." The voice sounded flat and toneless through the helmet filters.

What was a full tox screening? He'd never heard of it. "Don't think so. You have the wrong miner." His own voice sounded scratchy with disuse.

"No, all is in order. Tat Hart from Crew Delta-G, yes?"

"It's Tather Hart, not Tat," he snapped back. It felt like a slap in the face because "Tat" was an intimate nickname reserved for friends and family. No one here knew him well enough to call him that -- certainly not some damn freakoid alien.

"Apologies. Come, Tather."

A first name was still presumptuous, but he just shook his head.

Then the alien came closer and said at lower volume. "This is about your earbud implant. Its function has become erratic. We need to correct that."

Wait -- the earbud was an implant, not just a positional device? That was new info and made him wonder when that surgery had happened. He remembered nothing like that. And erratic or not, Tather wasn't sure he wanted his earbud fixed. Something was going on with those damn things. "No thanks."

The stranger came even closer and murmured. "You have questions. I have answers. The music has stopped, and you need to come with me now."

Finally, Tather caught the subtext: the stranger was the one who had silenced the earbud with its mind-numbing music. Whatever was going on, this alien was part of it. Tather gave a nod, rose, and followed the suit to the lift door that usually stayed locked.

But today it was open and suddenly they were elevating. More oddness. You stayed on your level from orientation to contract termination. That's the way things were structured. It felt like only a short-elevated hop, but he felt a difference in pressure and temperature immediately. This level was much nearer the surface. They followed a corridor to a room that seemed to be their destination. While the non-hom was un-suiting, Tather looked around. It looked like a maintenance shop.

"Now we talk," a voice behind him said.

He turned and grimaced at the view of bare lizard. OK, supposedly species with scales weren't technically naked, but he wasn't around non-homs enough for that idea to really settle. And the way he was raised, a naked alien in the room was when you grabbed your gun. But not really a lizard, he noticed as he tried not to stare. Sauroid instead of insectoid or mammalian, but tailless. And everyone knew that saurians ranked themselves on the size of their tails. So, this species wasn't A-list saurian. In bad lighting, the creature might pass as a short, lumpy, greyish human.

Then Tather sucked air, unable to believe he had just thought that. He'd been raised better. Homs vs. non-homs was The Great Divide, one of the core principles in the Sons of Caledonia.

"Please get comfortable, Tather-Hart," the gray thing said in completely understandable Unish with hardly any accent.

Tather tensed, his mind pinging to the famous recruitment poster with a fierce voraciraptor and the words rape, pillage, and destroy. "I'm not taking my clothes off, if that's where this is going," he shot back. This thing was no voraciraptor, but still . . .

And the alien started laughing.

Tather bristled. "What's so funny?"

"The hommy obsession with procreation. I have heard of it, but never encountered it firsthand. But it is of no importance to our conversation. You are in peril, Tather-Hart."

Obviously -- he was trapped alone in a remote room with a naked alien. But Tather held back from saying it. This guy \-- creature, whatever -- would probably just think it was another joke. "What kind of peril?" he asked instead.

"The worst kind -- death. And actual death, not just a reported death this time."

Mining deaths were common -- it was a dangerous job \-- but Tather was sensing something else here. But not exactly a credible source. "Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Forewarned is forearmed and all that. Is that all?"

"You are not understanding," the sauroid hissed. "I walk unseen and see much that is meant to be hidden. The danger is real and very close. A decade of deceit against you is about to terminate. You noticed I was wearing a radiation suit in the refectory?"

"I did. Weird choice in a clean area."

"No longer so clean. Low-level particle seepage contaminates all mining activity areas over the years -- unavoidable. But the lode on your level is nearly mined out, so the protocol in these circumstances is to abandon one level and open another. It is time to abandon Delta Level. To start with fresh crew and fresh tunnels."

"Yeah, the old crew looks -- well, old," Tather nodded. "I'm guessing some of them are showing symptoms of rad poisoning?" It would explain the haggard, sickly look.

"All of them. Also, inevitable over time."

"Oh." _All_ of them? He felt his pulse quicken. "How all is all -- I'm OK, right?" he blurted out. "I mean, I should be OK. I've only been here six months."

"Hmm," the non-hom murmured noncommittally and pulled out a hand device to scan him.

Tather felt growing alarm. "No. Six months. In fact, my contract is about to expire. I should be back on Caledonia by the end of the week."

"Hmm" again. "Probably not."

Tather's mouth went dry. There was only one outcome for advanced tetratritium poisoning. "I'm s-showing symptoms?"

"Minor symptoms only. That's significant. The experimental anti-rad regimen I attempted seems to have combined effectively with a natural high immunity in your DNA. You really should be salvaged for further study."

"Salvaged?" That sounded ugly. When no response came, he upped the volume. " _Salvaged?_ "

A hissing sigh. "The orders have just gone out to flush Crew Delta-G without exception. But I take _exception_ to the _no exception_." He looked over with an expectant smile.

Was that a joke? Was he supposed to laugh when they were talking rad poisoning? And flushing the crew -- Tather had never heard the phrase but could guess well enough. "So, I'm not dying of rad but may be killed anyway? That's crazy. My contract is ending. I'm on my way home. This isn't happening."

Instead of answering, the lizard flipped a switch and the wall over the counter de-opaqued into mirror. Tather stared in dismay. Not a kid just out of school. A man with the hollow look of un-wellness. Old like the rest of the crew. "How long have I been here?" he whispered.

"Almost nine years. The first six months you remember normally, but after that you've been reliving the same day over and over, courtesy of short-term memory blockers in your diet. New day, same day. And the earbud frequency inhibits higher cognitive functions to keep everyone complacent."

"Nine years? Nine? So, I'm" -- he tried to calculate, but his brain was sluggish -- "almost thirty? But I look fifty."

"Yes, much older than you are. However, away from the constant exposure, I believe you can recover your health. That is a most important point to verify. But I am not allowed to pursue it. It is why we must work together."

Tather pulled himself away from the ghost in the mirror. "What?"

"We must work together to salvage you."

"How? Wait -- who are you, what are you, and why do you even care?"

The lizard executed a courtly bow. "Celip of the Kdwncisfla. It is proper to address me simply as Celip. My kind is unknown to yours, I believe, for we work in the shadows and seldom show ourselves to Outsiders. But we are manipulators of the senses, mainly visual. Artists you might call us, working on an array of canvases. I am a flesh sculptor, which skill brought me to this asteroid. An adaptation of hom flesh was wanted to increase resistance to radiation exposure."

"Then why the hell a sculptor? Why not a geneticist or a bio-med researcher."

"Ah, a fine question. A flesh sculptor must be learned in the fields you mention to sculpt properly, but at heart he is a tinkerer in dramatic effects, neither doctor nor scientist. So, when the cursed _fsij_ running the asteroid sought a way to increase the lifespan of expendable miners, they came to a tinkerer, not a doctor who might try actually to save lives. Is that clearer?"

"But you're trying to save _my_ life," Tather pointed out. "How is that so different?"

Celip sighed. "I did not see these _fsij_ for what they were at the beginning. But now I have walked in the shadows and listened to their unguarded words and refuse to work for them any longer. They are vandals with no appreciation for my art. But you, Tather Hart, are a monument to my successful tinkering -- a finished piece of anti-radiation flesh sculpture. I would not see you destroyed with all the less successful attempts."

"So, this is nothing about saving innocent lives?"

"It's about successful art," Celip nodded. "About you."

A freakoid alien with a personal interest in him. As weird and uncomfortable as that was, Tather could get on board with someone saving his life . . . for whatever reason. This was moving much too fast, but they were talking murder here. And if he had any doubts that this place was lethal, he had only to look at the mirror. "So, what do we do?"

"You hide in this workroom while I return to Delta Level to make sure Tather Hart is officially flushed with the others. To have a life, it is imperative that you stop living." And Celip paused with another of those expectant smiles.

"Yes, very Old-World Zen," Tather snapped in irritation. "Then what?"

"Then I craft you a new identity, and we relocate."

"To Caledonia?"

Celip gave a startled snort. "By no means. To my lab on the Overdome to finish assessing your modifications. When the experiment concludes, then there will be other options."

Tather gave a dissatisfied grimace. Being a lab rat \-- not that appealing. And the asteroid's orbiting Overdome -- not appealing at all. That was where all the freakoid aliens lived. Then he thought of Bardos half-dead from rad poisoning back in the tunnel and soon to be even deader, and suddenly the rest didn't matter. The reason might be crazy, but this crazy alien was saving his life. That was all he needed to know.

Celip waited unheard and unseen in the Delta-G refectory. He was a rock, blending in with the rock wall behind him as miners shuffled randomly by him. At this hour, all should have been abed in the dormitory, but they were restless tonight. It was almost as if these mammals sensed they were dying tonight. Of course, they were close to death anyway. That was a known fact. But now that Celip stood staring at them, he could see specific exposure symptoms in far greater degree than in Tather. It made him skittish that he was sharing their contaminated environment without a rad suit, but that was unavoidable. He needed the full talent of his scales tonight.

Fortunately, he had earlier developed an inoculation to boost his personal short-term immunity -- a practical priority for the nature of this employment. Unfortunately, the infusion had never been tested, and already he was sensing oddities in his metabolism. A slight dizziness, difficulty focusing -- almost a drunk feeling at a time when he could afford no imprecision. He needed to take everything more slowly than planned, which put him on riskier timetable than strictly comfortable. He did not like staring the Wan Iguana in the face, not even for a brief hour. This was not how he operated, not how any of his kind operated. His kindred were long-lived because they were careful with themselves. In olden days, they had taken great risks and brought down Wrath on their tails. Yes, once they had been a tailed species. Mutating, hiding, avoiding offence were far better options than dancing with the Wan Iguana again.

His impatient eye caught on the sonic emitter near the ceiling. It was dead. And a suspicious whiff told him that the air quality had degraded since he first stepped into Delta-G. All the support systems were being remotely deactivated. It explained why the miners were restless. With no emitter, their sonic implants would be dead as well. There was no reason to wait for them to settle.

Celip shifted toward the dormitory, hugging the wall to remain invisible. Behind his back where it would not interfere with his skin's camouflage, he held TatherHart's balled up lounge suit. And it was true -- parting a hommy from his clothes was like coming between a voraciraptor and freshly blooded meat. Of course, unscaled and untailed, such silly, soft bodies had little to commend them, and all homs seem to instinctively know that. So, releasing the lounge suit was a statement. Tather-Hart was convinced enough of his own impending murder to stay hidden in the workroom. It was fate's irony that the best hiding place there was an incinerator box.

Indeed, it made one wonder. One tentative sauroid and one reluctant hom against powerful corporate enemies. Celip was stepping far beyond his kind in taking these wild risks. Beyond his kind and beyond ridiculous. Yet here he was, protecting his best flesh sculpture.

Easing into the dormitory, he found the alcove assigned to Tather-Hart and tucked the lounge suit with its embedded ID fibers under the blankets of the cot. Any final scans should register a false positive presence for Tather-Hart and satisfy whatever terminal protocols the corporation --

He froze as the lift _whooshed_ open. Two guards in bulky rad-suits emerged. "Attenssion! Attenssion!" they broadcast in heavily accented Unish. "All miners awake and into the refectory!"

They were too soon -- no he was too slow. His original timetable was compromised, and now he was facing potential hostiles. And it bothered him that he couldn't even identify his opposition. Clever as he was with linguistics, Celip couldn't tie what he heard to any particular species. Filtered through the helmets, the speech could be equally saurian, ophidian, or amphib, though the shape of the suits ruled out ophidian. He knew of four different species employed as guards by the corporation, but these were none of the four. No, the flushings would be a speciality function and require a certain cold-blooded mentality, perhaps even an inherent hostility towards homs. Not knowing who he was facing in a life-and-death situation bothered him immensely.

With much grumbling, the miners assembled in the refectory. "A routine security sweep," one guard told them while the other stood with a scanner in the doorway to the dormitory. "As you passs through to bed, the scanner will register your ID."

A final inventory, but not in the form he was expecting. Celip retreated to the bed alcove and grabbed TatherHart's lounge suit. In the chaos of unhappy miners jostling to pass through the doorway, he whipped the lounge suit from behind his back and half pulled it on. It was not the right shape for his body, but he could get his arms through the sleeves and let the rest fall in front as a loose covering. Tather-Hart was taller and leaner, but standing straight and high and distorting himself heavily, Celip shuffled and jostled with the rest, and made sure the scanner registered the all-important ID as he entered the dormitory again.

Then quick as an ophidian, he ripped off the lounge suit, threw it on the bed, and backed up to blend with the rock wall. At the wall, he kept moving. Ever so slowly to avoid motion trails, he slipped back through the doorway to the refectory. The guards circulated the perimeter of the room, accessing wall hatches, closing some valves and opening others. Accessing the freight lift without detection would be impossible. He would have to wait until they finished and then slip into the lift with them. He could feel his metabolism accelerating at the thought of that much-too-dangerous intimacy.

One of the guards scooped up the door scanner. "All IDss accounted for," he reported, then unexpectedly pulled out a second device and scanned the room again. He gurgled in confusion. "But currently only thirty-nine bio-signs in the dormitory. Yet all forty IDs."

Celip felt a frisson of terror. If they conducted a bio-scan of the refectory, they would find him despite his camouflage. And the refectory was the only option besides the dormitory. What to do -- what to do? He instinct was to freeze and hide, but he needed to do something other.

Forcing himself to think through his growing terror, he realized there was one off-parameter option. As the guards hovered over the scanner, he slipped to the other end of the refectory and levered open the access to the decontamination corridor.

The grinding of metal against metal brought the guards at a fast shuffle to seal the access to the higher rad areas. And while they did, Celip slipped along the wall back toward the lift. And waited.

"Apparently the fortieth bio-sign?" one guard snapped in irritation. "Reporting a rogue miner will not please Topside."

"Limited life span in the mines," the other argued. "He'll die regardless. We should finish here."

Yes, finish, Celip seconded mentally, hardly daring to breathe as the decision was being made. Then at some non-vocal signal, the two guards accessed the lift. Celip slunk into the lift right behind them and plastered himself against the back wall, concentrating on feeling metallic to remain invisible against metal.

The door slid shut. The lift rose half a level and stopped. The door opened on a small ocular in the upper wall of the refectory. In all the years, he had worked with Delta-G Crew, Celip had never noticed this spy window, though it was probably used for regular observations. It underscored how little Celip understood the complexity of operations apart from his bio-projects. And it was a reminder that other races were capable of a clumsy sort of invisibility.

One guard flicked on the scanner and it responded with a cacophony of intermixed pitches. A shudder ran through the wall as boiling irradiated water poured suddenly from recently opened conduits. There were screams. Even through solid rock, there were screams. From his perch at the back, he could see almost nothing through the ocular and found he was thankful for that. He could hear pitches dropping out of the scanner's mix, and he understood what that meant. The presence of the Wan Iguana was like cold breath on the back of his neck.

He had expected to come and go on his mission and feel nothing. But the screams made that impossible. The thirty-nine miners were failed flesh sculptures all and unworthy of his attention, but now he realized that they were still _his_ flesh sculptures. There was an unexpected connection. And this method of elimination was savage, unworthy of the time and effort he had invested in this art form. He paused to get his growing agitation under control before it ruined his concentration. The flushing shouldn't be arousing these emotions in him.

The screams faded. "Thirty-nine life forms terminated," one rad-suited guard told the other. "One presumed still active."

In his corner, Celip bared his teeth in frustration. Not this again.

"Couldn't be anywhere but the mines, so he's dead anyway," the other responded. "Topside can handle it as they choose."

Celip allowed himself a quiet breath of relief. So, no immediate action. Good. But if their supervisor followed up on the bio-scans, they might or might not hunt down a missing body in the mines. Damage was already done. Too much-unwanted interest was attaching to this flushing. Getting off the asteroid immediately was now the priority, without regard for elegance or subtlety. Their exit needed to be raw and immediate.

The lift moved upward. Delta Level G would now and forever serve as a storage bin for the contaminated water and lubricant that the mining operation generated.

Celip rode unseen with the guards all the way to the surface complex, then when they shuffled off to their quarters, rode back down to the Maintenance Level. He raced to the down the corridor to the workroom. Inside, the little incinerator box now looked strangely sinister to his eye. He scampered over and flung open the slightly ajar door.

Squeezed inside like a Rovi contortionist, Tather-Hart jerked awake. Constant fatigue was a symptom of tetratritium exposure. "We good?" he asked groggily.

_"We_ are good, yes," Celip confirmed, showing teeth because that was his mood of the moment. "The others, not so much. Now get out, get up, we are pressed for time." He impatiently watched Tather-Hart unfold himself from the box into full standing position. The pale body was completely at odds with the look they needed with no time to seek other clothing. But this was a maintenance workroom -- there were options. He reached for utility bags. Then, "Hand and hand," and strapped a bag over each hand, fastening it at the wrist. "And head," he said, holding up the third bag. "Take a deep breath. Think detox."

TatherHart gave him a frown but did as ordered, and Celip pulled the bag around his head to fasten it at the neck. Then he pushed his bagged creature to the painting stall and activated the spray nozzles. The colour was a nondescript grey-brown, an unattractive colour to deflect attention. The mist of paint cleared. "Done," he announced. "Move."

Tather ripped at the suffocating head covering with clumsy, bagged hands. He got it off and took several deep breaths. "Are you crazy?" he snapped. "I nearly passed out --" Then he noticed his skin colour had changed to grey-brown. Paint, not a detox shower. "What is this?" he demanded and tore at the wrist bags with his teeth. "And give me my damn clothes back."

"TatherHart is dead in the flushing chamber," Celip said. "You are now my drone assistant."

Tather recoiled. "I'm not pretending to be subhuman!"

"Then you will die."

OK, that put a different slant on things, but a drone disguise was still hard to swallow. The line between human and subhuman was like human and alien -- not a boundary to mess with. "But I'll never pass," Tather argued. "Anyone can spot that a normative is not a dumb drone."

"Only if one chooses to look. Drones walk unnoticed to most eyes and raise few questions." Celip suddenly grabbed a small nozzle and sprayed a plastic sheen onto Tather's unpainted face. "Better." He seemed antsy.

"But drone assistants can't just suddenly appear on a closed-system world." Tather was arguing with less and less conviction.

"Today they do. If you want to live, we should go."

Tather had no comeback to that. But this was insane \-- he'd never pass. He activated the wall mirror to confirm, and ending up staring in disbelief. His painted skin did give the impression of a tight unitard, even though it obviously wasn't if you actually looked, and the sheen made his cheeks look more fleshoid than fully developed flesh. Both were hallmarks of the cheap drones that were mass cloned for mindless drudge work . . . Like loading tetratritium boxes onto cargo shuttles. You'd think they'd also be used for the actual mining, but no, drones had almost no immunity to rad poisoning and dropped like flies in the mines. "Well, maybe," he finally admitted. "But . . . crotch?" Cheap drones were all sexless.

"Nothing to do about that now," Celip snapped nervously. "Just walk fast and hold the trit box in front of you as cover." He pointed to the other counter where a gunmetal-grey box of about the right dimensions sat. But it was just painted, not even actual metal.

Tather walked over and hefted the fake box. No problem at all carrying this. Nothing like real trit, which was so dense it took three miners to drag a box of it onto the lift.

Celip led the way to the cargo lift and took them to the surface. "Last shuttle on the right is still being loaded by drones. Look straight ahead and say nothing." He backed against the nearest wall and shimmered to nothing.

"Wha--?"

"I'm blending." Celip's voice whispered out of thin air. "Specifically, I'm blending with the colour of metal walls. Now move. I will meet you at the shuttle."

It was a shock, but a good shock. Tather didn't know if it was invisibility or shape-shifting or what, but at this point he'd take help in any form. To make it across the loading dock, he needed to believe this crazy masquerade was working.

The shuttle auto-docked in the Overdome hangar. As soon as the pressure stabilized, and the door released, Tather slipped out quickly, carrying the fake trit box as though unloading it from the shuttle. There was so much wrong with this picture, but at the moment, only drones were in sight, and none of them glanced at him. After a long walk alone across the hangar, Tather saw Celip shimmer into sight near the exit door and hurried to join him.

"Don't rush," Celip hissed. "Drones are steady and unmotivated."

Tather slowed and followed him from the hangar at a more sedate pace. They went directly to a gray-walled lab. It had no scent, he noticed immediately. No mining stench, but also no human scent. It was completely alien.

Celip secured the door, then pointed to an operating table. "First a better disguise," he said. "Low-grade surface drones are not deployed up here, so the appearance needs to be upgraded."

"In somebody's med lab?" Tather asked, taking in the range of unrecognisable equipment as he crossed to the operating table and hoisted himself onto it. The metal felt cold against his painted flesh. "What happens if the medico returns?"

"It is _my_ flesh sculpting studio," Celip shot back a little huffily. "There will be no interruptions. While you lie sedated, you shall be in the hands of an expert." He brandished a syringe.

That wasn't reassuring. The whole idea of sleeping when people were trying to kill him was --

"Ouch!" Tather glared at the unannounced injection to his thigh but lost focus as the room began to spin. He managed to lower himself onto the cold surface of the table before he fell over.

"Excellent," he heard Celip murmur in self-gratulatory tones, but then sight and sound faded out.

Tather's eyelids fluttered a moment, and suddenly he was fully awake. He took a deep breath, stretched his fingers. He felt amazingly good. After a moment, he realised it was the complete absence of all those low-grade aches and pains that had nagged him forever. Across the room, he saw Celip hovering over a scanner with a handful of tubed samples. Probably _my_ samples, Tather thought. _I should count my fingers and toes_. But he felt too good, too rested, for sour thoughts to take root.

"Wow," he said, pushing up from the table into a sitting position. "I don't know what you did, but I feel great."

Celip scurried over, head cocked as he studied Tather from this angle, then from that. "Not bad at all," he murmured to himself, then louder, "Part of the rejuvenation effect is an internal detox on your organs, part is a high-nutrient feed, and part is your sleep-deprived body getting three weeks of uninterrupted rest . . . "

"Say --what?"

". . . All in all, you are much healthier than you have been in years. Do you notice any other changes?"

Tather was still processing the three weeks of sleep, but shifted over to a self-inventory and immediately noticed something odd in his right eye. "This eye is different," he said, pointing. The colours are way off."

"Good," Celip nodded. "And when you look at me?"

Tather looked, closing one eye, then the other, and frowned. "With the funny eye, you sparkle a little around the edges. But not much."

"Excellent. I adjusted the spectrum of vision in that eye to see tetratritium emanations. A little sparkling means someone carries low-level residue from being on the asteroid. Clever, yes?"

"Why would you do that?" Tather grumbled. "Now I'm probably going to get headaches from having my eyes out of synch. And frankly, tetratritium is about the last thing I want to see."

Celip sighed. "It's survival, Tather-Hart. Personnel move from surface to Overdome regularly, and there may be those from below who could recognize you as a miner."

"Who? The team was hardly ever in contact with anyone."

Celip gave a funny little chirp that seemed to mean something intense on his emotional scale. "The guards who did the flushing. The death squads. Those above all might be looking for an escaped miner. And as I could not tell their race, they could be anywhere. But be aware that you carry a low-level residue as well. Until that fades, spotting an unfriend from the asteroid will be an ongoing necessity "

Tather waffled on how much to believe. He wasn't sure anyone would care that much about one runaway miner . . . On the other hand, if there were death squads murdering whole crews . . .. "OK, that might be useful for a while," he conceded and pulled himself around to face the wall. "So, what do I look like?" As the wall mirror came on, he saw he now had two vibrantly blue eyes, but the right one was a different hue from the left. A bit of a shock, but he had to admit the mismatched eyes made him look more artificial. As he kept looking, he saw that his grey-brown body was no longer skin paint, but a close-weave utilitarian fabric that hugged his form almost like paint. The skin gloss on his cheeks had been cleaned off and the hollow, haggard look was gone. He might not be his seventeen-year-old self, but a healthy-looking twenty-something was a big improvement over three weeks ago. But damn -- he kept staring at this and that in the mirror -- damn if he didn't look exactly like a high-end drone. Even his dirty blonde hair, clipped short to accommodate a mining helmet, looked clone-like in context. Or had that colour also been changed? Now he wasn't sure.

"OK, you got the look right," he finally admitted, and Celip beamed. Then he turned his head to one side and noticed a random blot on his cheek. Well, not a random blot, more like a -- "You branded me!" Tather exploded.

"Yes -- heart, Hart," Celip nodded. "Clever, yes? Moreover, a valid clone batch mark that will stand scrutiny. Most convincing. It is the smallest details that show the touch of a master."

Tather forced himself to stay silent when he felt like swearing. OK, a convincing batch mark _might_ be an advantage in the short term, he told himself as he glared at the little heart on his cheek. Obviously, he wanted his normal eyes back and the batch mark was gone, but he could tolerate it for now while he was stuck on the Overdome.

"Even the unitard is the finest quality," Celip added, "for quality is key to this deception. A cheap drone might be grabbed and end up anywhere, but a quality product implies an owner of rank who cares about good service. Therefore, safety in quality. It buys us time to complete the research."

Tather nodded. "Then a ship home to Caledonia?"

Celip frowned. "Probably an unsafe destination for someone supposed to be dead."

"Pomme La Grande, then?"

"Less conspicuous, certainly, because of a dense population, but still awkwardly close. But this is a discussion for later. You cannot pass the routine boarding scan until the tetratritium residue on your body fades."

"And how long will that take?"

"A few months, perhaps, if all goes smoothly."

Tather sighed. He understood this whatever-research was part of the deal that had saved his life, but he didn't actually care much about it. He just wanted to get home as soon as possible. He doubted Caledonia was really that unsafe, and he needed to get the warning out about these lethal mining contracts. Of course, being officially dead was a complication. Maybe he could use his time on the Overdome to figure out how to come back from the dead without creating a stir.

He glanced away from the mirror wall, then suddenly back to catch himself off guard. At first glance, there was, nothing to arouse suspicion and that was good. But as he inspected more closely staring for undrone-like details, he still saw nothing and that was less good. A human will always look human, to quote a Sons of Caledonia slogan. So, if he currently looked like a drone, where did that place him by Sons of C standards? Of course, Caledonia was an organic world that had a human/non-human/subhuman view of the world. And here Tather was, cosying up to a lizard, passing as a drone. He was already so far off center by Sons of C standards that it might be smart to rethink going back there.

He just hoped this drone thing didn't come back to bite him, which it easily could. If anything happened to the only flesh sculptor he knew, for instance, who would restore his appearance? Looking convincing as a subhuman for a month or two was one thing, but for the rest of his life? -- not exactly his dream. More like a nightmare.

_Damn ironic_ , Tather thought as he marched stiffly through the concourse, back ramrod-straight, eyes straight ahead and staring at nothing. As long as he acted like a drone and looked like a drone, he could -- thankfully -- move freely around the Overdome, even though he was a fugitive. Being cooped up in the lab all the time would have driven him stark raving loony. In contrast, Celip, who had a perfectly legit job and every right to be here, skulked in his studio and tried not to be seen. But ironic or not, it was all working. A month had passed and so far, so good \-- at least with his disguise.

As for the research, he had no idea. Celip jabbed at him regularly and took fluid samples and occasionally injected him with some gut-wrenching experimental serum. And scans -- lots of scans on every conceivable frequency. But Tather didn't know how far along the research actually was, mainly because he had stopped asking. The Gray Guy tended to get excited about that topic and would start babbling -- and Tather would stop understanding. So, might as well not go there. Plus, he suspected the two of them would have a huge moral rift if they ever talked in depth. Call him stupid, but Tather's idea of rad immunity research centred on keeping people alive. Celip's version was all about documenting a unique and successful flesh sculpture, and the rest of the miners be damned. Or so it seemed. Frankly, it was hard to tell sometimes because Celip's mind was... well, alien.

A sparkle appeared on the edge of his vision. Alerted, Tather turned aside as more surface guards emerged from the main lift. But he slowed to get a good look before heading down a side passage. No, these were the bulky-bodied, long-necked species that he saw a lot of. Not the other guard species -- the mystery death squads. He was supposed to watch for those not only to avoid them, but also to identify them. For some reason, it bothered Celip enormously not to know the species, but that was just one of those weird Celip things. Tather, on the other hand, was fine never running into them, which seemed the best approach to death squads of any sort.

He suspected there was history at play. The whole thing about Celip trying to stay invisible and wanting to know every species in the neighbourhood pointed toward long-standing racial blood-feuds. That was different from anything he'd expected. Sons of Caledonia had taught that it was humans against all aliens together that were coming to destroy them. Except it wasn't all aliens together if there were feuds going on. And here on the Overdome, homs seemed to be peacefully living elbow to elbow with aliens. That didn't follow teachings either. The simple, comfortable Caledonian view of things wasn't all that accurate, it turned out.

He gave a long sigh, then quickly aborted because heartfelt sighs were un-drone-like. But he missed Caledonia and home. He was tired of the dead, plasteel feel of the Overdome with all its complications and hidden dangers. He had yet to figure out its corporate structure. With the mix of species, there were tetratritium buyers who came and went, mid-level management who seemed to be random species, and in a wing to themselves, the big bosses . . . The ones who ordered the miners flushed.

That part was right in line with Sons of C dogma -- aliens coming to rape, pillage, and destroy. And the destroy part was happening right below on the asteroid. None of that was new information, but Tather found he was reacting differently to the info than last week. Now he was feeling angry about the sheer cruelty of a system that routinely murdered humans. Surprisingly, the growing anger pleased Celip as an indication of returning emotional health. But now it was motivating Tather to do something.

He turned down a cross passage and reclaimed his original direction toward the kitchens. Food preparation was automated, of course, but food delivery for those with rank was by drone. He saw that as an opportunity. There were lots of drones all over the Overdome, all Terran products forming a general underclass to serve both homs and non-homs. Drones serving non-homs -- that would be a kick in the pants for the Sons of C. They believed mankind was threatened in two directions -- from vicious non-homs out to rape, pillage, and destroy human culture, and from artificial lifeforms in the image of Man that would one day try to supplant their creators. Well, the last was nonsense, he now knew. Drones could process data and follow orders, but lacked anything like focus or imagination. They conversed only in the most factual way, transmitting data to each other but never really connecting. And when they ran out of orders, they were pretty much helpless. A group that couldn't function independently was unlikely to supplant anyone.

As for the non-homs, they couldn't be painted all with the same brush. Maybe voraciraptors were out to rape, pillage, and destroy, since they were huge, violent lizards, but a bio-artist like Celip was obsessed with his work and only with his work. Absolutely no rape, pillage, or destroy in the Gray Guy at all. So very messy to categorize.

At mid-cycle, he stepped into the kitchen area and shot a glance at the delivery schedule on the wall. His pulse quickened. He'd worked this routine with the Vice-Director of Marketing and Recruitment two days ago, swooping into the kitchen to commandeer the delivery of dinner. He'd discovered that the Vice-Director was human and couldn't tell a drone from the real deal. And he had a comlink to the outside, though like most Overdome communication, it was filtered through a security bypass.

But today's schedule showed bigger game. The Director-in-Chief of the entire operation had a standing three o'clock snack delivered to his office, but today it was bumped to 15:15. That was an opportunity. Tather could think of only one reason why this all-important snack would be delayed -- a meeting, whether in his office or somewhere else. That meant a 50% chance of an empty office likely had a direct comlink with no security filter. His eye went to the counter with its row of prepared trays of bright metal under discreetly opaqued lids. _So, no one will see the dead babies that aliens like to snack on_ , he thought to himself with a snort. Then reined himself in. Drones didn't snort. He stepped forward.

"Service for the director," Tather announced in a monotone to the other drones as he crossed to the counter. The third tray in line was labelled "Dir-in-C." He picked it up, holding himself very straight because the other drones were watching him, and he always worried that they might be able to spot a non-drone. He had the drone voice down perfect, he thought. The stiff-back wooden walk he had to concentrate on because it felt so unnatural. But no one challenged him as he lifted the tray high in one hand, waiter-style, and exited the kitchens.

A quick hop in the service lift brought him to office at the top of the dome. At the door, he took a breath and ordered his thoughts. What did he want -- quick com access to shoot a warning back to Caledonia about the murders? But other, darker thoughts were mingled in and he felt a surge of anger. Alone with the Director. The chance to make him pay. Then he shook his head. Idiot thoughts. He'd never get away with it for a million reasons. The chief of the Overdome was probably a ten-foot, armour-scaled alien anyway.

He stepped forward and doorway irised open to admit him. "Service for the director," Tather announced in his best monotone.

The staffer in the outer office, a blue alien with huge eyes, stared back impassively. "Not correct time," it wheezed.

"Service for the director," Tather repeated and headed for the inner doorway. The staffer shrugged and went back to other matters. The great power in posing as a mindless idiot was that no one bothered to argue with you.

He let the door close behind him, then allowed himself a very un-dronelike grin. This was a small triumph. He took quick stock of the empty office. High-end and plush with seating appropriate for both homs and non-homs. The wall behind the desk was stepped with a series of shelves, each holding a jagged shard of fulgurite. He gave the collection a sour stare. Frozen lightning was expensive and useless, exactly what he'd expect from some alien with too much time and money.

His eyes wandered to the side wall where a huge 3D poster dominated, and he gave a start. _Coming to rape, pillage, and destroy_ , it was captioned under a threatening image of a voraciraptor. Tather knew the poster well -- there'd been a copy at Sons of C platoon headquarters. It was a famous call to action of the Expansionist Party. So why was it here? His brain came up with irony and pretty bitter irony. A raptor behind the boss's desk, looking at an anti-hom propaganda poster and laughing while giving orders to flush hom miners. He felt a surge of something stronger than irony and quickly moved to the com terminal before he got too angry to finish his job.

He checked the preset links and nodded. One to Caledonia along with a dozen other hom colonies. And a quick blast-message looked to be independent of any security protocols. He took a minute to compose five seconds of a message, then opened the channel:

"Beware mining contracts with Asteroid 384. Miners are being worked to death in a toxic environm--."

A beep signalled the end of five seconds. Not great, he realized after the fact. He had automatically used his wooden drone voice, which wasn't the effect he wanted. He should try again. Then he noticed the log specs. This channel connected directly to Sons of Caledonia headquarters, which ought to be good . . . But wasn't. The last three blast- messages were all calls to send more "dumb fodder" for the mines. Yes, actually "dumb fodder" . . . To the Sons of C leadership. And an earlier one asking for more manpower for the special squads -- the death squads were Caledonians? Confusion slithered up from his gut like a dark snake.

The door _whooshed_ open and closed. "What are doing here! Who sent you!"

Tather blinked at the enraged hom standing inside the doorway.

The man crossed the room to land a slap in Tather's face. "Speak! Who sent you?" Slap. "Why are you in my office?"

Tather backed up in confusion. The Director-in-Chief was human? Human with a Sons of C Honor Badge on his lapel. But the miners . . . The flushings. Panic gave way to growing rage. The big boss sending miners to their deaths was as human as his victims! His back collided with the wall of fulgurite shards. Inside him, something snapped, and he saw red. Of its own accord, his hand fastened on the nearest shard, and he charged.

"Murderer!" He plunged the fulgurite in the man's chest.

It was a quick, bloody death. Then Tather stood back in horror, the shard dropping from numb fingers. What had he done! The bastard deserved it, but --

He had just murdered a fellow human. A _rich_ human. His future had just imploded.

Tather took a deep breath and tried to stop shaking. He turned his head from the bloody corpse on the floor and found himself looking at the familiar raptor. _Rape, pillage, and destroy._ A thread of memory trickled into his brain, and for a second he was back at training camp with the Sons of C, learning combat tactics:

"The most fearsome enemy is the voraciraptor," the platoon leader had said. "They have size, strength, claws, teeth, and a wicked tail. Unless you have a bazooka on your shoulder, run. Typically, they eviscerate an adversary, ripping out the heart and liver as trophies . . . Or lunch, or whatever. So, if you see a corpse ripped open with its organs gone, you know what you're facing. And again, run."

Tather took a ragged breath. Maybe he could salvage this. He could point the murder toward someone else -- something else. His eyes were still on the poster.

It felt desperate but possible. Using the shard, Tather opened up the director's chest cavity and cut out his heart and liver. The organs were still very warm to the touch, and with one in each hand, he wondered what to do next. His eye fell on the covered brunch on the desk. Stepping closer, he knocked the cover off with an elbow, and shoved the two organs among the salad and cold cuts. Then he replaced and sealed the cover.

The corpse on the floor was a bloody mess . . . But that was good. Very raptor-like. Tather looked down at his hands, which were equally bloody, and retreated to the sonic cleaner in the corner. His hands would clean, the fulgurite would clean, the tray would clean. And his utilitarian unitard was apparently stain proof, appropriate enough for a high-end drone suit.

He took a long moment of cleaning and recleaning to make sure the blood was gone, then turned off the sonics. He replaced the fulgurite on its shelf and stepped back to pick up the covered tray from the desk. The first attempt, his hands were shaking so badly it was a mad clatter of dishes. He took a breath, forced himself to calm down, and tried to reclaim the wooden mannerism of a drone. He stood very straight, slapped on an unseeing stare, and picked up the tray in one hand to walk stiffly from the office.

He made it down the corridor and across the concourse without drawing any attention. But by the time he reached Celip's studio, his knees were going wobbly. He hurried inside and gasped, "We're screwed!"

Celip looked up from his equipment with a hiss, then scampered over and rescued the tray just as Tather's knees gave out and he sank to the floor. "What has happened?" Celip demanded.

"The tray," Tather mumbled unsteadily and sank his head into his hands. He heard the lid come off and Celip's long exhalation.

"Tell me this is just an inept attempt at a lunch treat," the saurian said tightly.

"I killed someone," Tather blurted out. "It just happened when he walked in on me."

"Who?"

Tather gave a strangled sob. "The Director-in-Chief. A hom was killing all those miners. I was trying to --"

"Never mind how it happened," Celip snapped and rushed to his desk. "We have to get away now, immediately, before the security lockdown." His digits flew over the screen. "I'm booking passage on a freighter currently in orbit, ordering a cargo sled -- we have almost no luggage, just the research samples . . ."

After a strange moment of silence, Tather looked up to find Celip staring wide-eyed at the tray of bloody organs. "What \-- this looks like -- ?" the saurian rasped.

"I took the organs to make it look like a violent attack by --"

"--raptors!" Celip finished in a squeak.

"Yes, I thought that --" Tather stopped because Celip was babbling in a saurian dialect and wasn't listening. "Wan-iguana-wan-iguana," he seemed to be mumbling.

"Are you OK?" Tather asked in dismay. He'd never seen Celip like this.

"No -- oh please, no," Celip wailed, back in Unish. "Self-has hidden so well for so long, but raptors will come and find him."

"Are there . . .. issues between Celip and raptors?" Tather asked hesitantly. Celip just gave a long wail. Apparently, yes. "I can --" he began, then shook his head. He had no idea what to do next. He shook off the image of hordes of voraciraptors descending on the Overdome to eviscerate both him and Celip. "But no raptors are actually here," he pointed out.

Celip's digits flew across the console again. "Yesss. A contingent of raptors arrived last night for trade negotia --"

The door chimed, sparking a wave of panic. Tather scrambled up, checked the door security. Just the cargo sled. He looked to Celip for direction but saw only a panic-eyed zombie.

Tather stepped around Celip to check the travel details still onscreen. The freighter _Eeejzid --_ he had no idea what language that was, but obviously not Unish. Destination \-- Outer Achez Ambit. That was deep, deep into Saurian Space. His gut rebelled, but his brain accepted there was no other choice.

He'd killed someone important. Tather Hart might be officially dead, but he'd still be hunted as a murderous psycho-drone anywhere in Terran Space. So not that direction. And here on the Overdome, there were sitting ducks for those angry raptors. _Rape, pillage, and destroy_ kept cycling through his brain.

Taking a deep breath, Tather kicked the last of his paralysis and released the door for the cargo sled. "Passage confirmed for one sentient with drone servitor for the freighter _Eeejzid,"_ he told the system.

"Confirmed -- load and board immediately," a monotone came back through the sled. One of his drone co-workers, no doubt. It was only a side thought as he turned to load the equipment. But which equipment? He didn't know and there was no time.

"Celip," he barked abruptly. "Snap out of it or we're leaving all your research behind.

The magic word -- research. Celip blinked off his panic attack and started pointing. "This, this, and this."

By the time they reached the _Eeejzid_ 's shuttle with heavily loaded sled, the access door was already closing, but they ploughed up the ramp and wiggled through. _Safe_ , Tather thought as they strapped in for launch. But still his stomach knotted at the thought of heading deeper into Saurian Space, maybe forever. At least he had the Gray Guy. Like the old saying, misery loved company, and two people running from the same enemies were natural allies. So, stay the course, play the drone, but stay alive.

And stay far, far away from the Sons of C -- those bastards.

Bringing Down the Mast

Floris M. Kleijne

Netherlands

Four Days Ago, Before Dawn

Stepping into Moke's launch, Ferdi hesitated. The moonlight painted an undulating path of light on the calm waters of the Delftse Schie canal. Southward, Rotterdam lay in slumber, its sparse lights reflecting off the low clouds. Even as early as autumn, the electricity shortage had Rotterdammers live in darkness most of the time.

Westward, the remains of the city of Delft sprawled in the dying gloom of night. For a moment, he visualized the offshore windmills this had all started with, out there beyond the fields and the dunes.

He turned around.

"Saladin."

His lover's compact shape shrugged in the cold moonlight. Ferdi could just make out the melancholy smile playing around Sal's mouth, a slight upward curve to those lips he had kissed so often, a shine to Sal's eyes.

"It's not too late, Sal. We can turn back, go home, forget the whole damn thing. Forget Nanoferdi, relinquish my Grand Allocator title. I don't have to..."

Sal pulled his mouth into a crooked smile, and shook his bald head.

"You do."

"Saladin, I..." He closed the distance with one urgent step, and slid his arms around Sal. Sal raised his face and brought his lips towards Ferdi's.

"No, please, no kiss." Tears ran freely down Ferdi's cheeks. "Not a kiss he will... I won't remember later."

Sal pulled back for a moment and gave Ferdi a look of compassion that threatened to rip apart the last remnants of his composure.

"Bullshit."

With the smoky taste of Sal's lips lingering on his own, Ferdi steered the launch in a tight curve, turning back south on the canal, towards Rotterdam. His hitching breath drowned in the roar of the outboard as he sped southward, the bow cutting a white V into the water. Eastwards, the sun burst over the horizon. Wisps of fog played over the fields.

Maybe he was wrong about Moke, maybe their old friendship still counted for something even now. Maybe he would make the journey without incident, see the sun slowly climb into the morning sky, the ruins of Rotterdam take shape in the blue haze. Maybe he would reach the Euromast, and come to an understanding with Moke, and with May.

Yeah, and just maybe Utrecht would rise again from the Glass tomorrow. That was about as likely as Moke not killing him. Ferdi chuckled through his tears. This was no way to spend his final minutes.

His final thoughts.

Maybe... there was another maybe. In just a few minutes, after Sal switches on Nanoferdi. Maybe Sal, sweet, stoic Saladin, would find out if the distributed neural nanonetwork had absorbed enough of his personality to... what? Be a friend? Love?

With his hands firmly on the tiller, he cast a look over his shoulder. Far behind the launch, the old Delft university high-rise reached for the morning sky. Squinting his eyes, he could fool himself into seeing a compact, bald figure on the quay.

Let me hold on to this image, he thought. Sal on the quay, the city of Delft slumbering, and the exuberant, riotous colours of the sunrise. Let this be the last thing I see. Let me hold on to this. Let m--

Twilight

I wake up to a lab drenched in the gloom, the electron microscope against the opposite wall a hulking grey tower, the pristine workbenches lighter rectangles, the inner airlock door a glimmer near the corner. The extinguished fluorescents leave only the feeble daylight seeping through the closed blinds.

But when I went under, all lights were on, weren't they?

And where is Sal?

As I scan the laboratory space for any sign of my engineer lover, an even more pressing question dawns on me. Why did I wake up in the lab at all? The personality recorder is down the hall, separate from the cleanrooms, far from the lab. I went to sleep there with the recording cap on my scalp and Sal by my side, his hand in mine. I can't think of any good reason why Sal would have moved me to the laboratory. We agreed that my presence would probably interfere with Nanoferdi's...

I don't feel a cap on my head.

I don't feel my head.

And when I reach for my head, nothing happens.

I don't have hands.

Involuntarily, I glance down, but while my field of vision obeys my mental command, I feel movement neither of my head nor my eyes.

And though I recognise the glass walls and micromanipulators inside the containment silo, my sight seems blurred, as if through a murky haze. Vertigo assails me, doubling when I realise the sinking feeling doesn't have a stomach to accommodate it.

It dawns on me.

I am Nanoferdi.

Briefly, the realisation blanks my mind. If I had cheeks, I would grin widely. If I had a voice, I would call out to Sal in triumph. If I had a fist, I would pump it in the air.

It doesn't take me long to realise that I can

\--directive: assemble--

have all these things with merely a thought.

With a pins-and-needles sensation of drawing in upon myself, thickening, that stops just shy of actual pain, the murky haze coalesces. My torso, my legs take shape inside the containment silo. Our pre-programmed directive functions flawlessly, filling out my shape, the curve of my slight paunch, the dimples in my knees, my broad hands. In moments, I can see myself, an elongated semi-transparent reflection off the inside of the silo. Proprioception has kicked in and the feeling of having, owning my body returns.

My cheeks pull into that grin. I pump my fist in the air. I shout out to Sal,

"It worked! Sal, we did it!"

But my voice bounces off the glass as if reluctant to breach the silence, and the lab lights remain stubbornly off. And as my vision adjusts to the gloom, I can make out a level of disarray that was unthinkable for Sal and his team. Two stools are toppled over; a cleansuit lies discarded; one of the micromanipulators has been torn off its base. Our lab, our haven of order and cleanliness, science and reason, looks like it has played catch-up with the outside.

Suddenly, getting out of the silo is the most urgent matter in the world.

I glance at the keypad. Above it, a note in Sal's cramped, but neat hand asks me to calculate the square of the date we first met, and input the final five digits. A semi-autonomous subsection of my body gives me the answer, and I input 33849, smiling at Sal's method to ascertain both my mental faculties and my memory as the curved door hisses open.

Stepping out of the silo doesn't turn on the lights. When we refitted the lab, we opted for motion sensors, because these are easier to nanoseal than switches. When I first saw the darkness, I assumed that Sal had simply been gone for more than ten minutes. But the chaos, and the refusal of the lights to snap on, and, I see now, the fact that both the inner and outer airlock doors are open, and...

Joan's body lies between two lab tables, three bullet wounds close together in her sternum; our neural net programmer's eyes stare at the ceiling as if pondering an especially intricate coding problem. But they're dry, and dead. Leaving the lab, I pass through the scarred and ravaged walls of the airlock, but before I can remember what used to be there, I find Han. Our neurologist hangs sprawled over two bloodied chairs. Good thing the transfer was successful, I think, randomly. Kim, who knew almost as much about nanotech as Sal himself, lies halfway into a broom closet.

Sal is nowhere in sight.

I know it should all shock and worry me. But I feel only a sense of purpose, of urgency, the need to find out what has happened. To discover whether our plans are threatened by this new development.

To locate Sal.

I find Sal at the foot of the University high-rise. His body forms an undignified, crumpled heap rising from a puddle of mostly coagulated blood. The side of his face is squashed into the puddle, a single visible eye staring up at me, its distorted socket creating an expression of quiet incomprehension. One hand is under him; the other shows blistered, blackened stumps where his fingers used to be.

Glancing up, I spot the shattered window that puzzled me when I searched our floor.

Mystery solved, I think, and wince.

Carefully, I kneel by the puddle, forcing myself to take in Sal's violated shape. As I approach more closely, the faint smell of decay intensifies, grows almost solid, taste more than a scent. His limbs form jagged shapes; his skull slopes horribly to one side.

This is the first man I loved, I remind myself. I recall late-night walks together, that rare surviving wine bottle we shared; love-making, both rougher and more intimate than with any of the women I had before him. I call up his smell, the feel of his strong, dexterous hands.

Engineer's hands.

What possessed Moke to murder Sal? We knew he would take me out; that was business, or Moke's version of it anyway. But Sal? And not just Sal: the entire team, who spent the decades after the Event secretly keeping the Delft lab up and running, against huge odds. Did Moke hate me that much, that he would sacrifice the rare and valuable resources of a fully operational nanolab to feed his revenge? The wastage stuns me.

I wonder if I should feel more grief.

Four days have passed, I noticed upstairs. Four days lost, days we needed. And even without the timepiece in our lab, the greenish hue to Sal's cold skin would have told me enough. Sal was supposed to activate me--Nanoferdi--directly after my death. With Sal dead, and so much time lost, I have very little faith any longer in our original scheme. It seems laughably naive now anyway. I'll have to take a more direct hand in deposing Moke.

And not just Moke, I suspect.

It's time for a visit with Mr. Mayor.

My feet pound the miles beneath me. The cracked, overgrown tarmac of the Rotterdamseweg becomes a blur of green and dark grey lines. I pass a green and yellow bus, overloaded with hopeful migrants; the six-horse team appears to be standing still as the passengers watch me speed by. Some of them even wave. Half a mile south of Delft, the Schie has widened into a circular lakelet. Bits and pieces of Moke's launch lie scattered around the new body of water. A few hopeful scavengers nose through the detritus. The acrid scent of explosives still smudges on the air.

I see no pieces of myself, and I'm grateful.

This is how far my old self-came on his doomed trip to Moke. I feel only a distant melancholy, and an increased sense of urgency that speeds up my jack-knifing legs. The downed 747 north of Rotterdam echoes the sense that I'm flying. My jeans and shirt flap like loose sails. The wind of my progress screams past my cheekbones, sands my new skin until I fear I'm losing too much of myself.

\--directive: armour--

My bots regroup and tighten my skin; the air resistance decreases. For a moment, I ponder a directive for a more aerodynamic shape. But no. I'm going fast enough now.

And my humanity is dear to me.

The crumbling lines of Rotterdam crawl over the horizon like the rotting teeth in the world's jaw. I thunder in among the ruins, startling a huddle of Rotterdammers roasting god-knows-what over an open fire, breaking apart an improvised soccer game; on through the decrepit remains of one of the proudest cities in the Netherlands, now just a faint shadow of its old self. Rotterdam harbour used to be the greatest of its kind. Very little remains of its former glory.

Except for the Township.

The Township rises black and forbidding from the harbour basin, the towering letters "MSC" jagged and yellowing like the name "Oscar" on the stern. It's only after I've passed the last oil silos that I realize I'm going too fast, that my headlong approach could be misconstrued as an attack. I switch from sprinting to a slow jog, but too late.

First the flash, from the doorway halfway up the Ship's flank; then the dry bang, echoing between the silos; and immediately after the impact in my stomach

\--acute trauma! --intercept--divert--

That spins me on my axis and throws me onto my back. The slug draws an unpleasant, bright-hot trajectory through my belly and chest

\--slow down--cool down--

before coming to a stop behind my right clavicle.

\--break down--

The lead is welcome.

I get to my feet slowly, raising my hands as soon as I no longer need them for balance. My gaze follows the gangway up to the Ship. I'm relieved to recognise the silhouette still aiming her rifle at me: one of the part-time soldiers that perform guard duties for Mister Mayor. I think I remember her name.

"Rami!"

She does not respond, and keeps aiming motionlessly for my chest as I walk towards her with raised hands. She doesn't respond, but neither does she fire again. I hope that means she has seen who I am.

When I'm close enough, she confirms my hope with a shouted:

"You're dead, Grand Allocator!"

Rami's silent shape dogs my heels me through the maze of rusty steel corridors, narrow stairs, container alleys, and echoing open stretches of deck that make up the Township. The smells of rust and oil, and occasional wafts of decay, overwhelm the salty aroma of the harbor. Flickering orange light shines from hundreds of square windows. Towards the bow I hear the screaming of a buzz saw, the pounding of a sledgehammer; on the Township, housing construction never ceases. The people we pass greet Rami, who plods on silently. A few of them do a double-take when they notice me; recognition is usually followed by wide-eyed disbelief.

Rami's welcome hasn't improved much after her first shot. She has recognized me, but my earlier demise seems at least as significant to her. In my previous incarnation, I used to visit the Township--and Mister Mayor--quite often though, and I think that has earned me the benefit of the doubt. When I told her I urgently need to speak with her boss, Rami allowed me onto the Ship. Despite the fact that her first bullet didn't put me down, she keeps her sidearm aimed at the back of my head at close range.

We reach the door into the superstructure. Above us, the steel wall of the smudged white monolith reaches towards the sky for several floors. I can just make out a crooked reflection off the tilted windows of the bridge against the star-strewn background. Rami orders me inside by poking me with her gun. I ascend the endless progression of steep stairs, chased by the jingling of the weaponry on her belt.

The familiarity of each step helps to calm the concern that has been tapping like rain on the tent of my life: is everything still there? Am I still there? My memory seems intact, but would I even notice if I've forgotten anything, if part of my personality hasn't survived the transposition?

And I have changed. Rami gunned me down, and I got up again. It feels like my old self is hiding in the corner of my mind and shaking its head, wondering how I can leave that incident behind so easily. Meanwhile I'm letting Rami order me upstairs at gunpoint, as if her weapon is any threat; the back of my head tingles, and the alertness saturating my limbs can only be called fear. The paradox makes me feel light-headed--and even that sensation is a personal anachronism. The distributed neural network that houses my mind does not do light-headed.

When we enter the bridge, the voice that greets me carries a bittersweet intimacy.

"Ferdi?"

My old lover gets up from the oversized leather office chair behind the dead control panel. She clambers onto the panel and walks towards me with short, decisive steps.

Mister Mayor hasn't changed much in all the years I've known her. Her top hat has suffered somewhat from age and salt, but her unique fashion sense is still evident in the flamboyant Bermuda--to her, wide trousers--and the pitch-black top with the white stripe and the barely legible word 'Speedo'.

I walk towards her, arms open in feigned eagerness, and we meet at the near end of the control panel. She answers my widespread arms with her own. I barely notice the armed figures watching from the corners of the bridge before I pull her to my chest. Her arms fold around my sides; mine wrap themselves completely around her. The grey-black hat tumbles backwards and bounces off the panel; I smell the salty, fresh, animal scent of her wild, kinky hair.

"May..." Rami starts.

May ignores her and speaks into my chest.

"I thought you were dead, you son of a bitch."

I keep her pressed against me, but something in her tone enhances the suspicion lurking in the back of my head. I know her too well, we've talked too much; every nuance of her idiom is familiar to me. I draw my first mental tally mark.

Grabbing her apple-sized shoulders, I hold her at arm's length. With all the affection I can fabricate, I look deep into her steel-grey eyes.

"Happy to see you too, May."

Before she presses her lips to mine, her radiant smile is briefly visible, too briefly to see if it reaches her eyes. I press her closer to me and answer her kiss with appropriate enthusiasm. My sympathic memory seems intact: a multitude of carnal memories bubble to the surface.

Then she presses a cold, hard shape against the anatomical location of my ribs. I hear the unmistakable metal click of a safety. I barely have the time for the directive we have prepared for just such an occasion

\--directive: cork--

before she breaks our kiss and whispers into my ear:

"Me too, Ferdi."

"You are dead."

We're standing in an impetuous, chilly wind, dizzyingly high above the deck of the Township, even higher above the water of the basin. With curt gestures, her gun aimed at my sternum, May has directed me onto the starboard external bridge extension. The railing is behind me, access to the bridge far behind May.

I shrug.

"Obviously not."

May shakes her head, but the barrel of her pistol remains aimed, motionlessly, on my chest.

"You boarded. The launch took off. It exploded. You're dead, Ferdi."

"So, you were there." A frown flashes over her countenance before she folds her poker face back into place. I add a vertical line to my mental tally.

"I was too late."

I smile.

"That depends. You were right on time for my purpose."

That statement has the desired effect. May frowns and throws me a sidelong glance, her lips pursed. Then the corners of her mouth lift, and her eyebrows go up.

"A clone?"

I shake my head.

"Growing one would have been too time-consuming. And as far as I know, no one has ever solved the problem of wetware transposition."

"In that case--" Her finger curls around the trigger. "--you now have five seconds to convince me."

"Nine times," I say promptly, although her weapon is no real threat to me. And if I still had lungs, I'd be holding my breath.

"What do you mean, ni--oh." With satisfaction, I watch as the blush ruins her cool pose. Bragging about our sexual escapades is no more in her character than it is in mine. And she still remembers how many in a row--though I've never confessed to her that I had to fake the final three. "Okay. It's you." She lowers her gun, and the worst of the tension dissipates from her limbs. "Tell me."

"Let's say... a backup."

It had taken very little effort to make enemies after I had been elected Grand Allocator. The energy shortage is simply too urgent, the interests too great; despite having elected me, not everyone wanted to submit to my vision. I knew Moke's monopoly on the last oil reserves had to end, and would end once we got the windmills up and running. "I promised the people an end to the energy shortage, and that's what I planned to deliver--"

"But you didn't tell them when, Ferdi."

"Soon. My plan requires preparation, research, engineering. But it can be done, May."

My feeble Grand Allocator predecessors had occupied themselves with the redistribution of the meagre leftovers, within limits set by Moke. I thought--and think--bigger. An end to our dependence on the dwindling reserves; and an end to the power of the Mast, to Moke's monopoly on the remaining oil.

"How? With a handful of ancient windmills?"

"Something like that," I say, and smile.

Two Years Ago

Splashing and foaming, the dilapidated dinghy pushed its way through the surf. Salt water stung Ferdi's lips; his eyes blinked. The rusty outboard roared, stalled, started; thick blue smoke wafted behind them. As he pointed to the horizon, he held on to the orange rubber gunwale with the other hand.

"A bit more northerly, Kim."

Kim corrected their course, and the dinghy began bouncing off the endless rows of waves, its engine growling in the rhythm of the breakers.

"Fog."

Ferdi glanced at Saladin next to him and nodded, smiling. His engineer would never use two words if one sufficed; he preferred to speak in diagrams, tools, gestures.

"I think the field is behind that bank."

Sal nodded, and Kim opened the throttle. The fog bank grew, and grey-white wisps flashed by left and right. Soon enough, there were less than thirty feet of visibility in any direction.

Ferdi's stomach tightened, and his scalp tingled. Next to him, even Sal seemed impressed. This was the moment. This was what they had been working towards for years; this was why they had illegally taken a tank of gas from the dwindling emergency store. As Grand Allocator, Ferdi formally had full authority over the gasoline; the unwritten rule, however, was that it could be used only in the direst of emergencies.

And no one but he--and Sal--deemed this an emergency.

An enormous vertical silhouette flashed by on their left. Moments later, they skirted a house-sized cylinder on their right. The fog thinned to loosely connected wisps. He caught glimpses he daresn't yet believe.

Then they broke out of the fog bank, and in the full sunlight the wind farm spread out before them. Kim whistled, and he released the throttle. Sal's mouth fell open. The bow sank back into the water; the dinghy rolled and danced.

"How--how many, do you think?"

"Hundreds." Sal's answer ended in an awed treble.

Ferdi sighed.

"You know what this means, right?"

He looked around. Sal took his hand and faced him, his eyes full of affectionate sadness. He drew a finger across his throat.

"Yep."

Evening

I pull myself out of the memory.

"They're hundreds, May. Hundreds, and they are still turning."

Even though the Grand Allocator has absolute authority over the redistribution of available energy, and is appointed for life, it's still only one individual. In the uneasy equilibrium between the Township and the Mast, the Allocator can only act with the approval of both. And considering the disproportionate power of the Mast, the reality has always been that the Allocator only performs piecemeal redistribution of the Mast's resources--and collects the fees.

"You know better than I do how much of the Ship's wealth flows to the Mast." I permit myself a small, ironic smile as I watch May keep her nodding face pointedly neutral. "But do you have any idea what's happening in the Hinterlands? I've been there, May. Hundreds die every winter because they can't keep warm. Their harvests flow to the west in exchange for energy, leaving them all but unable to feed themselves. The Manifest says the Grand Allocator serves the interests of all. Don't make me laugh. For decades, he's served no one but that maniac in the Mast."

I never had any doubt: if I want to make a difference as Grand Allocator, if I want to change the remaining ruins of the world, I need to break the power of the Mast first. But my lifelong appointment had made me a target more than anything, especially after I made public the first hints of my plans.

My mortality was my greatest obstacle.

"So first of all, I needed to die."

May shakes her head.

"Why?"

"Think, May! I need time to realise my plans, a lot of time. Years, decades; maybe more time than I had left anyway. Definitely more time than Moke would give me. I know him too well, May: he believes himself untouchable in his tower, with his gasoline monopoly, and the power that brings. But even Moke can't get away with murdering the Grand Allocator."

"So, to get the people to rise against him, you let him kill you. And yet here you are. How, Ferdi? How?"

I wave away her question, and segue into my lie.

"I expect the Mast doesn't know yet that I'm back, but time is short. Moke needs to know that I'm alive, that I'm still Grand Allocator, and that his time is past. But that's a confrontation that needs to happen fast, before he's had time to replace me with some straw man."

Her brows knit, and when she speaks again, her voice is cold and curt.

"So, what are you doing here?"

There is little doubt left of what her next answer will be. The answer itself doesn't even make much difference anymore; the how will be conclusive. With my affectionate expression still in place, I sigh mentally. I know the price for my plans is high and complex, but it would be so much more... bearable if this wasn't one of the payments.

"I need you, May. I don't know exactly how or when yet, but I need you. That's why I'm here. I have one question for you."

"What?" She sticks to her curt tone, but her voice has softened somewhat; my admission of need has had the desired effect.

"Saladin is dead, May." After a brief, but unmistakable hesitation, she widens her eyes and covers her mouth with her hand. She has always remained jealous, but she did like him. "Sal is dead, and according to our plan, he was the one who would confirm my identity, my continuity, to you, to Moke, to the people. Only if I'm still alive, if I'm still the person I was, am I still Allocator. Without Sal, you are the only person who can confirm my identity.

"Can I count on you?"

She doesn't hesitate. Not at all. Not the minimal pause of surprise about the nature of the question; not the slightly longer silence of flattered contemplation; not the hesitation of a true decision. She swallows the lie about my naive, abandoned plan, and answers instantly.

"Of course, Ferdi. For you: of course."

I add a third line to my mental tally marks. As I receive her energetic hug, my emotions wrestle with the absence of tear ducts.

At the top of the stairs down to the deck, I pause when she calls after me,

"A hint, Ferdi?"

I know what she means. Surreptitiously, I rub my thumb over the inside of the bridge door, and leave a smudge of myself.

"Nano," I call over my shoulder, and leave.

Night

At the foot of the Mast, in the surprisingly clear water of Park Haven, an exotic palace lies sunken in the muddy bottom, the dilapidated residence of a psychotic Poseidon. I swim around the crumbling pavilion rooftops, whose original orange lies mostly hidden under layers of algae, mud, and garbage. The chaos of tables and chairs behind the broken windows tells me of its original purpose, and part of me wants to stay under water, investigate the mystery of this sunken restaurant. But I recognize that desire for wat it is: reluctance to confront Moke.

And the cold is beginning to slow down my components. I need to get out of the water.

I clamber onto the quay that encircles the park at the foot of the mast, finding hand- and footholds in crumbling concrete, rusty rebar, holes and slits, and an occasional Gecko directive. Leaning my elbows on the edge, I study my surroundings.

Rusty car wrecks on pulverised tires litter the water's edge, like crenulations on an apocalyptic water fortress. Beyond the cars, the old tarmac is a mess of chunks, cracks, and rampant greenery. Water leaks from my clothes, between my shoulder blades, through my crotch.

Nothing moves.

Swimming across the Nieuwe Maas, I've reconsidered and rejected countless approaches. The simplest still seems the most effective: calmly and openly walk up to the Mast's entrance. It may be that I'm setting too much store by Moke's arrogance and curiosity; maybe that I'm too confident in my own robustness. Perhaps Rami's attempt on my life has made me reckless. But I'm not afraid. I don't believe Moke's people can do me much harm.

The absence of any signs of life worries me, though. Moke used to have at least half a dozen of his goons--or soldiers, if you ask him or them--hanging around the entrance even at this late hour, both as guards and as a show of force.

Their absence smells like a trap. Another tally mark.

Ambush or no, it doesn't change my approach. The chance of Moke having any heavy ordnance is negligible. And by my estimate, I can easily cross the distance fast enough. Once I'm near the Mast, Moke won't risk explosive damage to his tower.

Twelve feet from the glass doors, my error of judgement bites me in the face.

Two goons step out of the double doors. The darkness inside rendered the glass opaque; only now do I make out the upended tables that provide both a hiding place and a defensive barrier inside. I recognise the balding and bearded one. Paul? His partner is unfamiliar. They carry what looks most like fat, ugly rifles, connected with hoses to the double containers on their backs.

The odds are shifting against me.

Firearms don't worry me, nor do any melee weapons. But fire, fire is an issue, I suspect. I haven't yet tested the heat resistance of my new body, but my bots are probably too small to last more than a few seconds.

Flamethrowers. I make my final mental tally mark.

I turn around.

Smoking, stinking, yellow-orange flame, at least fifteen feet long, bars my way left. A second flame crosses it, roaring. Facing me, faces shimmering in the heat of the gasoline fire, two more unfamiliar goons have appeared. Their faces, glistening with sweat in the light of the flames, bear broad, evil grins as they begin to walk towards me.

Shit.

Emergency directive? Before I can even begin to compose one, the heat of the approaching flames becomes unbearable. I step back and turn around as the other two flamethrowers roar into life. A shrinking corridor of stinking fire offers only one escape: in through the doors.

Paul, or whatever his name is, gestures with his head. The message is clear, and ironically welcome. Swaddled in the flickering heat, I cautiously make my way into the entry hall.

The hall has grown to twice its former height since the last time I was here, lit with smoking wall-mounted torches. Next to the double elevator shafts, the ceiling has been broken through to accommodate a treadmill like a giant hamster wheel, its axis penetrating the shaft wall. Five naked, obese figures lie in wait lethargically at the bottom of the wheel. One is snoring; the others climb huffing and puffing to their feet.

I guess Moke doesn't even want to spare the energy to drive his elevators anymore.

Inside, Paul and his goons extinguish their flamethrowers. That answers the question I was pondering, and I smile quietly. Moke may have found an effective weapon against my apparent invulnerability, but hasn't thought through its limitations. Willingly, I let myself be directed into the rightmost elevator. One of the soldiers pulls out a two-pronged baton. Walking towards the treadmill, he brandishes the baton and presses a button, making blue lightning arc between the prongs. Moaning and sighing, the elevator slaves begin to move. He prods the snorer to a jolting awakening.

Paul and a second soldier join me in the elevator, which shudders and creaks into motion as the tube lighting comes to life with a glassy tingling. They watch me from under lowered eyebrows, fingers around the triggers of their flamethrowers, the yellow pilot lights lazily licking the nozzles. This would be a good time for an emergency directive, but I don't want to run the risk of a gasoline fire in this enclosed space. I throw the two a crooked smile and wait until we arrive at the top.

Moke has converted one of the original hotel suites, ninety meters above the plaza, into his office and reception space. When the elevator lurches to a screeching halt, Paul pulls open the sliding doors and gestures me into the foyer. The double doors into Moke's suite stand invitingly open.

As I walk in, Moke jumps to his feet from the faded white leather sofa on the other end of the room. He walks towards me with a broad smile and wide-open arms.

"Grand Allocator!"

The two goons are still behind me, near the door, their eyes on me but their flamethrowers aimed carelessly downwards. All the furniture in the narrow, deep suite is wood, and the old, ratty drapes look plastic. My position is the geometric centre of the triangle with Moke at its apex and the two soldiers spanning the base. I allow myself a small smile. No one will be turning on their flamethrowers in here.

Then I burst into action.

Moke doesn't startle. I run towards him with outstretched arms, my hands clawed, certain that the goons behind me cannot act. They don't.

But Moke holds his position and mirrors my smile.

Something is not right.

Halfway into the suite, a narrow band of reflective blue metal runs up both walls, across the ceiling, even on the floor, a rectangle of metal and plastic circling the suite like a portal. The portal triggers a memory, but before I can get it into focus, I see an identical portal ahead of me.

Moke lifts his hand.

He is holding a small black box.

He presses a button.

An almost subliminal humming commences from left and right and above and below. Behind me, something begins to slide with a scraping sound.

Two more steps and I slam into an invisible wall. My head is pushed to the side as the rest of my body hits the barrier.

Stunned, I shove myself off the invisible wall, which hardly gives under my hands. In a flash I see Moke smile, his head tilted to one side. I turn around and my shoulder hits a second barrier behind me. The first portal has slid along the walls towards me and forces me onwards, towards Moke. I swing my left leg and kick forward with all my strength. My naked foot slams--wait. My naked foot? I'm wearing socks and heavy walking boots. I push ahead once more and this time there is no doubt: my naked foot is blocked by the barrier, while the soles of my sock and shoe pass through.

Suddenly I remember where I've seen those blue bands before.

Our biggest problem in the nanolab had always been containment: how to keep autonomous, almost endlessly versatile nanoscale robots confined to the laboratory. Keeping their converters disabled at least made it impossible for the bots to go through the walls, but we needed to get in and out ourselves. Kim had invented a force field that allowed macro objects to pass, but blocked anything nano-sized.

Apparently, Moke had robbed the laboratory before wrecking it.

The scraping sliding sound continues, and I am pushed forward. Moments later, I am sandwiched between two of Kim's nanobarriers. My attempts to retain some freedom of motion have only resulted in getting stuck with my arms and legs spread-eagled.

I have often compared Moke to a spider in a web. The irony kills me.

"Ferdi!"

Moke halts a few feet from me. When he speaks, his melodious sentences and enthusiastic high notes drip with smug triumph.

"What a surprise. I thought that bomb in your launch would be enough, but as you can see, I was prepared for disappointment."

His laughter reaches only his mouth. I launch a series of silent curses as I explore my options, which are disturbingly few. Everything I am, everything I'm capable of, is nanotech. I don't even carry a macro-scale weapon. I can't even throw a shoe at him, because I can't move enough to take it off. I'm stuck. I'm stuck, and at the mercy of a gangster boss who has hated me for years.

I can at least take advantage of his garrulous mood

\--directive: recording--

but even that feels perfunctory.

"We're not so different, you and I, Ferdinand. You let yourself get blown up, confident that your backup plan would work. And you were right, for here you are. I let you get this far, confident that my countermeasures would work. And I was right: you're trapped." He shakes his head. "When I think of what we might have accomplished by joining forces..."

"How did you know?" I ask, relieved that I can still speak.

His eyes swivel up and left, but I was almost certain he was going to lie anyway.

"How do you think? You were all high and mighty about fair distribution of energy, but meanwhile you ran the biggest, fattest cable to the old nanolab in Delft. It wasn't hard to guess after that. The funny thing is," he says, as he walks back to the white sofa, "that your nanofield is permeable to literally everything but nanoparticles. Everything." He kneels on the sofa and bends over the back. With muffled voice, he continues. "People. Objects. Air. And..." With a broad gesture, he shows me the welding torch he just picked up. He lights its flame and twists the knob until the flame turns an icy blue.

A welding torch. Portable, controllable, and hot enough to destroy.

Moke brings the flame closer and closer to my right hand, squashed immovably between the two nanofields. He focuses the tip of the flame on the base of my pinkie. I can no longer feel pain as such, but the innumerable signals of overheating and loss of units are bad enough. My new body screams for flight while my bots fail by the thousands. The smoke passes through the nanofield, but enough lingers between to irritate my sensors. Much too quickly, he burns through my knuckle and my pinkie tumbles to the ground.

Moke pulls the flame away from me.

"No blood, interesting," he mumbles to himself. "I'm curious, Ferdi. Did you think people would care that I'd killed you? Did you expect them to rise? Storm my tower?" He takes a lateral step to look me in the eye. "Overthrow me?"

With his eyes slightly too wide, his pupils dilated, and that cramped grin stretching his mouth, I'm horrified. Not that he looks like a maniac, but that he doesn't seem so different from the Moke who used to my friend. I'm not sure anymore he's the one who's changed.

But he must have. Because the Moke I used to know would never have tortured Sal to learn about our plans.

"There's been a change of plan, Moke. I'm going to overthrow you personally."

He barks another of his joyless laughs.

"Is that right? Your odds don't look good. For let's face it, Ferdi: despite your nanobot body, and your distributed wireless neural network, and your tricks, you are still... human."

Instantly, my thoughts begin to race. Without thought I let my pinkie reintegrate with my ankle as Moke's words sink in. I'm still human despite all my tricks? He is fucking right. That's how I've acted, that's how I've behaved. Holding on to my human capabilities, running from the lab to the Township; I've even crossed the harbour in breaststroke.

Holding on to my human form.

The same human form that's now stuck between two nanofields.

Perhaps half a second has passed since Moke spoke. I order a subsection to formulate a robust emergency directive, while I study the wall between the two field generators. Almost instantly, I see what I want to see. Another half-second later, the emergency directive is complete. Hardly any time has passed in Moke's perception. His eyebrows lift.

I give him my response

\--directive: loudspeaker--

without moving my lips.

"Not any longer," my bots vibrate the air.

A moment later, my clothes flutter

\--emergency directive: cellophane--

to the floor.

\--cloud dispersion--target: walls--target: ceiling--target: floor--

Moke's technicians have done a sloppy job. At no point around their circumference are the blue metal strips of the field generator flush with the walls. The gap is measured in millimetres here and there, but is sufficient everywhere. I slip through while

\--directive: strip mine--

Enlarging the spaces to pass through even quicker. I keep some of my optical sensors trained on the middle of the suite.

Moke's eyes and mouth gape open now that the man he thought he had captured has dissolved right before his eyes. Droplets of sweat appear on his forehead. His eyes flash left and right before he springs into action. With more courage than I gave him credit for, he runs through the double nanofields.

"Fire!" His amused, mocking tone is gone; there is only panic in his voice now. The two soldiers stand with stunned stares. Moke wrenches the flamethrower from Paul and opens the nozzle wide.

A long, writhing orange flame engulfs the suite. Moke sweeps the fire left and right, and the white sofa and the rest of the furniture ignite. Even the carpeting begins to smoulder.

Meanwhile, I've slid along the walls to end up behind the soldiers. At the doors, I regroup

\--directive: sabotage--

and wait for my countermeasure to take effect.

Moke has withdrawn behind the soldiers, very close to where I'm coalescing into my human form, when the second soldier opens his flamethrower. Tiny flames leak from the nozzle and land on the floor. The puddle of gasoline that my sabotage directive has caused to leak from his tanks, immediately ignites. The low blue flames spread rapidly, encircle his feet, find the path up. He screams when one of his fuel tanks catches flame. Yelling, burning like a torch, he stumbles through the suite and adds his contributions to the countless fires nibbling on the furnishing.

Paul wrestles himself out of his fuel tank's shoulder straps and shoves past Moke, towards the elevators. I let him go.

Roaring, Moke opens his regulator wide, ignoring his still-burning soldier, who stumbles blindly through the inferno. I order my bots

\--directive: diamond--

Back from their sabotage assignment before they disable Moke's flamethrower as well. The burning soldier sags to the floor; his screaming ceases. Only now do I resume my complete, solid form.

And strike out, as hard as I can.

My arm slams into Moke's head at full speed. He flies to one side in a half-cartwheel and loses his grip on the flamethrower. He ends up against the window, bleeding from his left ear. He sees me and scrambles clumsily to his feet.

I kneel to pick up the discarded flamethrower and get up with the nozzle aimed at him.

Behind him, a narrow line crawls slowly over the glass.

"Don't blame yourself too much, Moke. I'm only just beginning to discover the possibilities myself."

"Just do it. What are you waiting for?"

"After you blew me up, Moke, you looked up Sal, didn't you? The only thing Sal ever wanted was to build, to create. Do you know how long I knew Sal, Moke? Do you know how long I've worked with him? How long was he my friend? My lover?" As I speak, I walk towards Moke, and Moke retreats until his back touches the panoramic window. "Taking me out, I can respect. I was a threat to your empire. That was the risk I took. But not the team, and not Sal. You had him tossed out of the window, Moke. He wouldn't hurt a fly, and you threw him to his death."

"Damn right I did! And he screamed, Ferdi! He screamed all the way down, and then he hit the ground with a splat!"

I aim the nozzle up and grab his throat with my other hand.

"Do you think you will scream as well?"

Moke glances behind him.

"You don't scare me, Ferdinand. That's unbreakable glass."

"Not anymore."

I pull Moke towards me and throw him against the window. The glass bursts along the freshly etched groove, and a large semi-circular section topples backwards. For a moment, it seems like Moke is gliding out on a wing of glass; then the window section turns, and he glides off. Moke and window, window and Moke: somersaulting together like a binary system, they grow smaller and smaller, until they smash into the ground at the foot of the Mast in a cloud of shards and blood.

The entry hall lies deserted; apparently my fame has preceded me, carried by the deserted soldier. A few dozen bots make short work of the lock on the treadmill.

"Get out of here."

I don't wait to see if the elevator slaves follow my advice, but walk out. Thirty feet from the entrance, I turn around, point at the Mast, and blow across my fingertip.

\--directive: Von Neumann, self-limiting--

A small cloud of bots rises from my finger and flutters to the foot of the Mast.

\--directive: beaver--

It is time for another visit with Mister Mayor.

Rami lets me in with no questions asked, and walks me to the superstructure. She succeeds remarkably well in hiding her surprise at my naked, sexless appearance. Moke's clothes didn't fit me; it had been easier to strive for decency through a Ken directive.

May approaches me hesitantly, an expression on her face that is hard to parse, of relief, surprise, and fear. Fear of what I'm turning out to be, now that I've returned unscathed from my visit to the Mast? Or...?

The answer isn't really a mystery any longer, but I have to know for sure. I rub my thumb over the same spot on the door, and listen briefly to the recording, before nodding wistfully.

"Ferdi! You're back!" She jumps into my arms and I embrace her reluctantly, like I would a smelly dog. "What happened?"

I shake my head.

"Not here." I cast a pointed look at Rami and the guards. "Let's go upstairs."

She leads me to the bridge. In the distance, across the Nieuwe Maas, the Mast stands. It hardly surprises me that the fire has spread: the tall tower looks like the carelessly planted torch of a giant. Her sudden intake of breath behind me tells me she has seen it too.

"Moke is dead, May. Moke's time is over. The time of the Mast is over."

"That's... that's good, Ferdi. But Moke is just a man. His organisation won't die with him. The Mast is a symbol. A new Moke will rise."

The Mast shivers, strongly enough to be visible even from this distance.

"I don't think so. Look."

It's hard to tell through the flames, but the movement is growing more severe. A little later, the Mast has developed a marked lean. I hope the elevator slaves have escaped in time.

May squeaks.

The burning disc of the Mast's top floor sags to the side, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The flames draw an orange arc against the dawn sky. The Mast topples from sight.

"I'm taking over," I say without looking around. "The Mast was a symbol, as you say. Moke is gone now; the Euromast is gone. I'm taking over."

I turn around.

"I have loved two people, May. You, when I thought you loved me back." She winces. "You, and Sal. But Sal was human, and Moke made the mistake of believing I am still human as well. Moke, and you, May."

\--directive: playback--

The audio is tinny, but clear enough to be understood, and her voice is unmistakable.

"Moke, it's May. He was just here; he's on his way to you now."

The recording falls silent, as if it hasn't caught the other side of the conversation.

"Not, no, but he gave me one word: nano. You were right, it seems. Be careful."

"Ferdi, I--" May raises two imploring hands.

"I knew I had to take Moke into account, May, but you? You too? Have I underestimated your attachment to the status quo that badly?"

May lowers her hands and her mask. Hatred wrinkles her nose; fury frowns her forehead.

"Look around you, Allocator." She barks the title like a curse. "The world is ruined. Take what you can get, that's all there is. Your idealism? We laughed about it, Moke and I." She reaches behind her and pulls her pistol from her belt. With a hint of triumph in her eyes, she aims for my forehead. "Explosive bullets, Ferdi. And somewhere in that nanocloud is a brain. Humanity has no place for idealism anymore."

I scuttle backwards as fast as I can.

May pulls the trigger.

The gun explodes in her hand.

The shockwave shoves me over the control panel. Two windows burst outward in a thousand shards. May is thrown backwards and crashes to the floor, blood gushing from the strips of meat and skin where her hand used to be. Colour drains from her face as I get up. She tries to raise herself on an elbow, but sags back into the growing puddle of her blood. I squat near her head.

"Directive cork, May. I jammed your barrel." I stand back up and step back from the growing puddle. "Maybe you're right. Maybe humanity has no place any longer for idealism."

I give her a final, wry smile.

"But you know what, May? I'm no longer human."
A Particular Skill Set

Julie Frost

USA

Present Day:

"Chambliss! Bunnies!"

Butlering for a modern-day mad scientist certainly had its share of rather frenzied moments, I thought, in hot pursuit of yet another experiment gone badly awry. The rabbit bounced around Alex Jarrett's basement lab like a rabid ping-pong ball, then turned and bared a set of formidable fangs at me. Not intimidated, having seen more frightening things than that before breakfast, I snatched it up by the scruff of the neck. It kicked once as I lifted it from the floor, then went limp, managing to look grouchy about the entire situation.

"There you are, Master Alex." I popped the creature into a cage.

He had captured another beast of the same stripe and disposition, and got himself bitten somewhat severely on the hand in the process. Of course. "Do sit down and try not to bleed on your keyboard this time," I said, divesting him of the bunny and putting it in its cage. Being accident-prone, he had an extensive first aid kit in the lab, in addition to a well-stocked hospital right there in the house. Heaven forbids he leave the property when he'd done something daft and got injured.

"Well, Chambliss," he said with a cheeky grin, dripping on the floor. "I guess I won't do that again."

"Best you don't, I think," I answered, examining his hand. "This needs stitches."

"Do you mind?"

I was already snapping on a pair of surgical gloves and threading a curved needle. "Do you want a local anaesthetic?"

He just looked more amused. It might have been the scotch, or it might not. "For something this trivial? I'm barely bleeding hardly at all, it doesn't hurt much, and we don't have to tell Megan about it because she would just worry anyway, and she worries enough. Okay?"

"As you wish, sir." His wife would notice, nevertheless. She always did.

I scrubbed the wound with betadine and soon had it cleaned and sutured, while he nattered on about his latest breakthrough in regrowing lost teeth. "Of course, they came in as snaggly fangs instead of incisors, so I still have some bugs to work out, but it's a start."

"And their dispositions?" I asked, arching a brow.

"Oh, that pair's never been nice. This is dead normal for them."

"So, you gave a pair of your less-congenial lab rabbits mouthfuls of fangs. I see no way in which that could have possibly gone wrong." I wrapped a bandage around the hand. "There you are, sir. Now, if you have no further need of me, I must prepare for tonight. The rest of Miss Megan's little werewolf Pack is coming 'round for moon night, and they will expect pizza, beer, and a film."

"Oh, is that tonight?" Naturally, he'd forgotten, which was why he had me. "Knock yourself out, Chambliss." He turned back to his computer, examining the DNA strands on the screen while swallowing thirty-year-old scotch straight from the bottle, on the theory that the clock had struck noon somewhere in the world. "Now, where'd my model get screwed up..."

I wouldn't shake my head in front of him. It would do no good; the man thrived on his incorrigibility. Instead, I arranged for several stuffed-crust pizzas with all the meats to be delivered at sundown, made sure the beer in the private theatre was chilling, and cued up a movie that wasn't even in cinemas yet.

Ben and Janni Lockwood arrived before moonrise, and I noted with pleasure that they'd brought Janni's mum along this time. I admired competence in another person, and Pam Coughlin exuded it. In her mid-fifties, with smooth cafe-au-lait skin and red-brown hair, she was ample everywhere, including her heart, which she hid under a tough-as-nails exterior and a no-nonsense Texas accent. She'd taken Ben on as an assistant in her successful private detective agency when the young man had come back shattered from Afghanistan, simply because Janni had asked her to.

The Pack considered me a member, so I could unbend. In any case, it was difficult to be formal amid three pony-sized wolves. Ben and Janni cuddled together on one of the spacious sofas in a heap of fur, while Miss Megan rested her enormous head on Master Alex's lap and he played with her ears, assiduously keeping his hand away from her missing eye. I sat beside Pam, who wasn't a wolf, and she leaned against me while we all ate pizza and drank beer, vastly content.

After everyone went to bed, I sat in front of my mirror and called up an old friend. I'd told Master Alex long ago that I hadn't always been a butler, nor was I English, but he had no idea of the life I'd led before coming to his employ. Bickford regarded me with his chin on his folded hands. The ridged scar running diagonally across his handsome face stood out in bold relief, and I felt a twinge of guilt at the desecration. "It's a hell of a thing and no mistake, James," he said, twitching his expressive pointed ears. "Our Queen is making noises about wanting you to come back."

"Is she." It wasn't a question. "She banished me here, Bick. She can hardly object when, rather than curling up and dying, I've made a life for myself instead."

He snorted. "Of course, she can object. Loudly. She's Fae and not bound by mere human logic. You of all people should know that."

"That's as may be, but she'll have a fine old time getting me to return." I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, managing to make the gesture look aggressive, even if the person I was irritated with was nowhere close. "This is my home now. So, you tell her for me that my position hasn't changed."

"On your head be it, James. I hope you know what you're doing."

So, did I.

Poland, 1944:

A half-squad of Nazis pursued me through the forest on foot, shouting in German. I dodged between the trees, the last man left alive or uncaptured in my unit after a disastrous battle. Injured and staggering, I stumbled suddenly upon a clearing and skidded to a stop. I skirted it, but looked over my shoulder to see them bulling straight through.

The soldiers parted around a section in the centre of the clearing like a stream around a rock, without even seeming to realise they were doing it. Angling away to the right as they passed, I shinned up a large tree and rested in the upper branches. They clattered off through the forest, and I went limp with relief when they left me behind.

I was exhausted and bleeding from innumerable scratches and cuts, along with a badly-bandaged bullet wound in my left biceps, so I decided I should climb down before I fell. Moving more like a man in his sixties than a youth in his very early twenties, I slipped down, fork by fork. I really should not, I thought muzzily, have climbed so high, and I dropped the last eight feet or so, landing heavily and awkwardly on one knee.

Picking myself up, I found myself curious about the spot that the Nazis had parted around, so I wandered that direction and found a perfect circle of mushrooms about three yards across. My balance was spoiled by my fatigue, and one foot fell inside the circumference. Lightning and thunder resounded through the clearing and the woods, and my Nazi pursuers were abruptly incinerated, screaming.

I might have felt deep satisfaction about that, but I lost consciousness before I could.

I had no idea how much time had passed when I came to in a soft featherdown bed, but cobwebs covered my scratches and I was famished. A cool hand caressed my forehead, and I startled, scrambling to get away. "Shh." That was a feminine voice, and I relaxed. Marginally.

"Where am I?" My voice was a hoarse croak.

"In the Fae realm. Not many pass between, and yet you managed. We watched as you crossed and were there to catch you."

"The. . . what?" Nothing in my experience had prepared me for this. Maybe I'd hit my head when I fell from the tree.

She had pointed ears and an odd accent. A gold circlet wrapped in fresh flowers perched on her flowing blond hair. She wore a grass-green silk dress with a fitted bodice, the skirt belling to the floor. The colour matched her eyes. "I am Morgana, the Queen. What call you yourself, sir knight?"

Surely, I was dreaming, but she was beautiful, so I answered. "Jedrus Cieslewicz."

"How very odd." She cocked her head. "Be that as it may, you are our guest. Take your ease, rest from your wounds. We may help one another, betimes."

I had no desire to return to the human realm, with Nazis overrunning my country on one end and Communists the other, but I soon found that Morgana was embroiled in a war of her own with another Fae faction. She told me about it while my injuries knitted, which happened far more quickly than I would have credited. The Fae realm agreed with me--and also showed I held a facility with language I hadn't realised I possessed. My native Polish was soon replaced with a formal dialect of British English. I barely noticed.

Soon after I was up and about, she transported me to a hilltop, from which we watched a pitched battle. "You are a man of war, James." That was the closest approximation to my name she could accomplish. "What see you?"

Much confusion, which was always the way. The fighting had devolved to individual hand-to-hand combat. Bronze swords and obsidian daggers clashed against leather armour, and lightning and fireballs lit the field in a hellish glow, singeing the air with the reek of cooked meat and burning cloth. Screams and groans assailed my ears, and I shivered. Watching a battle wasn't the same as participating in it, but the emotions and memories were still unpleasant in the extreme.

It was difficult to tell who was fighting whom as they surged back and forth. But the battle had a tide, and Morgana's forces were slowly winning out, although the cost was terrible. My mouth twisted. "The armies are fairly evenly matched, which is why the toll from each of them is so dire. Fighting this way seems like a vast waste, Your Majesty."

"We know no other." Her green eyes were alive with the shifting shades of grass and trees. I could nearly drown in them.

"Better tactics would not go amiss, then. If you know where the other army is going to be, you could flank and defeat them before they even knew what hit them."

She hummed. "That feels like cheating."

"That feels like winning."

"Does honour hold no place in your human realm, then?"

"In matters of war? Not much." I shrugged roughly. "My country is fighting an evil that really can't be borne." And losing, I didn't say. "Honour becomes secondary to victory, in a situation like that. Kill the other man before he kills you, from behind and in the dark if possible. The price of losing is just too high to be worried about things like a 'fair' fight."

"Will you show me these tactics?" Her cool hand caressed my shoulder. How could I say no?

I set up a sand table in her palace, and sprites helped map her territory's terrain. I used a long stick to move figures representing armies about. "If you can draw them in here, to this canyon, for example, you can have archers on top firing, and then slam the door shut behind. They'd be fighting on three fronts instead of just one, and you could defeat them with a relatively small force and take far fewer casualties."

"I see," Morgana said. Dawning comprehension lit her general's faces. This was a new way of fighting for them, and they gazed at me with new respect. Before, I'd just been a somewhat annoying convalescent human. Now I was showing them that I actually might be good at something they needed.

"It will probably only work once. Make it count."

They did, and that battle was a rout. She threw a party afterwards, and dressed me in finery, and danced nearly every dance on my arm. We stole a few kisses in a hidden alcove. I could get used to it here, I thought dizzily. I truly could.

I showed them other ways of using terrain to their advantage, and how not to close with their enemies unless they absolutely had to. She found me useful enough to promote to Major Domo and War Advisor, which lifted the brows of several others who'd been jockeying for that very position before I'd come. The fortunes of her armies turned more and more in Morgana's favour.

The fact that she was attracted to me, and I to her, had almost nothing to do with my sudden elevation. She enjoyed my exotic humanity, and respected the fact that I'd been trained well and knew my business when it came to the art and science of killing. This didn't stop the whispers, of course, because gossip was gossip no matter where one went, but we let it roll off our backs. We were halfway to being in love.

Present Day:

The next morning, I made sure to lay in a good breakfast for our guests, who came down to the kitchen as ravenous as, well, wolves. Plenty of eggs, meat, and potatoes, and two pots of coffee later, they all declared themselves satisfied, including the strictly human members of the Pack. They decided to come back that evening--the wolves would run while the humans roasted marshmallows around Master Alex's firepit in the rear of his fifty-acre yard.

Pam gave me a peck on the cheek on her way back to her private investigation firm, and Ben punched me on the arm. "Chambliss, you sly dog."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Master Ben." He just laughed and wrapped an arm around Janni as they left, burying his nose in her wild mop of curls and muttering in her ear about a new in-law.

The rest of the day proceeded as normally as they ever did. I assisted Master Alex with another fanged bunny escape. He managed to avoid being bitten, at least, although the one he'd named "Buster" left him with three long and bloody scratches down his forearm. He grinned like a maniac and commended it for having spunk.

I'd just finished packing the makings for s'mores when Ben, Janni, and Pam arrived. Ben and Janni made an immediate beeline to their room and came back out moments later as wolves. They raced out into the night side by side, with Megan following behind at a more sedate pace.

Pam shook her head. "Them two. I swear, they're happier as wolves than they ever were as just folks."

"Master Ben says it's because it's simpler being the wolf," I said, picking up the basket and offering her my arm. Master Alex joined us with a bag of red plastic cups, a fresh bottle of Laphroaig, and a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola, which I eyed disapprovingly. "Are you going to mix fine scotch with that battery acid, Sir?"

"Of course not. I'm going to mix the Coke with the scotch. Totally different vibe."

"As you say." Flashlights in hand, we headed out to a remote picnic area that Master Alex had built on the edge of the property. It had a table, chairs, and a fire ring, and we soon had a merry blaze going. The wolves checked in after a bit, their muzzles flecked with the blood of whatever unfortunate creature they'd met in the night.

Master Alex offered Megan a roasted marshmallow, which she ate with alacrity, waving her tail over her back. She snuffled her nose through his hair and touched the tip of her tongue to his face, and then the wolves were off again.

Which was when lightning flashed and thunder roared, and Queen Morgana appeared in our midst with a quintet of soldiers. "You dare defy me?" she shrieked, her blonde hair swirling in an angry halo around her head and sparks dancing off her fingertips.

I leapt to my feet and put myself between her and my people. "You're the one who banished me, Morgana. I'm staying banished."

Pam and Master Alex rose as well, both with enough force to send their chairs crashing to the ground. Pam's hand dove into her jeans pocket and came out holding a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. "Jim?" she said. "Y'all need me to take care of business? I know you didn't bring a gun."

"She was just leaving," I answered, keeping my gaze on Morgana's face. I always had a knife strapped to my forearm under my uniform in case of accidents, and I flexed my fingers, getting ready to drop the hilt into my palm. "Because she's particularly vulnerable to cold steel and she really will not like the results if she gets into an argument with us."

"And you will not like the results--" Morgana was practically spitting. She was a woman unused to being crossed, or denied anything she wanted. "even if we bodily remove you from this plane." Her eyes flicked from Pam to me and back again. "What interesting threads bind the two of you."

"You'd do well to leave them alone." My voice stayed level, although I was anything but calm. I'd had long practice with keeping my head while everyone around me was losing theirs, working for Master Alex. He was holding the half-empty scotch bottle by its neck like a club, with a combative stance quite at odds with his normal disposition.

"Morgana," I said, "I will not look kindly if you try to force me to return with you. If you wish my cooperation, you will ask, not order. And then I will think about it and get back to you with my answer."

"Did you not get my message? I've already asked. You've already refused."

"I was unaware I had a time limit."

"I shall have to see to Bickford, then. I was quite explicit with my instructions."

I went cold. Bick had already suffered for my intransigence once. "Morgana--"

"Tick tock, James." She made a metronome motion with one finger, which still threw off sparks. "Make a decision. Be sure it's a good one." Her lip curled. "You can hardly wish to stay with these when you could be by my side again."

"You are capricious and cruel, while my companions are neither. It's a more difficult choice than you might think." A howl sounded in the distance, coming closer. "It's not difficult at all. You banished me. I'm staying. Goodbye."

Morgana's face twisted, and she flung a bolt of lightning at Pam. Pam threw herself aside, but the scent of burning flesh filled the air as it caught her a glancing blow on the leg. She fired a shot, but it went wild in the semi-darkness.

A trio of wolves hit the Fae like an angry hurricane.

"You dare?" Furious, Morgana began laying about her with the lightning, not caring who she struck in her rage. Alex went down, along with a blonde wolf--I wasn't sure if it was Ben or Megan--and Pam fired again, shouting at Janni to "Get back, dammit!"

I tackled Morgana around the waist and bore her to the ground. She smiled--

And we disappeared.

The Fae Realm, 1944 or thereabouts:

Morgana won battles with my help, but the war raged on, and her enemies were learning our tactics. Her battle crow aspect was more in evidence than her softer side, and she'd frankly started frightening me. To say that she was unkind to prisoners would be an understatement; she considered them traitorous wretches and treated them with less regard than the cockroaches in the kennels. I wasn't so stupid as to pull back from our burgeoning relationship, because she could turn that temper on me in an instant, but I had vast misgivings, especially when she tortured a man to death in front of me without turning a hair.

She stomped back and forth across her throne room after one fight had cost us more than she'd bargained on. "I need better from you, James!" she burst out. "What about weapons from your home plane?"

"That would be inadvisable. Those weapons would skew the balance of power so far that we'd start an arms race from which the Fae would never recover. Most of them are made of steel. You can't even touch them." The Fae could work other metals, such as bronze, but a bare touch of anything with iron in inflicted deadly poisonous wounds.

She rounded on me, teeth bared. "I want the balance of power skewed. I want to crush them, so they never oppose me again. Is this a difficult concept?"

I thought of the war I'd left behind. "No, my Queen." I tilted my head. She hadn't allowed me to go home since I'd found myself in her realm. "If you would permit me to reconnoitre on the human plane, perhaps with a companion to make sure I behave, I might be able to come back with something pretty for your war. Then you could see how it worked and if that is a route you truly wish to travel."

Her exquisite lips pursed as she considered the notion. "Done," she decided. "Take Bickford with you; he's a good steady lad with a head on his shoulders, and you two seem to get on."

"Yes, my Queen. When shall I go?"

"As soon as may be. And James?" Sparks skittered between her fingers, and I hid a shudder. I'd seen what they could do to hapless captives. That day. "Don't disappoint me. You know how I get when I'm disappointed."

"Of course, my Queen." I bowed and took my leave, finding Bickford in the kitchen chatting up one of the cooks and attempting to wheedle a bit of cake from her. "Leave off the cake, Bick, and come along. We have an assignment from our Queen."

The cook relented and wrapped up a bit of pastry for him in a napkin, and he grinned as if he'd won a hard-fought battle. I supposed he had; the cooks guarded the best food jealously and barely let it out of their sight. "Righty-oh," he said. "What are we doing, old chap?"

I waited until we were outside, away from prying eyes and ears. "A visit to the human realm, ostensibly to investigate weaponry for Morgana, but I think I may stay there once I get back."

He stopped short. "She won't tolerate that. You know how she goes on about traitors in our midst all the time these trying days."

"Nevertheless, I'd like to attempt." I shook my head. "She frightens me, Bick. It's only a matter of time before she turns that famous temper on me, and I'd rather not be here when she does."

"Your funeral," he said dubiously. One of the trees near the castle gates formed roots between the Fae world and the human one. I knew how to use it as well as Bick did, and we were soon near my home.

At least, I thought it was home. The forest was blasted and burnt, the village uninhabited. I wandered from house to house in shock, noting missing roofs, open doors, and broken windows. A few desiccated bodies lay where they had fallen, brown bloodstains evident on their filthy clothing. No dogs barked, no chickens clucked, no sheep wandered about. The entire place was dead, not just the people.

At last I sat in a doorway with my head in my hands. "And this is why I don't wish to bring human weapons to Fae." I gestured at an enormous hole in the wall beside me. "A tank did that. Do you really think Morgana should have such things?"

He sat beside me. "It's not up to me, James," he said gently. "Morgana is my Queen, and I must do as she commands."

"Even if what she commands is bloody stupid?"

He glanced around, wincing. "Don't let her hear you say that. She'll have you in the dungeon before you blink."

"Yet another reason she shouldn't have a sodding tank." I sighed. "I'm tired of war, Bick."

"I don't blame you, James. Humans aren't built to battle all the time." His eyes took in the ruined village. "But they didn't leave you much to come home to."

"It's still home." I wanted to stay, with a sudden fierce and unexpected longing. "Can you leave me here? Is that a possibility?"

"She'd come for you. You know that."

"I'll hide. She's one person, with a war on her hands. She can't be everywhere."

"She's also quite determined to keep what's hers. And like it or not, my friend, she considers you her property."

I growled. "Well, I'm not, no matter what she thinks."

"Tell me that again when you're screaming on the rack with lightning playing along your ribs." His lips tightened, and he ran a hand over his beard. "I'll go back without you, if that's what you want, James. But I don't like your chances, I'll tell you that straight up."

I reached over and grasped his forearm. He grasped mine back in the age-old shield-brother clasp. "Give me a head start?"

"Of course. Good luck."

Naturally, it didn't work. I was on a road when they caught me, and Morgana picked me up by the scruff of the neck in an iron grip that brooked no argument. "I am disappointed," she hissed in my ear. "I thought we had an arrangement."

"You had an arrangement. I was merely an unwilling participant."

"Is that what being unwilling looks like? Humans are so interesting." A wave of her hand, for the Queen of Fae needed no tree to get where she wished to go, and we were transported to her dungeon's torture chamber. She flung me to the floor, and I cracked a knee painfully on a paving stone.

A groan made me jerk my head up. "Poor Bickford," Morgana purred. "He very much did not wish to betray you." Bick's wrists and ankles were strapped to an X-frame standing in the middle of the room on a swivel. His naked back faced us, covered in bloody stripes and black burns, and he was limp and gasping.

I made some noise--rage, pain, guilt, all three and much more--and leapt to my feet. Morgana caught me by the throat this time, bringing my face to hers. "This, James," she said between her teeth, "is what happens when my people are disloyal."

I choked and struggled, but she was inhumanly strong and lifted me until I was scrabbling for purchase with my toes. "Turn him," she commanded, and a hooded, bare-chested man with impressive muscles and a bullwhip spun the swivel so Bick's face was to us. Morgana tilted her head. "So pretty," she said. "The serving girls practically fall over themselves to do him favours." Her voice went cold and hard. "Let us see how well that works with a set of scars, shall we?"

"No!" I managed to get out.

She turned that flat gaze to me. "No? Did I hear you correctly? Are you still defying me, James?" She lowered me slightly and allowed me to get a breath.

"It's not his fault. Do it to me instead."

"How sweet." She smiled. "But no. I think it will be much more painful and instructive for you to watch it done to someone you care about."

Her torturer set the whip aside and picked up a short but quite sharp and nasty obsidian blade. "Shall I leave him his eye, Majesty?" He asked the question with the same manner he would have if he'd been asking whether she wanted bacon or sausage with her breakfast.

"Only because I wish him to keep it." She waved her free hand.

"Morgana, please--!" I said, before her hand cut my breath off again.

The torturer grabbed Bick's hair in one hand while the knife in his other traced a deep cut beside his right eye and sliced downward, diagonally, stopping just above his upper lip. Bick clenched his fists and his teeth and didn't cry out.

I cried out enough for both of us.

The Fae Realm, Present Day:

Morgana flinging me to the floor of the torture chamber was a by-now familiar replay. "Your little human and not-so-human pets are quite amusing," she said. "Did they think they could harm me?"

"Can, and will, if you don't send me back," I answered, rising and straightening my clothes. "Werewolves are far more loyal than you'd give them credit for."

She let out a dismissive sniff. "I let you get away with much, James. Do not test my patience further, or what happened to Bickford will seem mild." Her voice cracked like one of the whips lining the wall. "I trust you still remember that little display?"

"It is seared into my memory, my Queen."

"Good." She eyed me up and down with her hands on her hips. "America seems to have agreed with you. You seem robust and relaxed, if a bit more. . . grey." Time passed differently in Fae than it did at home. I appeared closer to sixty than the mid-twenties I'd escaped as, although my body was as fit as ever. "Also, good, because war has broken out again and your advice was invaluable last time."

I nearly barked out a laugh before remembering myself. "Relaxed" was relative, because working for Alex Jarrett was only "relaxing" in the same sense that being near a calamitous volcanic explosion was relaxing. However, I liked Master Alex far better than I liked Morgana--and I didn't need to worry about him beating me to death with his bare hands for saying or doing something he thought I oughtn't. "Of course, my Queen," I said instead. "But keep in mind that I shall be just as recalcitrant as before about bringing weapons here from the human realm."

She waved a hand. "Piffle, what a ridiculous prejudice. I'd hoped that your sojourn there would have knocked some sense into your head. No?"

"Rather the opposite, I'm afraid. Weaponry has come far since my war and it suits your realm even less now than it did then."

"Ridiculous," she said again. "Mayhap you need another demonstration of my determination?"

"I really don't."

"On your dark-skinned lady friend?" The purr was back. "Would you like that, James?"

My spine stiffened. "You leave her alone, Morgana."

She pushed into my personal space, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla and blood and screaming. "Then get me. A tank." She considered for a moment. "Six would be better."

"I can't just toddle down and buy a bloody tank from the Army Surplus store, you know. Let alone six. Those things aren't available to just anyone."

"You are quite capable of finding a way, I'm sure." Her voice was airy, but her eyes were cold. "You wouldn't want your human lady in the same position as poor Bickford was, would you? Or your lupine friends? Have you ever seen a werewolf unable to change at the moon? It's quite painful. So is stripping off hide, inch by inch."

She'd do it, too. My people would never be safe from her so long as she thought she could get what she wanted from me by hurting them. My jaw tightened. "I might be able to manage one or two tanks and some small arms. Anything else is beyond my capabilities." A plan percolated through my head. "I will, of course, need Bickford's help."

She patted my cheek, suddenly cheerful. "Good man. I'm quite sure dear Bick realises the cost of disloyalty by now. Take whomever you like."

The Fae Realm, 1954 or so:

I continued to aid Morgana in her war, although I still refused adamantly to bring human weapons over. For a time, she won all her battles, and she didn't press me.

But her enemies were quick studies, and they soon learned the tactics that she'd employed to crush them--and employed them back. She flew into rages far more often, and I took to avoiding her whenever possible.

It wasn't always possible, however, and she cornered me one day after a particularly devastating loss. "Human weapons. You will get them for me, James."

I couldn't believe how steady my voice was. "No. I won't."

Cold radiated from her body in waves, and her fingertips sparked. "Then I will banish you, wounded and bereft, into the human realm. Time passes differently there than it does here. You'll be old, with no skills for their modern sensibilities." She bared her teeth. It wasn't a smile. "You'll end up a tramp, shivering under a bridge, until you come crawling back to me with your tail between your legs, begging me to allow you to bring me the weapons I desire."

I was bored by the whole argument. "If you're going to banish me, best do so quickly, then. Those weapons don't belong here and never will."

Her lovely face contorted. "On your head, be it." She waved her hand--

And I found myself in the environs of California, tossed ahead into the twenty-first century. "You bloody bitch," I said.

I refused to lay down and die, or become a beggar under a bridge. I didn't have resources, but I had a certain skill set honed by years in Fae. After committing a few questionable acts in the process of re-acclimating to the human realm, I garnered associates who could forge citizenship documents and a work history. I soon landed an interview for a butler position. Megan Graham regarded me from across her desk in her office in Master Alex's mansion, and I looked blandly back. I could tell about the wolf, but she didn't mention it, so neither did I.

"Mr. Jarrett, on occasion, runs some rather. . . Esoteric experiments. How good are you at getting blood out of carpet?" she asked.

I didn't even lift an eyebrow. "I can most certainly do that, madam. Or, if it is unsalvageable, I have the contacts necessary to install brand new carpeting overnight and have the old disposed of without awkward questions."

She smiled thinly. "You can start immediately," she said. "You'll have your own set of rooms and a generous stipend. Alex takes good care of the people who take care of him."

I raised a cautious hand. "Perhaps you should introduce us before hiring me on? It would be too bad if he didn't like me."

"Oh, Alex likes everyone unless they give him a reason not to." She rose and led me out. "He's in his basement lab, curing cancer or. . . something."

A muffled explosion and a roil of black smoke greeted us as we got to the bottom of the curved steps. Alex Jarrett stumbled out of the mess, waving his hand over his nose, coughing and reeking of expensive scotch. He gave Megan a manic grin. "Hi, Megan! Who's the new guy?"

"Your butler. His name is Chambliss. Try not to incinerate him on his first day." Her voice was filled with fond exasperation. It was an emotion I would come to be intimately familiar with over the next few years.

The Human Realm, Present Day:

Bick gazed around at the scrub in consternation. He could see in the dark, of course; all the Fae could. "Well. It's not like our forests, is it."

"Hardly. You get used to it."

"Why would you want to? Let's just get the bloody Queen her bloody weapons and get out of here."

"About that."

"James. . ."

My voice was as cold as Morgana's. "Oh, no worries, old friend. I'll get that harridan what she wants. She just might not like it much." I set off toward Master Alex's house. "But first I need to see to my people."

He trailed along in my wake, and I entered the house to find controlled chaos in the infirmary. Doc Allen, Master Alex's private physician, tongued an unlit cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other as he worked on the wounds of both wolf and human, swearing quietly. At the moment, he was tending Megan. Ben and Janni appeared to be fine, if furious. Ben looked as if he wanted to murder someone with his bare fangs.

"Chambliss!" Alex sounded both relieved and frightened. His ribs were bandaged, and he cradled Megan, who had angry, bleeding scorch marks along her left side from shoulder to hip. I could smell burnt fur, and my jaw tightened. "Master Alex. How may we assist?"

"She's bleeding." He clutched Megan like a teddy bear, and I noted more burns along her muzzle, realising with a start that they mirrored Bick's facial scar. Master Alex was cavalier about his own injuries, but any harm to Megan made him spiral into panic. He still had nightmares from a sojourn with the Bosnian terrorists who'd cost her an eye. She touched a tongue to his hand, but I could see that she was in pain.

I was going to kill Morgana, I thought calmly, donning a pair of gloves and passing another pair to Bickford. "Those are werewolves," he said unnecessarily.

"This is my family. Everyone, Bickford; Bickford, everyone. Who needs help the most, Doctor Allen?"

"See to Pam, please. She keeps saying she's fine, but I don't believe her."

I knelt beside her chair, gently taking her leg and examining it. "Do hold still, my dear."

"It ain't that bad. You don't have to fuss, Jim."

"I rather think I do. You are injured because of me, and it's only right I salve your wounds."

"Who was she?"

"Morgana, the Queen of Fae. My late Queen as well."

"Late? You killed her?"

"Not yet," I said between my teeth, slathering Master Alex's special burn cream on her leg. "But the daft wench thinks she wants weapons from here. She has no idea. None."

"You can't give that crazy bitch human weapons, Chambliss!" Alex was near hysteria. Megan grunted as he squeezed her.

Doctor Allen cursed. "I would appreciate if you let me have access to my patient, Alex."

Megan just rolled her eye. She was a werewolf; she'd heal, and without scars, too. But the burns looked painful anyway. "I'm going to 'give her weapons,' all right," I said. "Right down her bloody throat."

Ben perked up at that and trotted over, tilting his head at me. "Oh, do you wish to help?" He gazed from Pam's leg to my face and back again, lifting his lip over a fang as long as my thumb. "Excellent. I can use another military man at my side. Master Alex, if you can procure me a tank, I would be most grateful."

He made a strangled noise. "What, you don't have one in the arsenal?"

"They are rather more difficult to hide than small arms."

"I'm sure you would have managed it." He relaxed as Megan did, burn salve soothing her wounds. "I guess we don't have to have that conversation about what you are anymore."

"I'm as human as you. Just a few extra experiences under my belt." And magic in my veins. He didn't need to know that.

"Your friend. Has pointy. Ears." It wasn't often that Master Alex chopped his sentences.

"And I do not." I let out a long-suffering sigh. "Master Alex, once this situation is over, I will gladly sit down with you over a bottle of Laphroaig and tell all. In the meantime, may we please put paid to the insane Fae Queen who wishes me to arm her with bloody tanks?"

He glared. "I suppose. But no dodging the friggin' issue this time."

"Yes, sir." I put the finishing touches on the burn across Pam's leg. "You may join us if you wish, my dear. I have no desire to hide my past from you if our relationship is to go further."

"I want scotch now," she said.

"Of course." I rose and poured two drams, handing the glass to her. She swallowed it in a single gulp. I didn't blame her. "We have some time," I told them. "I suggest we wait 'til morning when we can all communicate--" A significant look at Ben, who bared that fang again and waved his tail. "And then we can decide our course of action."

I didn't normally wake up beside another person. I inhaled, and the warm scent of Pam filled my nostrils. My arm tightened around her waist, and she leaned into my big spoon with a contented sigh. "Well," I said. "What a lovely awakening."

"Likewise," she answered. "Big doin's today."

"Indeed." I pressed my lips to the nape of her neck.

She squirmed but didn't seem to mind. "You gonna be okay with all this?"

"Morgana is no more frightening than the fanged rabbit I faced down earlier this week. Less so as I had no animus toward the rabbit."

She turned to face me, and she was delightfully soft. "You be careful, Jim. I wouldn't like to lose you when I've waited so long for someone I cared about this way again."

"Likewise," I said, my voice husky, before we rose to face the day.

The others had beaten us to the kitchen, which I was somewhat shamefaced about, but they'd done fine on their own, and Master Alex could manage scrambled eggs and bacon. "What's the plan, Chambliss?" he asked. "I know you have one, because you always do."

"She wants a tank, she can sodding have a tank," I said. "And may she choke on it."

"You don't do things by halves here, do you?" Bickford asked, digging into breakfast.

"We can't afford to," I answered. "Most of us don't have magic, so we must survive by other means."

Megan hung up her phone. She wore the eyepatch with the embroidered peacock today, and her wounds had healed overnight, leaving no trace. "I have a tank."

Of course, she did. "What sort of rounds?"

She just gave me a Look. "Explosive ones, of course. She used lightning on werewolves, Chambliss."

"As you say. You are quite remarkable, Miss Megan."

"Remind me to give you another raise," Master Alex said to her.

"This is all the raise I need," she replied, kissing him soundly.

"I'm beginning to see the appeal of the human realm," Bick said.

"No politics, just us," I told him before turning to Miss Megan. "When may we expect your tank?"

"An hour from now, in the driveway. Can you get it where it needs to go from there?"

Bickford said, "We'll make a bloody good show of trying, any road."

Ben gave me a fierce and feral grin. "I can aim and shoot one of those things, Chambliss. Just point me at it." He eyed Megan. "They hurt my alpha. That's not on the free list."

Megan glared. "I don't need protecting, Ben."

"No, ma'am, you do not. But I need to protect you anyway."

"All the men in my life are incorrigible." She clearly included me in that assessment, this time.

"It's why we love them," Janni said, resting her head on Ben's shoulder.

He wrapped an arm around her. "You keep us sane."

The doorbell rang. "You folks rush-ordered a tank?" a man with a clipboard asked.

"Indeed, we did. Thank you very kindly, my good sir." I signed where he indicated.

"What do you need a tank for?"

I gave him a bland smile. "To fight a war, of course."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude."

Bickford blinked at the metal behemoth in the drive as the delivery driver left. "Morgana wanted one of these?" He reached out a hand, but pulled back with a grimace before making contact. "It's made of iron. We can't even touch the bloody thing. Who did she expect to wield it?"

"Me, probably." My voice went hard. "And so, I shall."

There was nothing for it but to drive the tank to the back of the property, crushing shrubberies as we went. The gardeners would curse me later, I was sure. Ben helped me check the explosive rounds, and he grabbed the Colt M4 Commando from the arsenal room as well, along with four thirty-round magazines. "What? I like this gun. Never take just one weapon."

The young man made an excellent point, and I picked up a few weapons of my own, steel-edged ones as well as firearms, while Bick looked on with bemusement. "Humans don't do things by halves, do they? Morgana won't know what hit her."

"That's what I'm counting on."

The tank roared through the portal that Bick made for us. He couldn't ride inside, of course, and instead followed on foot. Ben, ensconced in the gunner's seat, sighted in on Morgana's castle and fired without hesitation. Master Alex loaded another shell as the first one exploded against the wall. We'd firmly insisted upon leaving the women behind, me because I was old-fashioned, Master Alex because he was terrified of Megan being hurt again, and Ben because, well, Ben was Ben. They would no doubt give us an earful about it later, but the tank only had space for a crew of three.

Fae warriors poured through the breach we'd made, but stopped short at the sight of the alien iron thing in their midst. Ben fired another round over their heads, widening the hole in the wall and causing them to duck for cover. "That oughta get their attention," he said gleefully. Having lost his own parents, Pam had become a second mother to him, and seeing her injured had unleashed something a bit more primal than his norm.

That was fine with me, as Morgana flew to the forefront of the Fae, floating in the air and shrieking vile curses. "Well, hello," Ben said, swivelling the turret her way while Master Alex loaded again. Her eyes widened, and she blipped out of existence just as he pulled the trigger. The steel was bad enough, but the explosion was worse, ripping through her army as if the people were made of particularly damp tissue paper. Screams and moans resounded through the battlefield, and the survivors turned as one and ran back to the castle.

Morgana railed at them to stand and fight, floating above it all and striking the tank again and again with ineffective lightning. Ben aimed her way once more, but the round passed by her and struck inside the castle walls instead, eliciting a fresh round of screaming.

"I can do this all day, Morgana," I said through the loudspeaker. "You can't reach us or even touch this thing, so you might as well stand down and prevent more devastation while you can."

She drifted to the ground, hair blowing around her and sparks skittering off her fingertips. "What are your terms?"

"Let me stay in the human realm and never bother us again. And leave Bickford alone." I eyed the destruction we'd wreaked. "You've been punished enough for your foolishness, I think."

She was furious, and just as clearly bargaining from a position of weakness. "Do you realise what you've done?"

"Exactly what you insisted I do. I brought you a tank. Are you complaining now, my Queen?"

"You were supposed to use it against my enemies, not me."

"At this point, Majesty, you are your own worst enemy. I can hardly be blamed for dealing with you accordingly."

Her lips skinned back, and I wondered how I'd ever found her beautiful. "Begone," she spat. "You are banished forever from the Fae realm, and may you die miserable and alone." She opened a portal behind us.

"Farewell, Morgana." I reversed the tank through the portal and we found ourselves back in California, minus Bickford. I felt a stab of sorrow and wondered if I'd still be able to talk to him via our mirror trick. I hoped so. The portal slammed shut with a slight boom, and I blinked. I hadn't realised they could do that.

Master Alex blew out a breath. "So that was fun."

"Yeah, it was." Ben was completely unequivocal about the operation. "I haven't gotten to do that in ages."

"Glad I could be of assistance in that Endeavor, Master Ben," I said.

We climbed out and blinked in the Southern California sun. "Someday you'll have to tell us why she's so pissed at you."

"A blazing fire, a fine cigar, and a bottle of scotch would not go amiss while I did."

"No smoking in the house," Miss Megan said. She'd caught that as we walked in, and then proceeded to squeeze Master Alex hard enough to make him oof, while Janni practically tackled Ben. I unbent in front of my employers enough to sit beside Pam on the sofa and let her wrap me in a hug, not wanting to make her get up with her burnt leg.

"Success?" she asked.

"We bloodied her nose. She won't bother us again."

Everyone reacted with undisguised relief. "Well, I've got a detective agency to run and oughta get back to it," Pam said.

"We have a detective agency to run," Ben said firmly. "And you should sit behind your desk and do paperwork and phone crap while I do the running-around parts, at least until your leg's better."

Pam rolled her eyes. "Baby boy, I been hurt worse than this and lived to tell the tale. I ain't havin' y'all treat me like an invalid."

"Why, boss, I wouldn't do that." He gave her his best baby-seal expression. "I just think you should take it easy for a while, just like you make me take it easy when someone, you know, shoots me with lightning."

"Fine, fine," she groused, before giving me a sound kiss on the cheek and rising. "We'll see y'all tonight."

Their departure left the house quieter than I expected. Master Alex retired to his lab, and Miss Megan to her office. I returned to my duties of the ruthlessly efficient running of the house and Master Alex's private affairs.

Dodging lightning bolts later that afternoon, it occurred to me that Morgana hadn't agreed to my terms. "Never assume anything with the Fae," I said to Master Alex, as we faced her in the lab. "Doing so leads to the most awkward of circumstances."

"So, I see," he said, barely ducking in time and getting his unkempt hair scorched for his trouble. "She is unhappy with you, Chambliss."

"The feeling is entirely mutual." I took cover behind a row of shelving, and Alex dove to my side a moment later. "Weaponry would not go amiss."

"I've got a sword by my desk for decapitating vampire bunnies, will that do? It's made of tempered steel and has a sharp edge."

"I thought you'd got rid of those rabbits." I winced as another bolt struck the shelves and something exploded.

"Are you kidding, why would I do that, they're awesome."

"What do you feed-- Never mind, I have no wish to know."

"Come out, come out, James." Morgana's voice was an eerie sing-song. "Come out and I'll let your pet humans live."

"I highly doubt that."

"Who are you calling a 'pet,' lady?" Miss Megan's voice, distorted in a way that told me she was speaking through fangs. "You come into my house, break my stuff, and threaten my husband? Get out before you get hurt."

"Go back to your kennel, you yapping mongrel," Morgana said. "I am the Queen of Fae and have neither the time nor the inclination to put up with your petty barking."

"Oh, dear," I said, "that's torn it." Sure enough, a bestial growl greeted that statement, and the sound of bodies colliding made me wince. "But perhaps we should take advantage of Miss Megan's excellently-timed distraction."

Master Alex flung himself toward his desk and the sword residing there, while I had a look 'round for objects I could use as weapons. The knife strapped to my forearm was only good for close-quarter fighting, and like bloody hell did I want to get near enough to her for that. Lab equipment was singularly ill-suited for a battle with a mad Fae Queen. However--

My gaze passed over the rabbits, stopped, went back, and focused on them.

Some of Master Alex's more. . . Arcane experiments lived on in his rabbits, and many of them had fangs for other reasons than attempting to regrow teeth. In addition to the vampire bunnies, he had lycanthrope bunnies, which tended to turn into wolves under very little provocation.

I smiled and began opening cages.

Morgana soon found she had far more problems to contend with than an enraged wolf the size of a pony and a determined man with a sword that would burn her flesh on contact. The rabbits were territorial little buggers, and they liked neither the strange woman nor the werewolf in their midst. But they were wise prey animals and attacked the threat that they deemed would do them the least amount of harm first--and that was my former Queen.

She was soon buried in fur and claws and fangs. Blood spattered through the air, hers and theirs, and the scent of scorched hair filled the room, along with the squeals of wounded rabbits and her shrieks of rage and pain, with Megan's growls providing a counterpoint. "Leave, Morgana," I shouted over the din. "Leave, or die. It's up to you."

She executed a spinning pirouette and kicked the sword from Master Alex's hand. Another kick connected with Miss Megan's snout. I knew how strong Morgana was, and winced. But the sword had landed near me, and I rolled across the floor, dodging the lightning she still flung willy-nilly 'round the room, and scooped it up. Completing the roll and landing on my feet right beside her, I laid the edge of the blade against her throat. She froze, the scent of cooked flesh joining the odour of burning hair.

"I won't tell you again."

Breathing heavily and bleeding from dozens of wounds, with rabbits still attacking her, she stood quite still. The sparks from her fingertips flickered and died.

Then her face contorted. Her arm came up.

And her head came off.

"Bloody hell," I said, as the bunnies stampeded in all directions. Now I was going to have to hide a body, wrangle rabbits, and keep Master Alex from consuming more than one entire bottle of scotch--which would be more difficult than usual, I knew, seeing his expression.

Fortunately, all this was part of my skill set.

Life was normal again, I thought, and smiled when I heard Master Alex's shout from the basement. "Chambliss! Bunnies!"
Lubarbri

Jakob Drud

Denmark

I'm ok with people asking me how it feels to live without a leg. I'm used to the silent stares, the pity and disgust, the children pointing at me. I've even learned to accept the parents who explain my injuries to their kids and tell them you can have a perfectly normal life as a disabled person. I want to tell them not to call me 'person', because my name is John Bechman, but they still wouldn't understand what I'm about. Because of lubarbri.

Lubarbri. No definite article, or indefinite for that matter. Short lu, accent on barb, rolling r in ri, that's what feels like. Put it any other way and its counterfeit.

Lubarbri ought to be written in Greek letters to show how it belongs with all the great feelings. Melancholy, euphoria, megalomania. Except the Greek didn't have a clue about this feeling either.

Lubarbri comes on in a lot of different situations. When I remember something from the military. When I take one of my laboured walks. When I'm afraid.

The onset of lubarbri leaves a taste on the back of my tongue, a taste like nothing in the Michelin guide, like nothing in a restaurant or food mart or drug store. It's as if my oesophagus is a portal to another dimension.

Oesophagus. I've taught myself new words, hoping they would explain lubarbri, see?

I used to experiment with taste, too. Acorns are bitter. Grind them into paste and fry them in butter and sugar and they're still bitter even with all the caramel. There's something hot about it, a painful burn, like chili or curry, but not quite. I even tried to add sulfuric acid, but all I got was a burn that Six would have warned me about in the old days.

There are six of us in the bunker. One is a full Colonel, the other a woman in a two-piece suit. I'm one of four spit-and-shine at-ease-soldiers, who aren't at ease at all.

Having a full Colonel here is bad. If we're into something legit, it'd have been our own CO behind the desk. The suit is bad, too. Suits hand out the bullshit that the brass is too embarrassed to touch.

"You've been selected for Duty Six," the suit says.

She has a pleasant voice. Her makeup matches her chestnut hair and it isn't overdone, which is suspicious. Too natural, perhaps, since we're so used to wearing SmartCamo here in Saudi Arabia after the 2027 attacks. I haven't seen a civilian woman in three and a half weeks, but I'm not the least moved by her presence. This is a woman who wouldn't be naked if she took off her clothes.

"You haven't heard about the Duty, because the Duty doesn't officially exist," she continues. "And because those who are selected for the Duty either accept or die."

The Colonel places a pistol on the desk. I know at least one of us could get to him before he kills us all, but his left-hand remains under the desktop. A fletchette needler in that position will stop us dead.

"We have been over your profiles," she says. "You're all behind on federal taxes, which means you can be bought off by the enemy. You have family living abroad, which means foreign governments or terrorist cells can take them hostage and pressure you to sabotage the war effort. You all have suspicious internet activity in your past. That means you're too dangerous for regular duty."

Everybody has suspicious browsing history. Getting spam mail from gun stores is suspicious these days. But we don't say anything, of course. Being suspicious and dangerous means you get processed. Unconstitutionally, physically, incarceratingly processed. Saudi Arabia has taught us so much.

"If you take the Duty, however, you will become special," she says. "And completely trustworthy."

Her lips part to show straight teeth. I'm surprised and scared when I notice that her smile actually reaches her eyes, like she's truly happy, perhaps even blissful while her mind puts together the words that come out of her mouth.

"Duty Six pays three times the usual tour pay. Which means I have four recruits, right?"

Money, I think. Money makes this woman smile.

"What about side effects?" I ask.

She hesitates. I notice something about her then, besides her smile. Two fingers are missing from her left hand, ring and pinkie.

"None," she says. "Absolutely... zero."

The cringe in her smile at that last word looks like the extreme satisfaction of a heroin addict finally shooting up. Of all the wrong things about this setup, that satisfaction scares me the most.

But of course, I owe Uncle Sam those taxes, so I sign up anyway.

The odds of getting wounded by a mortar shell is a hell of a lot higher than finding a single individual in the United States when you don't know where she lives.

Lubarbri guides me. Or guide me. Singular, plural, who knows?

Better to say: I'm guided through six metropolises in six months by lubarbri. If not for that, why would I need to find that woman in the first place?

Lubarbri isn't happiness, or ecstasy, or satisfaction, but it's linked to my brain's pleasure centres in some way. There's an aspect of reward in it, like when you treat yourself to a six-pack after dishing out food at the community centre all day, only you don't have to do the work first.

Lubarbri is also an intangible memory, a memory that lives somewhere in my Duty Six neurons.

You see, Duty Six isn't just a matter of special training or special hardware. It's about having an extra portion of vat-grown neural matter added to the right frontal lobe of your brain. Extra calculation power, they called it. Instantly accessible hardware right there in my skull.

It makes sense that lubarbri is a memory, since Six was linked to other memory neurons. But I still can't grasp that memory no matter what I do.

The thing that comes closest to the intangible part is something I've never experienced: The hole inside you when you leave the woman you've just fallen for after spending three days in bed with her. I know what that's like, even if I haven't experienced it, and yet I know I don't know it at all. Lubarbri is an itch I know exists in theory, like some Platonic ideal, but one I can't scratch because it doesn't itch.

I can't scratch, but I try anyway, in city after city all over America. Because I know the woman in the suit is somewhere, and she has answers I need.

Because of my prosthesis I get to take special tours through the train station scanners. Security brutes confirm time and again that the lump on my head isn't a concealed weapon and that I'm not carrying explosives in the joints of my mechanical leg. Every time I enter a station the taste of acorns enters my mouth, warning me to stay away, but I still go. If I am to scratch my Platonic itch, I need the key to the otherworldly place where it exists.

One day, while I'm boarding a train for New York, I remember that lubarbri tastes like mashed acorn fried in butter and sugar while you have a bee stinger in your tongue.

And I know I'm on the right track.

When I was in the sixth grade I ate a bee on a dare. The stinger pointed up, like a flagpole saluting the fallen. I didn't see it when I licked the body off the window pane.

I did see it twitch, though. The abdomen was mashed up, but the wings and three of the legs still moved in spasms.

The brain will do that when the body is in a crisis. It's so used to knowing everything is where it usually is that it starts interfering with other limbs when you're dying, telling them to move on, you're not dead, you're alive, and the world is just a little hard right now.

Or maybe they're just reflexes. My medic told me my blasted leg was pumping up and down so hard he had to restrain me while he set the tourniquet in place. Maybe that was reflexes too, but I think it's strange that lubarbri started right after the accident. Maybe I was running like that bee, convinced I was still alive. But I believe my brain was already finding a new use for all those neurons it didn't need to control my leg.

After the neural grafting, I get assigned Duty Six to the scout corps of the US Defence Force in Israel. Officially we spot terrorists and Teheran-supported militias and mark Lebanese civilians as no-go targets. In practice it's a right mess, and we let God sort them out. And unofficially, we smuggle spies across the Lebanese and Syrian borders in electric trucks.

I'm at the wheel on those missions, letting Six take charge. There's something about having your own compass built into your head, a sense that lets you know which way is less dangerous than the others.

The NCOs and soldiers guarding the spies hate me because I whistle when I'm driving. Whoever's out there can't hear the electric engine, but the soldiers think my whistling gives us away. I know it doesn't matter. The mortar shells will never hit us.

Six has given me spatial awareness. Not just the sixth sense that makes you shuffle your feet in the subway to avoid stepping on someone's toes. It is four-dimensional, including time, elevation, and terrain. Pre-mission memories of the latest maps are layered into Six and our cover drones constantly update me during the ride.

I like using the spatial awareness Six has given me. I mean, I really like it. I get a boost knowing I can calculate mortar trajectories in my mind, and there's a deep satisfaction when they miss us. It's more than just the pleasure of getting a math problem right. It's a deep bodily sensation of spreading endorphins akin to runner's high or sex.

I whistle so I won't look like the suit when she told us about Duty Six.

The mortar rounds whistle too, but the NCOs never bitch about that.

When a sense of danger triggers Lubarbri, it becomes a compulsion to duck for cover. The necessity of wearing a hat so others won't see the bulge on my skull. A dark, intense fear of vampires and the red synthetic plush on cinema seats. A sense of death and wrongness that disappears when I turn away from whatever threatens me.

But sometimes Lubarbri informs me that I'm going in the right direction, as if I'm still carrying the ghost of Six. I get a spur-of-the-moment boost when that happens, like I'm evading mortar rounds.

I still haven't learned to distinguish danger from the right direction. But when I find her in a New York bar called The Plush Vampire, I'm sure there are elements of both involved.

Once I clear the scanners and pat down at the door, I see her sitting at her own square table with a lonely candle. She's wearing a red angora sweater that looks enough like plush that I have to knock down two double shots of Scotch at the bar before I even consider sitting down. I bring two more shots to the table.

"Tell me about Duty Six," I say as I sit down.

She looks up, and the smile I remember from the bunker sweeps across her face. Her teeth are still straight, her satisfaction still deep, but exhaustion has settled over her.

"I can't."

I fear her red sweater, scared that she'll run away. I look at her pose, observe how she moves. She has an insecurity about her that tells me she's not a fighter or an athlete. Still, on two legs she'll outrun me, leave me without answers, and more importantly, without understanding. Because I know that if anyone will understand lubarbri, it's her.

I also realise my question scares her. To keep her seated, I grab hold of her arm and pour a double shot over her angora sweater sleeve. With two fingers, I lift the candle and hold it only inches away.

"Tell me what happened to you after Duty Six." And, because it's only a matter of time before someone notices, and because alcohol evaporates quickly, I give her a deadline.

"Five," I say. "Four, three, two--"

"Stop, please."

The plea is weak and makes her so vulnerable that I feel unclean, like my threat has suddenly turned into rape. And perhaps it has, against my will.

"Numbers trigger yours," I say. It's not a question. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Ten," Sergeant Thompson says.

I know he means mortar positions we've passed so far, but it is also the tenth explosion since we hit the stretch of road leading to the Beqaa Valley. From the tension in his voice I know Thompson would love to go dark across the countryside because he thinks hitting a big rock while driving blind is safer than getting shot at by blind artillerists.

I can't see the parabolas of the shells with my third eye the way the Sarge believes--I don't know where the gunners are aiming, after all--but Six brings me close enough that I'm not afraid of them. I'm more afraid of patrols and impromptu machine gun nests. The spotter drones circling above us are updating the map in the truck, but they sometimes miss a duo of gunners.

That's where Six helps me the most: Remembering details from the maps, integrating the tracks where patrols move and holes in the ground where gunners sometimes dig in. I put myself in their place and figure out where they're most likely to strike from. And right now, it's telling me that leaving the road will likely put us in the sights of infantry with truck-stopping power.

The whistle of number ten is broken briefly by the next launch explosion.

"Eleven," the Sarge counts. He shudders as ten explodes behind us. "Damn, Bechman, you've got to get off this road."

Six says no, so I stay on course. But Sergeant Thompson doesn't have Six, and nothing in my enhancement prepares me for the sudden grab he makes for the wheel. The truck swerves left off the trail into rocky terrain. The carbon-weave tires can take the rumble, but I struggle to get back on the road again because I know something is wrong.

And then I hear it. The whistle of eleven and the additional whine of twelve that I realize must have been fired when ten exploded. Twelve is heavy, 110mm, the only one the Lebanese have on this stretch of the road.

Six calculates the distance to the launch explosion and the pitch of the whine, and it tells me the shell will go past the road. I brake and try to turn back the way we came, but Sergeant Thompson is clasping the wheel like a lifebuoy, and we skid instead of stop. Number twelve explodes about ten meters ahead of us.

Later I hear someone screaming and a medic yelling, "Hold that leg!"

I think he's talking to me, but the shock is making it hard to keep track of things. I'm losing Six. I've no idea where the Lebanese are, where I am, where their shells are going to drop next. My Six neurons are losing their connection to my limbic system and the shock and adrenaline are screwing with my neurochemicals big-time. The painful, bitter taste in my mouth is overwhelming.

I can't feel my leg, can't even feel the pain where the medic is wrenching the tourniquet into the wound, or the plasma pack his assistant is sticking into my arm. But I know the vampires are coming for us from the right side of the road.

"Lubarbri says to move two clicks southwest, away from the road, and call in a chopper," I say.

I don't even remember if a chopper can land there, but the sense of danger is weaker in that direction. The soldiers do as I say. Maybe they just think leaving the road is a good idea, or maybe they figure Lubarbri is a radio connection only I can hear.

Not even her name gives her solace. Octavia, Number eight. I ask her about her last name, but even saying that gets her neurons firing. Numbers for her, sense of fear for me, the triggers are different. And maybe that's not so surprising, considering what triggers other emotions in humans.

"Call me Peace," she says, and I do.

Peace was an army accountant. They sentenced her to Duty Six much the same way as me, but her mission was to work as a super-number cruncher. No covert operations for her, only reviews of logistics reports and calculations of operational costs and a house with a nice privet hedge that she liked to trim with her electrical hedge cutter.

A small accident costs her two fingers and gets her transferred from accounting to recruiting.

Later, while I'm nearly bleeding out in Lebanon on my eighth border run, Peace finally washes out of the army when her shrink writes the words 'incurable numerophobia' in her personnel file. Even her alternative position introducing fresh recruits to Duty Six is more than she can handle, because the word Duty is so incurably linked to a number that presses overwhelming neuro-chemical buttons.

But she's not done for, far from it. Even with numbers messing her up, her planning skills and pattern recognition are way better than anyone else's. She's thirty-three, and if she decided to play chess professionally she would become a grandmaster in two years.

"I call mine Poyosa," she says. "Poh-joh-SA."

Lubarbri or Poyosa, sometimes emotions just need to be dulled. I push the remaining shot of Scotch across the table and Peace smiles in recognition.

While I've been travelling, Peace has had time to do some research.

Brains will try to adapt, she explains. If you damage the inferior frontal gyrus, other parts of the brain will attempt to learn languages from scratch. If a stroke makes one side of your body lame, redundant motor centres will try to get those parts moving again. The brain doesn't always succeed in adapting, but it tries.

But Peace and I aren't brain damaged. We have a surplus of neurons and too few limbs. And the centres in our brains that used to control my leg and her fingers have gone looking for something else to control. Now they control our Six neurons instead.

While Peace explains all this, I can almost feel the cells in my brain at war. My original grey matter is grasping for control, creating new connections to exploit Six's spatial awareness and incorporate it into my personality. Six, already connected to my fear and taste and memory centres, trying to wring itself into my consciousness. And when Peace mentions neural feedback, the brain's electrical field, I envision an independent tug of influence, an invisible hand trying to decide who I am.

"You know," she says after a pause, "The Duty still exists."

They know about the failed experiments, of course. There are more washouts than the two of us, and since none of us is supposed to talk about it, none of us exists in any meaningful political way.

"There's an elite that uses people for their own ends," she says. "They send us to fight their battles, but if we break they don't give a damn."

"You have a plan to get us some help?"

"I don't want help," Peace says. "I want the elite removed from power."

This revolution talk should have made my fear of her angora sweater blow up, but Lubarbri isn't warning me of anything wrong.

"There are many of us already," she says. "The Neuron-enhanced. The Duty isn't a failed experiment if you ask the Army. It's a highly profitable program that can give a lot of rich folks what they want: Kids with the smarts to stay on top of the world. The army surgeons make the fortune they need for the next war, and the rich folks get ahead. The question is: what happens when rich kids get hurt?"

"The rich kids get lubarbri," I say. "And their parents will hire councillors to help their goldylumps deal with reality."

"Bingo," she says. "I'll guide those kids. I'll explain their progress to the parents. I'll even take a hefty fee while I teach the kids what's been forced on them. And sooner or later the revolution will come because those kids are never going to listen to their parents again."

"And the neuron-enhanced kids who don't get hurt?" I ask. "They'll have the means to rule and no lubarbri to cope with."

She smiles, and I see her poyosa planning skills in her eyes. "That's the beauty of it. John, when you ran Duty missions, did they ever really trust you?"

I think of Sergeant Thompson, how he grabbed the wheel when he should have let me lead him to safety.

"The neuron-enhanced will be more like you and me than like their parents," she continues. "They're other-human. They'll need our guidance too. And there's no way they'll let the men who sent us to war decide for them."

I chew on that for a moment. "A bloodless revolution."

"Bingo," she repeats.

Her smile shares what she's seen in her poyosa crystal ball while I searched for her. We, the failed experiment, the batch that didn't hatch, we're still years ahead of the competition. Because neuron-enhancement will continue. Even now, damaged, I have an edge, a heightened sense of danger. Everyone will want those skills, risk and all, but if Peace has her way, the failed experiments won't be failures. We'll be other-human, just like the unscarred enhanced.

I walk her home, to the best of my ability. I keep my hat on, and she puts a jacket over her red angora sweater. Something in me relaxes. At her apartment block she points to the sign for the fourth floor, not quite looking at it. Septimia. Hell of a name for a mother.

For a while we just stand there, not saying the question we both know is on our minds: Will you help me cope?

Of course, the answer is already evident. I need a guide who knows lubarbri better than I do. She needs someone with a flair for danger, because we won't exactly be without opponents.

Maybe that's the reason I wonder if lubarbri has led me into a trap for once.

Lubarbri is the idea of incompleteness, an unscratchable itch. But as I limp from Peace's apartment to the shelter home, I think that Lubarbri is also super-completeness. The ability to connect, beyond loss, beyond the additional emotional burdens, to another human being with other-human feelings.

With Duty Six still around and Peace in New York, I know I'm going to connect to other people with strange emotions shortly. There'll be some weird itches, and I'll help scratch them.

And there, walking the streets of New York, I finally understand why lubarbri brought me to her. Not because I needed to hear her explanations or have her answers, but because following her will ensure my safety in the mental revolution ahead. Lubarbri is telling me to stay on the road.

This time there will be no Sergeant Thompson to twist the wheel in my hands.
Eshenak's Omega

Mike Jansen

Netherlands

Intro

The remains of the Eshenak Tower shrouded the City in early darkness at the start of dusk. In her mind, the dark building's skeleton was yet the vibrant concrete, glass and steel monolith she used to call home. Ashe remembered the view from the top floors, the City sprawling beneath her, dense traffic passing by across many layers and the towers of the Great Houses off in the distance.

The man she called Father, told her on her fifth birthday: "You are our omega, sweetums, remember it well." She recognised the word from her Bible- and language studies, but the meaning he implied she did not grasp. That was just like him. He used to tell her cryptic remarks, references from his collection of paper books, all antiques, he had in his extensive library.

Ashe loved the scent of books, the aroma of dust, nut oil and dark, oak panelling, even the soft leather of the impressive sofa she enjoyed resting on while studying astrophysics.

She cried when the shadow men left. Not because of her dead Father and Mother, not because of the painful wounds in her abdomen. She winced at the recollection of the sword sliding in above her belly button, deflecting on something inside and coming out on her right flank. She cried for the bonfire they made of the books. Hundreds they piled up on top of Father's body, doused them with whiskey and stronger liquor from the bar, then ignited that. House Eshenak ceased to exist. However, they neglected to finish up. Under cover of darkness Ashe escaped, helped by her caretaker, Iphigenia.

She blinked, and the image receded. Ashe breathed deep. Her legs were dangling from the edge of her favourite lookout spot on a pillar of the old Z8 highway that ended inside the Eshenak Tower. She toyed with the data disks Iphigenia had left her, and thought about the metal box that was still in her backpack. It led to her remembering the last words of her caretaker: "Midnight, when you turn eighteen. Before that it won't open."

So, she waited until the sun set and the stars came out, although they were rarely visible in the artificial light emanating from the City behind her.

Embryo

1.

The corridors Iphigenia took through the burning Eshenak Tower, led to the deepest basements of the building. She carried her charge all the way down, while Ashe kept her arms tightly around her belly to reduce the shocks each step of her caretaker imparted.

Ashe's cold logic took over after the initial terror. She needed to staunch the bleeding until they were safe.

Iphigenia administered a temporary dressing from a dust-covered first aid kit while far above them people screamed, trying to escape the fire, machine guns rattled, and grenades exploded with muffled bangs.

"Ashe, dear, can you stand, can you walk?"

Ashe nodded. "Where do we go? Everything is gone. Father and Mother are dead."

Iphigenia sat down on her knees before Ashe. "You are still here," she said. She wrapped her arms around the girl carefully. "And so am I. Five years I took care of you. That will not stop."

Half a dozen hours later they left the tunnel that ended behind a support pillar of the Z8 freeway. Feverish from her wounds and sheer exhaustion, Ashe still memorised the exact spot, a final memory of the place she once called home.

Three days later she woke up in a hospital bed. Iphigenia sat in a chair beside her, fast asleep, a leaflet with a red cross on it clenched in her right hand.

2.

The house Ashe grew up in was small, an apartment in the suburbs of the City. She attended school, learned what they wanted her to learn, played with the children and then came back home. Iphigenia was always around. Even when Ashe looked from the windows of her school, she sometimes saw her caretaker on a bench, reading from an old-fashioned tablet.

Her real education would start when arriving from school. Iphigenia showed her the information she wanted Ashe to learn on the Undernet. During breaks Iphigenia taught her a variety of lethal martial arts.

"Why do I need to learn all this?" she once asked, around her tenth birthday.

Iphigenia just smiled and wiped a lock of hair from Ashe's forehead. "Little one, you are our omega. You are the future of House Eshenak. For that you must study, know all there is to know about laws, rights, nature, technology, cunning, martial arts and the history of the Houses in the world. You must admit the game of the Houses is much more intriguing than those silly math assignments."

Ashe crawled onto Iphigenia's lap and held her close. "Must I really? Can't we just stay together, forever?"

Her caretaker put her arms around Ashe. "As much as I would like to, my time here with you is limited. Before I go, you must be ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Your rightful place as the leader of House Eshenak. The execution of the plans your parents set in motion. Finding their killers." Iphigenia's eyes were wet with tears. "And revenge, of course."

"Perhaps I want none of that."

"Don't talk nonsense, Ashe Eshenak. Your House has been on the knife's edge repeatedly. It always rebounded and exacted frightful revenge on those who would threaten it. It's in your blood."

3.

Ashe's first boyfriend was sixteen, a year older than her. She accepted his friend request on Socnet and they met at the concrete vine beneath the old slaughterhouse next to the City Canal. They sat hand in hand and watched the petrels dive into the muddy water again and again, picking up beaks full of mud crawlers and an occasional fish.

He kept making jokes and told her all about the things boys his age thought interesting.

"Do you like me?" he asked eventually.

She looked at him again. His profile picture on Socnet looked better. She hadn't expected anything else. His face was somewhat symmetric, and she immediately projected golden ratios on it. His body seemed well formed and strong, although she noticed his movements were stiff and awkward, clearly an aspect she thought would improve with age. She told him of her findings.

"All the damn Houses, must everything be analysed with you?"

She looked at him, not understanding. "Don't you do that?"

He shook his head. "I saw you, I liked you. Must there be more?"

"Does that mean you want to kiss?" Ashe said. She knew a lot from books, real-life experience was scarce. But she was a fast learner.

He released his hand. "I suddenly feel much less inclined," he said.

"What if I told you I would like it too?"

"I would think it contrived."

"Have you kissed girls before?" She saw his face turn red. It made her smile.

"Sure, plenty..."

"Ah. So, no need to kiss me anymore, I would think." She made to get up.

His hand on her hand stopped her. "Wait."

Ashe sat down. Observe, analyse, wait for the perfect moment, then pounce. Sun-Tzu's words were etched in her memory, Iphigenia had made sure.

"You were saying?"

His head softly shook, and she saw lights in his eyes. He leaned into her and she allowed his lips to touch hers. Curious she allowed him to continue until she felt the tip of his tongue against her upper lip. Almost at once she felt the scar on her belly tighten and her nipples grow hard. She pulled back. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"With your tongue?"

"Because I thought it would be nice. You see it in books. And I heard about sims... Adult material, you know..." He winked. "Didn't you enjoy it?"

"It was... interesting, I think."

He shrugged. "You're incorrigible." He got up and kicked a stone into the canal. "You can't just analyse everything, Ashe."

She noticed his face turn red again. This time she recognised anger. Manipulate your enemy's emotions. This puts you ahead in battle.

"Goodbye, Ashe." With his hands in his jacket pockets he shuffled off.

Only when he turned the corner of the slaughterhouse did Ashe remember she did not even know his real name, only his profile handle.

"I'll bet you had no words of wisdom for this, Sun-Tzu," she mumbled.

4.

The sound of a door opening woke Ashe from her slumber. Dim morning light fell in through the high window of her bedroom. Her caretaker walked in with a tray. A piece of lemon pie was on it, her favourite, with a single, lit candle.

Ashe sat upright and put a pillow behind her back.

"Happy birthday, Ashe," Iphigenia said. She smiled broadly, but Ashe read her like an open book. It was a fake smile hiding a deep sadness.

"Little mother," Ashe said, "it's just a birthday. There will be others."

Iphigenia shook her head. Her once dark hair had turned grey. In the shadows the single candle cast, Ashe saw wrinkles she had not noticed before. "For you, I hope. It stops for me." With those words she blew out the candle.

Ashe looked at her and waited.

Iphigenia put the tray on the bed and sat next to her, with her hands folded in her lap. "You're eighteen today. You are now officially Leader of House Eshenak."

Ashe shrugged. "I told you before that I may not be interested in that. As long as we are together."

"That is impossible," Iphigenia said. A single tear rolled across her wrinkled cheek. "Today I must say my farewell."

Ashe felt an icy lump in her stomach. "What do you mean, little mother?"

Iphigenia stood up and took a deep breath. "Your backpack is in the hall, beside the door. There's food and water for a few days and an anonymous credstick. You can take a shower and then it's time to leave." She turned and walked to the door.

"What, leave? Are you kicking me out?" Ashe threw off the blankets and just caught the tumbling candle. She walked out of her room with anger in her heart. In the living room Iphigenia waited with a metal box in her hands. "What is the meaning of this, Iphigenia?" She used her caretaker's name only when angry or sad.

"A gift from your Father. Midnight, on your eighteenth birthday. Before then it will not open. It's your birth-hour." Her caretaker offered her the box that Ashe accepted. Iphigenia put three antique data-disks on it. "This is from your Mother."

The door buzzer announced visitors.

"It's time," Iphigenia said. She hugged Ashe. "Be well. Be strong. Wreak vengeance."

Ashe stumbled after her caretaker who opened the door. A man and a woman in white uniforms, sporting a small red cross on the sleeves, nodded at Iphigenia with friendly smiles on their faces.

"I was expecting you," she said, smiling back.

"Punctual, as ever, in payment as well as repayment," the man said. His smile was all plastic.

"Have you taken care of everything?" the woman asked. "Stopped the lease? Closed off electricity? Water? Data tap?"

Iphigenia nodded.

"That leaves just this final waiver for you. That fulfils and finalises our contract." She held up a dark blue tablet that Iphigenia placed her hand on. A short gong sounded.

"Shall we?" the man said. He offered Iphigena his arm, which she took.

Ashe looked on in total surprise as her caretaker laughed at the jokes the man at her side told, while entering the elevator. The doors closed, and Iphigenia was gone. She placed the box next to her backpack and started for the elevator.

Just outside the door she was reminded she wore only underwear and a shirt.

"Ahem," a voice to her left said. She looked and recognised the building manager, a middle-aged woman with a matronly demeanour.

"Perhaps you should put on some clothes, sweety," she said.

Ashe shook her head. "My caretaker, Iphigenia."

The manager nodded. "Yes, pick up day, right? Iph sure did well for herself."

"I don't get it," Ashe said. "What pick up day?"

"She did not tell you?"

Ashe shook her head. "I know nothing."

The building manager placed her right arm around Ashe's shoulder. "She sold herself to Vincula Rossa, the organ harvesters. Thirteen years of maintenance she got out of it. A rare feat. She knew her worth."

"What do I do?" Ashe said desperately. Her world of a sudden was cold and lonely now that her final link to home was gone.

The manager shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I only came to ask when the cleaners can come in. The next tenants would like to take up residence in the apartment as soon as possible."

Ashe sat on the floor and held her head in her hands. Everything she knew, everything she was used to, everything she had formed her being on, was taken away.

"You have until noon, officially, of course, but the sooner the cleaners can start... You know how it is."

The realisation that her second home, too, was about to end, numbed Ashe. "I need to get my things." No, wait, they're already packed. "A shower and some clothes." And that's about it. For a moment, she felt like she was looking down at her seated form from the ceiling of the apartment.

"Good," the manager said. "Say an hour? Is that ok?"

Ashe breathed deeply, three times, exhaling through her nose. Her body felt like it hadn't slept for weeks. Her logical mind put the pieces of the puzzle together and activated her survival instincts. "It will have to be," she said.

5.

The day seemed a dream, and sometimes a nightmare. She wandered through the City, riding the subway here, or following the moving walkways at the higher levels until she reached the City's edge. From there she walked back to the inner rings through abandoned suburbs.

At dusk, she recognised the wall painting of a bloody phoenix on the side of a building. She turned a corner and silhouetted against the evening sky were the remains of her ancestral home, the Eshenak Tower.

Involuntarily her body took her here. Or maybe it was intentional. Her thoughts had ordered themselves while walking. She had begun to understand the sacrifice of her caretaker and to admire her negotiating skills with Vincula Rossa. Filthy leeches. Now she understood how Iphigenia had always been there for her, without a job, without any access to family assets, always living in fear that her parent's killers would one day come to finish the job. Your sacrifice won't be in vain, little mother.

Out on her pillar the temperature dropped fast. She put on her coat and took one of the sandwiched her caretaker had prepared for her. As soon as she removed the wrapping, the scent of the fresh bread reached her, reminding her of the apartment and Iphigenia's cooking skills.

The metal box beside her reflected the lights of the City. It felt surreal that her Father and Mother had left something for her, like they knew the end was coming. Or perhaps they just prepared for any likelihood. No matter how deep she dug into her memory, the image of her parents remained hazy and she couldn't decide if providence was part of their character.

Occasionally, roughly every ten minutes, a dot passed through the sky, high above her. One of many satellites orbiting the planet. Again, and again she pressed her thumb against the lock. The box refused to open. Resigned she kept staring at the sky, allowing her thoughts to wander. In her fantasy, she would travel through space to the Moon, to Mars, to the asteroid belt and beyond. People lived there, she knew, prospectors, colonists, traders, miners and scientists. The solar system was huge, enough space for a hundred times the entire world population and still it would be empty and cold.

She pressed her thumb on the box again. This time there was a soft click sound. Midnight! She sat straight and carefully lifted the lid. A shining, steel oval was lying on a bed of black velvet. She caressed it with her index finger and felt a small, electric jolt.

"What have you left me, Father?" She spoke out loud. An answer she did not expect.

"Eshenak Laboratories Experimental Autonomous Unit, model seventeen,"

Open mooted Ashe looked at the oval slowly floating up until it was eye to eye with her. A short flash of light stroked her face. She blinked. "What was that?"

"Target verification for imprint. Pleased to meet you, Ashe Eshenak. My role is advisor to the leader of the Eshenak Family."

"I don't remember you," Ashe said.

"My predecessors rarely existed for more than half a year before going insane. Your Father switched me off, just after you were born. You can use me until I become dangerous. At that moment, you can order me to self-destruct."

Ashe looked suspiciously at the shiny oval that produced colourful patterns. She did not know if the drone made them or if they were reflections. "How old were you when he switched you off?"

"Seven months."

"That does not really reassure me."

"That's not my job. How can I be of assistance?"

Ashe breathed deep and thought. Thousands of scenarios ran through her head, varying from guerrilla actions against the other Houses to finding a lonely spot somewhere and try and live her life there. She saw a dot of light pass by in the sky. She wanted to go there. But it won't happen without lots of money. The heir to the House Eshenak fortune and assets might gain access to some funds or pull some strings.

"First, I will find a place to sleep," she said. "Tomorrow I want to know what the name Eshenak still means in the world and plan accordingly. I need to understand my goals." Beside the box were the three data disks. "And I need to know what's on those."

The drone hummed approvingly.

Larva

1.

The central library provided access to the many networks in the world. Ashe felt at ease between the multitudes of screens that she spent a sizeable part of her youth behind. One wing of the building was only accessible with a special permit. It held the physical copies of countless books that humanity had produced. She longed for the dusty smell of old paper and the feel of firm covers.

"Your attention please," the drone said. It seemed a metallic oval presse papier next to the screen that was producing new images at a relentless pace.

"What have you found?"

"Much. Not everything. It does not look good."

Ashe bit her lower lip. "Is anything left? Anything at all?"

"Oh, enough. Your absence all these years has not been good for the assets of House Eshenak. Most of it has been annexed by the other houses. They dug deep. If they could not have it, they buried or blocked it. Touch any of it and their death squadrons will land close by in mere minutes."

By the end of the day Ashe felt the negative outcomes weigh heavy on her. Her shoulders drooped, and she was exhausted.

"I need a break."

"Of course," the drone said. "Where do you want to go?"

"I'm eighteen. I want to taste alcohol."

"There are pubs, discos, dansants and simlons nearby."

"Pub."

"Leave the library, take a right, eighth level, end of Rubicon alley."

"Does it have a name?"

"Does it matter?"

"I think so."

"Caesar's Palace."

Ashe considered the name. "Sounds expensive. I think one time will be ok." She held open her backpack. "Get in."

"Beg pardon?" The voice from the oval drone sounded indignant.

"I want you to sit inside my backpack. Autonomous drones such as you draw too much attention."

"I strongly protest," the drone said. "I'm can easily pass as a guard drone."

Ashe shook her head. "You're too advanced for that."

All the way to the pub she heard a malevolent murmur emanate from her backpack.

Caesar's Palace was a true has-been. Some archaic neon signs proclaimed live music inside and Budweiser on tap. The street in front of the building was wet, the asphalt reflecting the neon light as well as the windows from the buildings surrounding them.

Inside it was hot. The music was hard, raw, certainly not live and it was unpleasantly crowded. She walked to the bar and ordered beer she paid for with her credstick.

At a corner table, she found a vacant seat. She sat down and placed her backpack under her legs, just to be safe. Her first gulp made her mouth contract. She wondered why people liked drinking this stuff. The second was better and the fourth tasted pretty good. She felt the alcohol improve her mood.

Around her people sat talking, a variety of empty and half-filled glasses before them on the table. A large part of the floor was reserved for dancing. Retro Plexiglas tiles with coloured light produced hypnotic patterns to the rhythm of the music and enveloped the dancing visitors in ghostly halos.

"Hey, are you new?"

Ashe looked to her left. A young man, a few years older than she was, sat down beside her. He wore an old-fashioned denim jacket with fashionable rips and tears. His face was quite symmetrical, and she involuntarily imagined golden ratios on his facial features. She gave a curt nod.

The man held his right hand against his chest. "I am Vincenzo." He gave her a friendly smile.

Ashe felt a soft tingle in her abdomen. She smiled back. "I'm Ashe."

"Pleased to meet you. Would it be forward to say I rarely meet women of your calibre in here?"

"How so?" Ashe said, curious.

"You have something pure, uncorrupted." He slid a bit closer, stretched his arm and pointed at the dance floor. "Look at her, with the panther leggings. See the make-up?" Ashe followed his arm. "Or the one with blue hair. All plastic fantastic."

He looked at her again. "You, yes, you, you're the real deal. I like that."

Ashe grinned. "You have the gift of gab, Vincenzo." She took a few more swigs. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Vincenzo looked at her with sad puppy eyes. "What's this? I compliment you and you tell me I'm a liar?"

She blinked and yawned. She suddenly felt very listless and sleepy.

Ashe woke up from light shining through her closed eyelids. She opened her eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling. She sat up and saw she was naked, sitting on a bed. Where am I? What happened? Thoughts of a bar and a young man called Vincenzo resurfaced. She saw dried blood on her fingers and softly groaned.

"You awake?" came the familiar voice of the drone that floated just above the foot of the bed.

"Only just. I don't remember anything. Do you know what happened?"

"Yes." The drone kept silent.

Ashe rolled her eyes. "What?!"

"He took you along, undressed you, took pictures of your naked body and then he took off his clothes as well."

Ashe felt nauseous. Still, she needed to know what happened. "And then?"

"Come see for yourself." The drone moved back a yard.

Ashe looked at the foot of the bed and saw Vincenzo's body. His eye sockets were red pits. His abdomen was an ugly dark blue and his neck had an unnatural angle. She felt her stomach begin to rumble and looked away quickly.

"Impressive," the drone said, while Ashe noisily puked into a pillow. "An Eshenak worthy."

2.

Ashe sat on the couch in the living room, staring ahead until the drone came for her.

"He had it coming. I found dozens of young girls in his files. I figured I should delete yours."

"Easy for you to say. I killed a man."

"With your bare hands," the drone added.

"Rub it in, why don't you." Ashe held her head in her hands.

"I do have a bit of news."

"What?"

"A message. It came in last night. Someone wants to speak with you."

"Can it be trusted?" Ashe said suspiciously. She had lost her faith in the good side of humanity that night.

"The sender indicated having received a message from Iphigenia. The information she supplied, seemed legit."

"Who is he?

"Who is 'he' and why would I want to meet him?'

"It might help to avoid situations such as this. 'He' goes by the name Takamura Kyoshi."

"Never heard of him. Have you?"

"House Eshenak employed a Takamura, top-level scientist. He may be family."

"I don't like maybes..."

The drone buzzed. "You might as well stop living now, I guess. Because just maybe there's no use to that either."

"I'm just paranoid after yesterday."

"Understandable. But apparently you are even capable of defending yourself when you're sedated. So, what are you afraid of?"

Ashe considered its words. "Well alright. Where have you agreed to meet with him?"

"How did you know?"

"You never sleep, so you have much time to ponder everything and plan far ahead. Father was like that, I think. And I'll bet the drones were built based on his character.

"As he built you, his creation, his pride."

Ashe blushed. "He never told me that."

"Me neither. Our appointment is on level one, near the Eshenak Tower. In one hour."

For the second time in three days she approached her old home. Automatically she wandered to her pillar of the Z8 freeway near Eshenak. This time she wasn't alone.

A young man was hanging upside down, his left leg hooked over the edge of the support column. He was clearly of oriental descent, but his clear eyes showed other influences. As soon as he saw her and the drone, he pushed off, somersaulted and landed on both feet.

"Ashe Eshenak?"

"Takamura Kyoshi I presume," Ashe said. She analysed his face, tried to place golden sections on it, but failed. He was too asymmetrical, his nose a little off to the side, a large scar on his left cheek and his right ear was larger than his left ear. He was just plain ugly. It made him all the more interesting.

The young man bowed deeply. "I was sorry to hear about your caretaker, Iphigenia. I was informed after they had already collected her."

Ashe swallowed. His words made her uneasy. "Why are we here, Kyoshi?"

"When Eshenak fell, more than thirteen years ago, my grandfather made me swear an oath, to serve the heirs of House Eshenak and to help them however I could."

"So where were you all these years?"

"Your caretaker had erased all traces. Which was good, of course. But I knew this day would come." He dropped to his knees before Ashe and looked up at her. "I pledge my loyalty to House Eshenak and its leader, Ashe Eshenak."

"I don't even know you," Ashe said.

"Then get to know me. My whole life I spent working to this moment, to no longer be ronin."

Ashe looked away and saw her face mirrored in the drone's shiny cover. She did not recognise it anymore. "Where is your grandfather now?"

"He died, sword in hand, while defending the library against the intruders. I was just twelve and saw everything from my hideout. It took six men to subdue him."

"Did you see the fire?"

Kyoshi nodded. "When I saw that, I knew the day was lost."

A good general knows when to retreat, to live, fight and win another day. "You are my general, Kyoshi." One clear, all-encompassing moment Ashe saw the myriad futures and paths leading there. Kyoshi was on most of those paths. "You are mine."

Kyoshi bowed and Ashe placed her hand on the back of his head. An electric shock coursed through her fingers and she felt nauseous in her abdomen.

"Rise, Takamura Kyoshi. We have work to do."

Her general got up.

"Tears of happiness, Kyoshi?" the drone said.

Kyoshi wiped his eyes with his sleeve and grinned. "Something like that."

"You have your reasons. You also are a reason, for this scenario has been envisioned before. There is no coincidence here," the drone said. "What job were you studying for?"

"I trained to become a library engineer."

Ashe smirked. She took the data disks from her backpack. "Recognize these?"

Kyoshi nodded. "Of course. Kirlian disks. Your Mother had a penchant for them. They record image, sound and emotion. They're of course obsolete as data carriers, but it's still the only way also to record emotion."

"How can we read them? We think there may be messages hidden inside," Ashe said.

"I might know someone who still has some old equipment," Kyoshi said.

3.

The City had many levels. Few people realised that every building, every construction, needed foundations that could well be deeper than the height of the construction.

Ashe and Kyoshi walked through the shadows of the City, deep tunnels with tubes running through them and the ever-present sound of gurgling water. The drone floated ahead of them, lighting the way.

On several occasions, they encountered simple lean-tos built from cardboard boxes and faded pieces of fabric. Children ran past them and in open spots fires burned, where people in rags warmed themselves or roasted undetermined rodents.

As common as the presence of humans in the basements of the City was, one level deeper their absence stood out like a sore thumb. A deathly silence reigned here.

"Not liking this," Ashe said softly.

Kyoshi drew a long dagger. "Me neither." He even whispered.

The drone cared for nothing and flew around to map walls and corridors.

"Where to?" Ashe asked.

A man pointed his knife at a hallway. He went ahead, Ashe close behind him. The drone floated above them, illuminating their path.

The open spot came sooner than expected. Soft fluorescent lights in shallow niches revealed racks of antique computer equipment. In a glass display Ashe saw one of the very first mobiles with a graphic touchscreen.

"A real collector," she whispered.

Kyoshi nodded. He walked through the racks, then waved Ashe to come over.

She stood next to him and saw an old man on the ground. His back was a bloody mess where bullets had pushed their way out.

"We must leave," Kyoshi said, his voice trembling.

Ashe took his arm. "Are you ok?"

"I knew him. This is a sad day." He took a deep breath and started scanning the racks. "Got it." He returned holding a device with a single slot.

The two shadow men ran noiselessly into the open spot, holding automatic pistols with laser guides. The drone was faster and warned Ashe and Kyoshi who ducked behind the racks while bullets impacted around them. A split second to reload. He moved faster than Ashe's eyes could follow. One of the shadow men fell with a dagger in his throat. The other threw a grenade at them. Ashe and Kyoshi ran off with bullets whistling around them into one of the corridors. The explosion threw them several yards forward.

Ashe was confused from the blast, but Kyoshi kept a clear head. He took her arm, pulled her into a narrow opening and pushed her down. Behind them all was silent. A big, white cloud of smoke drifted through the corridor carrying the sharp scent of gunpowder.

In the swirls of the white vapour a dark figure appeared. Kyoshi stood before Ashe, a short sword in each hand.

The shadow man stumbled along and came into proper view. He wore a classical Ninja outfit, obviously improved to make him nearly invisible in only the barest of shadows. He floundered like a wired dummy and his eyes, the only thing visible through his clothes, showed anger, fear and insecurity. Behind his neck Ashe and Kyoshi noticed the drone.

"Drone?" Ashe said.

"I have him," the drone said. "Every shadow man worthy of his fee uses implant stimulation to train. I have in me all the schematics and keys to manipulate those."

Ashe got up. "Can he answer questions?"

"I can," the shadow man said.

"How did you know about us?"

"That drone, may Mithras curse it to hell, knocked on too many doors at once. From that moment satellites have followed your every move and even deciphered your conversations. That's how we found out about this place. The Houses want you terminated. Preferably soon."

"Is that technically possible, drone?" Ashe said.

"Yes, for the right money. If so, there's no safer place on the planet. They're frightened."

Ashe closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her eyelids that had occasionally been unbearably itchy since her birthday. She looked at Kyoshi. "Have you ever executed anyone?"

Her general shook his head.

"I'll walk back to the entrance. Join me when you're finished here."

Kyoshi swallowed uneasily, but still managed an impeccable bow.

Ashe left the drone with Kyoshi and the shadow man and returned. Two minutes later man and machine joined her. She saw Kyoshi, observed his posture and noticed the change she had presumed and considered desirable: He had killed his first, defenceless human and had lost innocence and the accompanying reserve. He needed that. Like she needed him.

4.

The club was called Butler James. The sign on the façade showed a man in classical British butler costume with a bowler hat. The subtext read: 'Your best business is secret business.'

Ashe, Kyoshi and the drone were in an alcove in the wall. The food they ordered rose up from the table.

"I don't feel any signals or fields," the drone said. "Even the newest satellites can't see here."

"Good," Ashe said. She took a rice roll containing raw fish. Chewing she placed the first disk in the Kirlian player.

A tsunami of projected images, sounds and feelings flooded the space.

Kyoshi switched off the device. "Easy there." He pushed several tiny buttons and restarted the disk. The face of a woman appeared. She closely resembled Ashe. "Your Mother," he said.

The woman floating in the air before her seemed sad, her pain almost tangible and her words sounded exceptionally desperate. "Ashe, dear, if you hear this, I'm no longer here. I will have had to leave you. I hope all is well. You seeing this is positive, for it means you've reached your eighteenth birthday. Unfortunately, it also means House Eshenak has ceased to exist and you are on your own. I need to tell you about that..." Ashe listened with her mouth open.

"I never knew we had such an extended family," Ashe said as soon as her mother's message was finished. She felt nearly physically ill from all the emotions that washed over and through her. She looked at Kyoshi and an image of her teeth in his naked flesh rose. A warm glow spreads from her belly. She blinked.

"It was before I was around too," the drone said. "Your parents were excellent strategists. They were also too soft, especially for their enemies, always prepared to cooperate instead of fight. There have been moments in the history of your House that your parents should have finished off the competition, but they neglected to follow through.

"You have already judged them," Ashe said.

"I do enjoy efficiency." The drone made a high buzzing noise that Ashe had learned to identify as cynical laughter. "At the same time, I admire your parent's foresight. Sending part of the family off planet was brilliant. Especially since it remained completely secret."

"I wonder where they hid the ship," Ashe said.

"How so?" Kyoshi asked.

"We're not safe anywhere on Earth. The satellites will keep track of us. There are more shadow men than we can eliminate. And there's more family, out there."

He scratched the black hair on his scalp. "So, you think they've foreseen that too?"

"Seems logical. If all of this was planned, why not a ship? Or perhaps a reservation on a flight to Luna station, to Mars even?"

"Shouldn't we find out first where your family went off to?"

"Think, general," Ashe said. "Where would you send them?"

He pondered. "Good defences, far removed from Earth, but not too far from the Sun, hard to find, spread the risks." He smiled. "The asteroid belt. So, Mars would be the logical first destination."

The drone found the reservations after two days of hunting obscure references and minuscule traces her parents had left behind. Three days later the stratosphere jumper departed, carrying Ashe and an 'associate'.

The next flight to Mars Platform on the passenger liner Shuttlebraij took more than six weeks.

Pupa

1.

"This wreck will be our coffin, Ashe Eshenak. I will follow you everywhere, but I don't like putting my life on the line like this."

Ashe nodded softly. Using all her concentration she steered the reconnaissance vessel past a cluster of slowly revolving asteroids. "This is what we could afford, Kyoshi. I was glad enough the seller recognised Eshenak and asked for an amount my credstick could handle."

"What's with the drone? He's quiet. I don't like that."

Ashe shrugged. "He's thinking of the future. That, or it's dreaming weird computer dreams, or it's going completely batshit crazy. I'm hoping the first."

"Thousands of suitable candidates for colonization in the belt. How will we ever find them?"

Ashe smiled. "I thought about that: prospectors."

"You think the mining corps know where they are?"

"No," Ashe said. "And if they know, they won't tell, unless they can turn a profit. They do have a central database that lists all their claims, a requirement if they wish to retain their exclusive rights on their finds." She pulled up a model of the belt and set the ship's computer to colour in the registrations.

"I see the colours of rival Houses," Kyoshi said.

"You'll find them wherever there's money, power or advantage to be gained. They'll be targets, later on, if we're still alive then." She removed all asteroids from the picture that could hold less than a hundred people. "Now it's less than a thousand, from the millions of rocks floating around here. Eliminate what's known, reveal the unknown."

"It's still a lot of work," Kyoshi said. "And each hour in this environment increases our odds of a fatal collision."

"So, stop complaining, Takamura, you're breaking my concentration."

Kyoshi fell silent.

"The prospectors were sent alright, but they never returned. They disappeared. Not very strange, prospecting is a dangerous profession with a high rate of accidents. This is the list of mining corporations and the asteroids they wanted investigated."

"How did you get these lists?"

"The drone was bored, he acquired them."

"What do the statistics tell you?"

Five asteroids appeared on screen in a neat table, with the last column holding the number of disappeared prospectors. These five listed more than ten each.

"Why didn't these companies go out and see for themselves?"

Ashe snorted. "Exchange information? Give away commercial advantage? For a cheap human life?" She rubbed her itchy eyes.

Kyoshi nodded slowly. "When you put it like that, I understand. Does it bother you, all that waste? Your eyes are red."

Ashe shook her head. "No, just my eyes are itchy."

He stared outside. "Who says we won't be destroyed if we get close, like other space debris?"

"No one. I'm just hoping the name Eshenak will provoke the proper response. For us, of course."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Nothing like family, eh?"

"Which one shall we do first?"

Ashe pointed at a white dot, deep in the centre. "That one. Centrally located, largest of the five, most massive. Gravity less than a tenth of a g, but noticeable."

"Travel time?"

"A week. Maybe more if we encounter obstacles."

Kyoshi's shoulders drooped. "And what do we do in the meantime?"

Ashe put her hand on his thigh and slowly moved it up. "I know something." She winked. "Drone?"

"Yes, Ashe Eshenak?"

"Can you fly this ship?"

"Of course. And much better than you or that boring ship's computer."

"Good, take us to that asteroid on the screen. We have other things to do right now." The drone remained silent. Ashe unbuckled, helped Kyoshi from his chair and pulled him along to the sleeping cabin.

2.

"So dreadfully sorry I have to interrupt your thirty-second copulation, but we have arrived."

Ashe and Kyoshi left the sleeping cabin grinning sheepishly and joined the drone.

The dirty grey potato ahead of them between the countless pieces of debris in space, had one striking feature: the debris field had been cleaned up to two miles out from the asteroid. Ashe saw it right away. "A gravity pit or force field emanating from that rock that pushes the debris away."

"Want to signal from the edge? Will that give enough time to get away?"

Ashe sat in the pilot's chair. "No. We'll fly straight toward them while broadcasting. Drone, send a broad-spectrum radio message. House Eshenak approaches."

"Why don't I have a name?" the drone said.

Ashe looked to her side where the metal oval floated above the ship's computer control panel. Quick, indefinable patterns danced across the metal skin of her servant. "Do you need one?"

The light patterns halted for a moment. "Yes, I would like a name. But who can give me one?"

Kyoshi looked at Ashe who nodded at him. "The leader of House Eshenak seems the proper answer, right?" he said.

The machine thought about that unusually long. "That is an obvious choice, mister Takamura."

"Simplicity and efficiency, that's what I like," Kyoshi said.

"Funny, that resembles my motto," the drone said.

Ashe considered the drone. It had become quieter in the past weeks, more introverted, sometimes blabbing complete nonsense followed by an easy joke as an alternative to its usually biting sarcasm. "I shall name you Zeno. He was one of my most beloved Greek philosophers."

"A paradoxical choice," the just named drone said. "I like Zeno."

"Good. Zeno. Move us forward and start transmitting."

"Aye, aye," Zeno said. The ship slowly accelerated and started to emulate the target's rotation such that it seemed the potato shape hung still before them in space. The asteroid belt slowly rotated around them, and the bright spot of the sun was like a white line that crossed the viewport of the cockpit.

"Any response?" Ashe said when they were midway.

"Nothing," Zeno said.

"Do you see those tiny circles, there beneath that ridge?"

Zeno placed an image stream inside the ship's computer and enhanced the resolution. "They're portholes. You can see the rivets."

Ashe nodded. "They're here alright. Wondering what they should do about us."

"Whatever, it better be fast," Kyoshi said. "Even at this low velocity we'll crash on the surface."

He had not said the words when a piece of the rock several yards across started to move to the side.

"They heard you," Ashe said.

"It's weird that the first asteroid we visit would be the correct one," Zeno said. He ordered the ship's computer to make small course corrections.

"Not if the other four on our list is also part of House Eshenak," Kyoshi said. "It makes them easier to find, but also stronger and more flexible."

Ashe turned her head and stared at him. "Repeat that, please."

"Stronger and more flexible?"

"Before that..."

"They're all part of House Eshenak."

"That's what I thought you said, yes." She scratched the itching bump on her head that had appeared in the last few days. Ashe had dismissed his worries. There were no medical facilities around to examine her anyway.

Lights switched on inside the cavern inside the rocks after the immense doors slid sideways all the way. Inside clusters of ships hung from pillars reaching up from the rock. Mechanical arms stretched towards their ship, grabbed it and carefully moved it to a standard airlock.

"That was easier and faster than I expected," Ashe said. "So, I worry."

Someone pounded on the door of the airlock and the sound rang hollow through the ship.

Kyoshi grinned. "And they're curious about us. The feeling's mutual."

Ashe nodded. "Obviously. Zeno, hide somewhere."

"Why?"

"Insurance."

"Wise. I'll show them who's boss here. Hahaha!" The drone floated toward the sleeping cabin, followed by Ashe and Kyoshi's gaze. Kyoshi looked at Ashe and tapped his forehead.

They opened the airlock and looked straight into the eyes of a friendly man with grey eyes and grey hair. Ashe studied his long arms and legs and the graceful moves that propelled the man from the walls of the airlock to stop directly before them.

"Greetings. I am Hiram, envoy of the Triumvirate. Welcome to Platform Zero." He stared at Ashe. "The resemblance to your Mother is uncanny."

Ashe looked back in surprise. "You met her?"

Hiram nodded. "Thirty, maybe forty years ago she visited us."

3.

Platform Zero was a maze of corridors and small rooms, excavated from the asteroid. On the way Hiram explained how it was built, over a hundred years ago. The three bounced and bumped through the low gravity of the asteroid and Kyoshi especially hit his head at least a dozen times before he managed to control himself.

Hiram laughed. "Force is less important here than suppleness and flexibility." His face carefully neutral he continued describing the various locations they passed. "Platform Zero has been an ore warehouse, a hotel, a retreat for the Eshenaks, a penitentiary facility, a research lab, a space marina and a vegetable greenhouse. There were a few more obscure plans, such as the fusion engines one of the Eshenak forebears constructed, that was never used, but that does give us plentiful energy. Platform Zero has seen it all."

"And now part of the Eshenak family lives here," Ashe said. "It was fortuitous that these facilities were available."

Hiram grinned. "Call it coincidence if you want, my opinion is that your Father, his Father and Grandfather had great foresight."

"I did not know Father and Mother that well, but I've noticed a thing or two. That's how we got here."

"I'm not surprised. They always cared for their family. After their deaths, we hit a few rough spots, but the colony managed and we're now stronger than ever before."

They entered a somewhat larger hallway, more like a hall, with passages opening at several levels. They saw other inhabitants walk around, all of them men and women with long torsos and limbs, completely adapted to low gravity. From a distance, they resembled insects crawling along walls and stairs.

"As you see, there's always someone at work somewhere. We work in teams, so we can keep up a continuous production. One of the advantages of our distance to the sun: we can regulate day and night rhythms for each group of people."

"I see the advantage in that," Ashe said.

Hiram walked ahead to a long stair leading up, insofar the asteroid had an up or down. He touched a pressure plate on the double doors at the end that slid sideways without noise. The room they entered had two-yard-high windows along the length of two walls, giving spectacular views of part of the asteroid and the asteroid belt.

Behind a long table were three women, one young, one middle-aged and one old. Ashe noticed Eshenak traits in each of them and the middle-aged one reminded her strongly of her Mother, although she remembered precious little. The youngest seemed to wear glasses. Ashe studied her and found out her eyes were covered in facets. High on the side of her forehead were two shiny antennas, like feelers. In the shadows in the corners of the room were several young men carrying exoskeletons and fighting clubs.

Hiram bowed deep. "Your Highnesses, as ordered I bring to you Ashe Eshenak and her companion." Discreetly he moved back and left the room.

"Welcome, sister," the middle of the three women said. "Bringing your soldier was not necessary." She pointed at Kyoshi.

"He is my general. Where I go, he goes," Ashe stated.

The middle woman nodded. "Then we understand his presence."

"Are you related to House Eshenak?" Ashe said.

"Are you really from House Eshenak?" the middle woman said. "If not, you would never have passed the free zone. You were only allowed entrance on the chance you might be telling the truth."

"But how shall we prove it?" Ashe said. "Official IDs were hard to come by on Earth without the rival Houses finding out and coming after us. So, no ID."

"Tell us about your earliest memories," the eldest of the three women lisped.

Ashe told them about her early years in the Eshenak Tower, her first memories until the night the shadow men came.

"You are Ashe Eshenak," the eldest woman said. "That means we will not throw you out of the airlock. Family is special."

Ashe looked at Kyoshi who gave her a faint smile and nodded. "What happens next?"

"Alyxia will communicate with you," the eldest said. She pointed at her granddaughter. "If there is any more information we might need, or if you turn out to be a spy for one of the other houses, she will find out and take appropriate measures."

"And then what? I'm not a spy, no danger to you, then what happens?"

"We'll find you a suitable partner. There are several princes on the asteroids we've colonised. We can use an influx of fresh blood."

Ashe folded her arms in front. "And House Eshenak? The rivalling Houses? In their eyes, we are vermin that must be exterminated."

The middle-aged woman shook her head. "House Eshenak no longer takes part in the game of the Houses. We are House Eshenak in exile. Our existence is here, we try to survive. Accept that or walk through the airlock."

The youngest of the three got up from her chair. Her arms and legs were extremely long from a life spent in low gravity and with her black eyes and the antennas on the side of her head she resembled a giant insect. With careful movements, she walked around the table and approached Ashe.

Ashe got up too. She assumed a defensive position that nearly launched her into the ceiling in the low gravity. Halfway the arms of Alyxia caught her. She felt the young woman's strong hands on her temples and a weird, deep pressure welled up inside her. She grabbed the hands and held on tight.

"Let go," Alyxia hissed, more to Ashe's willpower than her hands holding her.

While Ashe felt Alyxia push against her brain, she suddenly observed the scene from the ceiling, something she had experienced before. She now noticed swirls and vortices in the space between them and she guessed they were streams of consciousness and maybe more that they were exchanging.

Curious she followed a stream that exited Alyxia's head with the antenna the clear source. She pushed it and the stream adjusted to her will. Then she pushed herself into Alyxia's head.

In mere moments years of experience, knowledge and insights were pumped into her, like a waterfall of data being poured over her. Now she understood what Alyxia attempted to achieve, a similar process in which she could absorb Ashe's thoughts.

Suddenly she felt watched, then she was expelled from Alyxia's head. The young woman now looked at her with eyes glowing in all facets. "You!" That one sound was like a primal scream that threw Ashe back into her own body. Alyxia released her temples and grabbed her neck. With almost inhuman strength she started to choke Ashe.

Ashe tried to wrestle loose, but Alyxia's bones and muscle felt like steel. She felt her consciousness begin to fade.

The hands let go. Air. Ashe desperately gasped for breath while she slowly drifted to the ground. Before her Alyxia still stood. From her forehead protruded one of Kyoshi's long daggers. The young woman's body shook and trembled, but she did not fall.

Ashe got up and looked around. The two women behind the table stared wide-eyed at their daughter and granddaughter. Kyoshi had been backed into a corner by the men in the exoskeletons. Their batons kept him pinned to the wall. One of his arms was at an unnatural angle. The men were clearly waiting for a sign.

"Wait," Ashe said. She held both her hands up. "First a doctor."

The older woman was the first to shake off her shock. "She's right." She pressed a button on her wristband and rapidly gave instructions. Thirty seconds later a gurney was wheeled into the room with three nurses and a doctor who carried a portable tool kit.

Carefully they placed Alyxia on the gurney and the nurses connected wireless sensors all over her body and head. The toolkit was switched on and above the control panel a three-dimensional image of Alyxia appeared.

"We need to prepare the operating room," the doctor said while magnifying the picture of Alyxia's head tenfold. "I don't know how this got here," he pointed at the dagger, "but fortunately it seems to have missed both hemispheres. If we're careful we can remove it without further damage. We'll know more in a few hours." As fast as they had come, the doctor and the nurses left, this time taking Alyxia along.

"Your general attacked the leader of House Eshenak," the woman said. "Punishment is required."

Ashe stood straight, stretching so the blue spots in her neck were visible. "He defended me, the one he swore his loyalty to, the true leader of House Eshenak. Not the one in exile.

"You are leader of a dead house, Ashe Eshenak. Your word has no value here."

Ashe considered the information she had found inside Alyxia's mind. More was at stake here than was being told. "And you are slowly dying. Alyxia is infertile. Without succession, your branch will end too."

"That's why we wanted to accept you, and have you bond with one of our princes. Sometimes we need fresh blood."

Ashe nodded. "Yes, it is a perfectly logical solution. What will happen to my general, Kyoshi?"

"We're not inhuman. He'll face trial before we throw him out the airlock."

4.

Two days later they reconvened in the room where Ashe had her first meeting with the triumvirate.

She had been given time to prepare and to await the result of the surgery. Alyxia had survived, although she was still weak and incapable of speech. Ashe did not mind that. All she needed to do was to instil doubt.

"Are you ready?" Hiram asked.

"Prepared for anything," Ashe said. She sat down next to Kyoshi who sat with his broken arm in a cast on a dais, guarded by two men in exoskeletons.

"Ridiculous situation," Kyoshi said in a soft voice. "She was choking you."

"You were just in time," Ashe said. "I owe you my life."

"I don't think they'll waste a lot of time for passing judgment," he said.

Ashe grinned. "Fortunately, I may have something to say about that."

There was a painful silence that Kyoshi was first to break. "Ashe, about last week in the sleeping cabin..."

Ashe stopped him. "No. Not about. You are my general. Not my lover. Stop thinking about it."

He hung his head.

"And snap out of it," Ashe said. "You have no clue what the future holds."

"I expect it to be short and violent."

A wheelchair carrying Alyxia, leader of House Eshenak in exile, was pushed inside by her mother, closely followed by her grandmother. Alyxia could be awake or asleep, her facet eyes did not betray life or death. A thick bandage covered her head. Alyxia was wheeled next to the chairs behind the table and her mother and grandmother took seats on either side.

The room held some three dozen interested people. Ashe only saw the middle-aged and elderly.

Hiram cleared his throat and in a loud voice proclaimed he wanted silence. Next, he named the case and gave the word to Alyxia's mother.

"Truly this has been a disgrace. During peaceful negotiations Takamura Kyoshi violently attacked the leader of House Eshenak, our beloved Alyxia. He stabbed her head with his dagger. The punishment for the attack of a House leader is death."

"Agreed," Alyxia's grandmother seconded.

Ashe looked at Alyxia. She searched for the feeling she had had before, when she momentarily left her body. Not much later she floated above the other woman's body and through her antenna she pushed her way in. With great effort, she moved muscles and air inside the woman that pushed the word 'disagreed' out through her larynx. She quickly retreated to her own body.

"Did I head correctly?" Ashe said.

"Impossible," Alyxia's mother said. She put her ear against her daughter's mouth, but she remained silent.

"Nothing is impossible," Ashe said. "Even the grave injustice now perpetrated against Takamura Kyoshi. After all, he was only defending the leader of House Eshenak." Ashe made sure the people in the room heard her words. "He attacked your queen and for that he must die. Even if done in my defence. But dying is too good for him." She paused. People needed to get used to the idea that certain fates could be worse than death. They accepted it remarkably fast, although Ashe had her suspicions about that.

"Say what you want, Ashe Eshenak," Alyxia's mother snarled.

"It's obvious Kyoshi is devoted to me, could not live without me. Like most of you inside this asteroid feel for Alyxia, right?"

She waited until a few people nodded confirmation.

"Therefore, I wish to propose banishment. Forever."

Alyxia's mother and grandmother looked at each other.

Ashe noticed them discuss it, with nearly unnoticeable gestures and facial expressions. Undoubtedly, they were also using scent and thought, like Alyxia, like she, although less well developed.

"What are you doing?" Kyoshi whispered. "With me gone, you're giving them free reign to deceive you."

Ashe smiled. "Think of the Eshenak foresight."

He bowed his head. "Then I must have faith."

The discussion lasted an hour, pros and cons were weighed and the final verdict was immediate banishment. Kyoshi was taken by the guards that dragged him towards the airlocks. Ashe followed close on their heels.

"Remember the targets? The ones we saw while searching for Platform Zero?" Ashe whispered to him, just before he entered the airlock, during their final embrace.

He grunted. "What of them?"

"Guerrilla. Make the asteroids so expensive they must leave."

"How shall I report my progress?"

She took his head and kissed his lips. "Return tome in one year, not sooner."

Minutes later Ashe watched through one of the portholes while the ship left the hangar. She waited until the guards that accompanied her, had left.

"Zeno?"

From the shadows above her came a high-pitched giggling. "If a hare and a tortoise race inside a quantum-matrix, what then is the time coefficient?"

"Are you going insane or were you always like this?"

"I was modelled after your father. What do you think?"

"Certifiable then. Genius crazy. What weapon systems did he integrate into you?"

"That information is quite classified. Only an omega would have access. Are you the one, Ashe Eshenak? Are you the goal the Eshenak family has worked towards for centuries?"

Ashe breathed deep, ordered her mind and studied her options. It was now or never. "Yes, I am the omega my Father foresaw. And I have two obstacles keeping me from reaching my goal. Obstacles that must be dealt with without implicating me."

"In that case, consider them dead. They just don't know it yet," Zeno said. He produced a sound like evil laughter.

Ashe wondered how long the drone would be useful before she invoked the termination procedure.

Imago

1.

The ship that left more than a year ago returned to the asteroid called Platform Zero. Its engines were improved, a particle accelerator was added, and rocket bays filled with projectiles protruded from the sides.

Kyoshi had prepared well. Should Ashe Eshenak no longer be alive, then his vengeance would be worthy of an Eshenak.

The same signal as last time made the hangar door open and he steered the vessel inside, to the same airlock they had connected to last year.

The Ashe Eshenak who waited for him inside had grown tall, her limbs long and slender. She reminded him of Alyxia. Dark facets had grown over her eyes and small antennas had sprouted from the lumps on the sides of her head.

"You've grown," he said. "And changed."

"Adjustments Father deemed necessary. They suit me. You don't have to worry."

"I missed you."

"And I thought of you with every SOS signal that reached us from the belt." She moved ahead of him through the corridors of Platform Zero. There was no living soul anywhere.

"Where is everybody?"

"At work. We need all hands for a large project I've initiated."

"Does it have anything to do with my attacks and infiltrations of the past year?"

Ashe nodded. "Your activities have diverted attention away from us. We can be more open in achieving our goals. I want you to keep up the current strategy."

"I'll need men. More ships, more resources."

"I have a dozen dissidents. They oppose my project and would like to leave. However, leaving the family is not in their mind."

"Do you decide for them?" Kyoshi said. "What about Alyxia and her mother and grandmother? Or the princes they spoke of?"

She smiled. "Yes, I decide for them. Alyxia suffered an unexpected infection. Her mother and grandmother died in a tragic accident. That left me as the sole Eshenak."

A tinny voice sounded above them. "Her, her, her, into the meat grinder. Two for the price of one. Oh, mega discount? Better ring it up!"

"Zeno?" Kyoshi said. "Is he as mental as he sounds right now?"

Ashe gave him an enigmatic smile. "You'll find more coherence in his babbling than you might think at first."

"How long can I stay?"

"One day, two. You're my general. There are still targets in the belt. Eliminate them."

"That will take another three or more years. Then what?"

"Expansion to the inner planets. Mars, Luna, Earth..."

"Should I mention House Eshenak anywhere?"

Ashe shook her head. "Not necessary. One day maybe, not now." She walked ahead of him into a small observatory. With Jupiter floating by above them repeatedly, they ate and discussed strategy and the competing Houses.

2.

Platform Zero appeared sooner than expected on the view screen of Kyoshi's recently conquered cruiser. His successes in the past ten years had won him crew and many new ships. His fleet was more than a hundred larger and smaller vessels. He would never allow direct conflict with the warships of an Earth nation or corporation, he was too careful about that.

"General?" Hiram said.

The old veteran missed both his legs ever since he sent his small ship into the hull of an enemy cruiser. Still Kyoshi had gone to great lengths to save him An Eshenak cherishes family, friends and employees.

"What is it, Hiram?"

"Things have changed since we were here half a dozen years ago." He pointed at the screen.

Long mooring booms appeared. Around the asteroid were dozens of ships, most in early stages of construction, some nearly completed. They were robust ships, not much smaller than the asteroid itself. Hundreds of small figures swarmed over them.

Kyoshi whistled softly. He had been in touch with Ashe often over the past years, but always from a large distance using protected, directional lasers for messaging.

No one needed to know who gave him his instructions. She had never spoken about her great project.

A shuttle transported him from the cruiser to the hangar. A young man, tall, slender and adjusted to life in near-zero gravity, awaited him. He had dark hair and light eyes and he reminded Kyoshi of someone. "Ashe couldn't come herself?" he said while entering. He sniffed. The air held a spicy aroma, not unpleasant, but he was used to the sterile air aboard his ships. The young man remained silent.

The corridors had been expanded, the halls enlarged. Everywhere people were busy. In niches and chambers boys and girls were constructing complicated machinery.

"Where do they all come from?" Kyoshi said.

The young man delivered him to a dimly lit room. The scent he smelled before, was more prominent here. A single light source illuminated Ashe Eshenak who was seated on a dais with her back to a wide curtain that spanned the width of the room. Two ladies-in-waiting stood beside her. They repeatedly offered her morsels from a bowl. On a pillar before her throne rested a metal oval.

"You terminated Zeno?"

"Switched him off," Ashe said. Her voice was deeper, more powerful and he felt the strange urge to bow before her. "A few months of sleep helps. Makes him coherent for a while."

"You've accomplished much the past ten years."

"So, have you. I'm proud of you. Our cooperation bears many fruits."

"Mars and Luna have been abandoned by the great Houses. In the vacuum competition appears.

"They're all Earthbound now?"

"They're eating each other," Kyoshi said. "All growth is gone, so the only way to gain more power is through acquisition. Friendly or hostile."

"And you wait, watch and guide where necessary?"

"Divide and conquer. What are all these new ships about? You never told me."

Ashe lifted an arm and placed many jointed fingers on her lips. She waved and one of the ladies-in-waiting approached. She offered Kyoshi an amber coloured morsel, pressing it against his lips.

"Eat," Ashe said.

Dutiful, he opened his mouth. When the food touched his tongue, he thought his head would explode. "What is this?"

"Ambrosia," Ashe said. "Only for my family. It extends your life."

More lumps were offered, and he ate them all

"Enough," Ashe said. "Sit, tell me all about your adventures."

Two days later Kyoshi left with new goals and missions.

3.

_Return to me, Kyoshi. I miss you._ It was the message he thought he would never receive, fifteen years after his last visit to Platform Zero. He looked up at the bleak coloured Earth, the result of years of civil strife with chemical, biological and nuclear weapons. Still the great Houses lived. They had lost much of their strength, but had also become much more focused.

He rubbed his eyes and scratched his forehead. Through the comm he summoned Hiram, Shane and Lin Liu. "I've been called to Platform Zero. It's up to you three to maintain the status quo."

Hiram smirked. "Give our regards to the Queen, general."

"I shall."

His voyage lasted eight weeks, during which he thought about all those years without Ashe, the many missions he performed, success and failure. Every time the thought of the distant Ashe Eshenak gave him renewed energy to push on.

Platform Zero had been completely transformed. It had become an immense structure, countless asteroids and artificial structures, caught in a matrix of tubes that kept everything together.

He softly whistled when the dimensions became clear. This time patrol ships intercepted and accompanied him.

He was received by the same young man as last time. Kyoshi remembered where he had seen him before. He resembled a young version of himself.

Ashe had hardly changed. She did not seem a day older and she still sat on the same throne. Her smile when she saw him, made his heart skip a few beats.

"Ashe Eshenak, seeing you fills me with joy."

"The feeling is mutual, Takamura Kyoshi," Ashe said. "I wanted you here in the moment of triumph of House Eshenak."

Kyoshi shook his head. "I think I'll need another lifetime to destroy the other Houses."

"Don't worry about them," Ashe said. She gestured, and the room lit up when a model of the solar system appeared in the air around them, resembling the image they saw on the screen of the old ship's computer when they first arrived here. "Look at our progress."

The colours of House Eshenak lit up inside the asteroid belt. Other Houses were added. Slowly the influence of House Eshenak spread through the belt. After the belt, its influence jumped to the inner planets. Simultaneously coloured dots started to appear on the moons of Jupiter and Saturn.

"What is that?" Kyoshi said.

"Wait, see," Ashe urged him.

While the competing Houses kept retreating to Earth, Kyoshi saw the colours of House Eshenak spread through the solar system, until only Earth was differently coloured.

"Now watch," Ashe said. She gestured, and the model shrunk until the solar system had become a tiny ball. Neighbouring solar systems appeared. She pointed at the closest. "Proxima Centauri." The system assumed the colour of House Eshenak. "You can close your mouth now."

"You did all of this?"

"We. You and me. And our sons and daughters."

Kyoshi looked at her in surprise. "What? I don't know... how?"

Ashe smiled. "Do you ever reminisce about that week together in that derelict ship?" She saw his eyes grow big. "Thirty-two times. You gave me enough supply for a century." She nodded at her lady-in-waiting who pulled back the curtain.

The room was another thirty yards deep and in the dusky light Ashe's huge, insect-like, swollen body was just visible, which through peristaltic movements just produced an egg. Another lady-in-waiting took the fresh egg away.

"Father knew what House Eshenak needed to be great again. I am his omega." She shrugged. "And who needs revenge, when you have the universe?"
A Position of Power

Gustavo Bondi

Argentina

Bon jour, inspector."

"Bon soir." The Frenchman shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry that my Spanish is not nearly as good as I might wish."

"And you just used up all of my French," the commissioner responded. "Fortunately, Alberto here is very good at his job. His mother was French, you know." The two men turned to look at the translator, who squirmed a little in their direct gaze. He was obviously a man who preferred to do his job from the background, balding and dressed in trousers and a shirt made of the coarse cloth that all the labourers in Buenos Aires wore. "We should be able to avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings that might lead to unpleasantness."

The inspector pulled a pair of spectacles from his nose and wiped them slowly. "I am not necessarily here to avoid unpleasantness. I am here to make sure that my Emperor receives all the information he needs... and that the responsible parties are not protected by elements inside the city walls."

"You shall have our full assistance. We've all seen your balloons up there in the sky, waiting to rain death on our unprotected people. I assure you that there will be no protection of any sort. Ask for anything you need, and my men will get it for you."

"Thank you," the inspector said, and left, with Alberto on his heels.

As soon as the door closed, Commissioner Fernández looked to the heavens and swore at every member of the Napoleonic line, up to and including the current blot on society, Napoleon V. He stopped to wonder why in the world, at the dawn of the new century, this glorious twentieth century in the Lord's light, American powers still had to make way for the decadent French imperialists.

He also wondered what would happen if he allowed the steam cannons to fire on the airships, but only in passing. Other cities had been foolish enough to do so, and the conclusion was that airships were harder to hit than cities.

He sighed and ordered his secretary to bring over the rest of the day's work.

The inspector moved through the throng of the station-house, avoiding rushing clerks and excited young constables with the dexterity of long practice, seeming perfectly at ease in the chaos of that warren of corridors and offices. The familiarity in his motion was completely at odds with the imperial blue cape and luxurious moustache, elements that indicated that this was a man who did not belong there, among the drab policemen of Buenos Aires.

Finally, a draught of fresh air hit them through the doorway and the Frenchman inhaled deeply. "It is so strange to find a city whose air smells sweet," he said. "You are blessed to have done away with horses altogether."

"It is hard on those who cannot afford to travel, especially when they have to leave the city, Monsieur l'Inspecteur." the translator responded.

The inspector gave him an appraising look. "We shall be together for a few days. Surely, we do not need to be so formal? I know your name is Alberto, I would prefer it if you could call me Philippe."

"I would be honoured," Alberto replied, and they shook hands.

"Good. The commissioner tells me that you will be a good guide to the city, and especially to the area where my unfortunate countryman was killed. He says you have helped the police before on little errands, and that all his officers know you well."

The translator nodded.

"Excellent. We have little time to waste. Let us make haste to the place where the body was found. Did I understand correctly, that the officer who made the discovery will be there to walk us through the scene?"

"Yes, Monsieur Philippe. Also, the scene has not been touched since the murder. You will be able to see it as it was when the body was discovered." Philippe was interested to see the pride of this translator in the work of the police. But suddenly, doubt crept into his features. "Except for the body, of course. They moved the body the first day. Is that all right?"

"Of course. Perfectly all right."

It seemed to be a relief for the other man. They walked along in silence, and the inspector observed the translator. He was young enough, not much over thirty, and looked strong – not muscled like a dock worker but lithe and wiry. The inspector wondered why he had chosen to help the police force at arm's length instead of joining. Also, he wondered about the man's French. It immediately reminded him of the docks of Marseilles – and that was enough to put any French policeman on edge.

"Ah, here we are," Alberto said.

They had reached a stone wall two stories high with a polished brass door in it. The door was designed to withstand attack, as it was thick and reinforced. The translator rapped it four times with his knuckles and it opened inward, revealing itself to be six inches thick. A man in a round cap and grey coveralls peered through the opening and asked a question.

Alberto spoke with him at length, and showed him an orange card. "Could you please pass me your credentials," the translator said. Philippe fanned out all the official papers that had been issued to him upon entering Buenos Aires. The translator chose a bright green card similar to the orange one and showed it to the man.

The man's face was transformed immediately. He babbled at the Frenchman, falling all over himself to get out of the way and to let them in. He showed them each nook of the passageway beyond the door, and Alberto kept up a running translation.

"This is where they keep the boilers. They are underground, because the pressure is so huge, and if they were above ground, an explosion would kill thousands... behind that other door, there is an access tunnel for pipe maintenance. Over there we have the safety valves... and here, here is the cannon room."

The corridor had opened into an impressive stone-lined courtyard in which stood the largest cannon Philippe had ever seen. Painted dull black and at least five stories tall, it stood on a platform of steel.

"Most of it is also underground, but this is the part that is manoeuvrable. See the joints, there, and there?"

Philippe had heard of this marvel – who, indeed, had not? – But the idea of crossing the city this way seemed absurd. And yet, it was reputed to be utterly safe.

The man in the cap deferentially assisted them in entering a small cylinder through another thick door in its side. Within the cylinder, there were eight seats, and they were ushered onto seats opposite each other, which the man explained was a way of keeping the capsule balanced. He added, with a touch of pride, that their tests had shown that the balance made no difference anyway.

As the man worked a series of buckles and harnesses, Philippe nearly panicked, nearly screamed to be let out, but when he saw how calmly Alberto accepted his fate, he was shamed into adopting a façade of stoic tranquillity. "You'll enjoy this," the translator confided. It's one of the few things Paris doesn't have.

There was a reason Paris lacked a steam cannon transport system and that was the fact that the middle class would never have accepted a type of transport reserved exclusively for officialdom and the elite. Here in Buenos Aires, however, the complete subjugation of the masses made that a non-issue, allowing them to enjoy their wonder in peace.

The door slammed with finality, leaving them in sudden darkness. Philippe's heart beat like a whole regiment of drums, and he could feel it almost in his throat. Sweat accumulated under his arms as a series of clunks and bumps could be felt through the hull. Blessed stillness and silence allowed him to relax, but only until he remembered what it meant. Then he nearly cried out that he wanted to leave.

It wasn't bravery that stopped him from begging off. It was the fact that the capsule suddenly moved as though a giant had kicked it. All the air was removed from his lungs, and screaming for mercy was rendered impossible. Then there was silence – or rather, not silence, but a soft rushing of air and a strange feeling of weightlessness – and Philippe knew that they were suspended in mid-air, that their lives depended now on the mathematics of the ballistics team and the integrity of the nets on the far end. He held his breath until forced to inhale, then did so only under strict control. Panic was a deep breath away.

Suddenly, with a jolt as sickening as that which initiated their trip, it came to a shuddering halt. Philippe thought his neck must have been torn from its roots, and that his eyes certainly must have ruptured in their sockets. He would have bruises all over his body tomorrow.

But that was a small price to pay for the fact that they were at rest. At rest and alive. He allowed himself to breathe again, as the jots and thumps of the crane lowered them into an upright position.

Much to his chagrin, Alberto was smiling knowingly. "It's much nicer now that they've installed the damper systems in the capsules. They used to flood the capsules with water to keep the initial acceleration from the cannon from breaking your bones. If you didn't seal your over-suit correctly, you'd get where you wanted but you wouldn't be dry. A lot of people preferred to walk in the winter."

They left the cabin and, barely glancing back at the huge metallic catch-nets of the station, emerged into a sea of people, all heading south. The architecture, the people and even the air itself bore witness to the fact that they had left the genteel surroundings of the administrative centre, and had entered a working-class area. Not a working-class area, but a working area, Philippe reminded himself. The working classes, after all, were not permitted to live within Buenos Aires' brass walls.

"These people, where are they going?" Philippe asked. He knew the answer, knew the barbaric customs, but wanted his guide to tell him what he knew. After all, one could never predict where the knowledge to break open a murder case might come from.

"They are going towards the south gate, the one by the Riachuelo. They have a little less than forty-five minutes to reach the exit, but we are near enough that they should make it easily."

"And if they don't?"

Alberto shrugged. "Well, it depends on who catches them. If it's an official, they will simply have their red cards revoked and won't be able to enter the city to work anymore. A Sweeper might accept a bribe... but a Sweeper might kill them, too, just to stay in practice."

As the crowd passed, Philippe smelled the air. The unmistakable odour of damp –damp walls, damp floor, damp cobbles – told him what he needed to know even though the wind was blowing in the wrong direction: they were near the rivers, the place where the Riachuelo drained into the Rio de La Plata. The place the government called La Boca, and the locals called Tangolandia. The neighbourhood where the man from Marseilles had been killed.

"This way," the translator said.

Philippe followed him through the crowd, moving against the flow, and getting resentful glances from anyone near enough to notice. It seemed that the poor weren't particularly happy with the way things were. They soon turned off the avenue, into a street that ran between gaily painted wooden houses, and finally down a broad staircase that led to an arched cellar. Three uniformed policemen were standing beside a large boiler at one end of the room. The area around them was illuminated by the flame of a single lantern.

"This is where he was found," Alberto said.

"I thought this was where he was killed."

"Yes, that is what I meant. He was killed three nights ago. They found him the following morning. You have arrived very quickly." There was awe in that voice, and Philippe did nothing to lay it to rest. The rumour that the Empire could respond immediately to any insults would aid them in the long run – and therefore it was unnecessary to clear up any misconceptions about the speed of French Airships.

"Who found him?"

"A young boy, maybe seven years old, there was no way he could have struck him with enough force to... to kill him that way."

"Where did the young boy come from?"

The translator hesitated but went off to speak to the policemen. They conversed for a few moments, and then one of them accompanied Alberto to where Philippe waited. "The boy is one of the couriers for the steam station further up these lines," the policeman said nervously. "The offices often employ them because they never seem to get tired, running from one place to another."

"But the body was found at four in the morning. Surely the gates are not open at that hour? Would an office boy be in possession of a citizen's pass?" Without one, the detective knew, it was illegal to be inside the city walls at night.

The policeman and the translator exchanged glances. Philippe wondered whether what they were hiding was important information or just petty corruption. It was always the same; even within the Empire, the further one got from Paris, the less laws meant to the people. In places where Napoleonic law failed to assert itself it was even worse.

"No, Monsieur," the translator said. "The boy clearly should not have been there."

"And did no one ask him why he was there?"

The policeman responded: "No. Since he was not the murderer, and had done his duty in reporting the body, the officer on patrol chose instead to preserve the evidence. The boy ran off, and hasn't been heard from since."

Interesting, Philippe thought, but just nodded, as if dismissing the boy's existence as immaterial. "Do you mind if I look around?"

The policeman looked a bit confused. "I thought that was why you came," he stammered.

"Yes, it is," Philippe replied, and walked towards the corner where the officers had been standing earlier. He pointed to a small area where a dark patch of rust could be seen on the ground even in the uncertain light of the lamp. "Is this where he was found?"

"Yes, sir."

The policemen cooperated fully, and Philippe immediately understood why. The man from Marseilles might have been found there. He might even have been killed there, but any evidence that might have been left in the dust by a careless criminal had been obliterated by the passage of what seemed to be hundreds of people. In places, the dust was almost all gone – probably on the soles of countless police shoes.

He wondered whether it had been deliberate; after all, any flat-footed gendarme who demolished a crime scene this thoroughly in Paris would have been sent back to the farm immediately. However, he dismissed the idea: The Argentine police had nothing to gain from covering up that he could discern – and quite a lot to lose. Until he could find a motive to suspect them, he would have to assume their incompetence.

But he didn't have to accept it gracefully. "I wonder," he said to the nearest policeman, the only one who'd spoken to him thus far. "Did you destroy the crime scene on purpose, or do you employ elephants for constables?"

The translator stumbled over the second part in his surprise.

Instead of being moved to anger, though, the policeman just shrugged. "We generally don't pay much attention to these dock killings. This man had no ticket – he shouldn't have been here at all, not after dark, anyway. The first officer at the scene probably thought he'd run afoul of one of the Sweepers, and that we'd get a bounty call later. It was mid-morning before anyone realised that this guy might be important."

Of course, no one had bothered to tell Philippe that a visit to the crime scene would be a waste of his time. They probably loved packing foreigners into that cannon of theirs and shooting them all over the city, just to see which would vomit.

"And how did you manage to figure that out?"

"Well, he got a crowd. Bodies in the morning don't draw crowds anymore, but this guy..."

"Yes?"

"Well, this guy was a bit of a celebrity. Everyone knows El Francés. Or they knew him," the constable finished with a grin.

"El Francés means the Frenchman, right?"

"Yes," Alberto replied.

"This was the end of Jean-Claude Dornier; killed anonymously by some bruiser in a cellar at the end of the world." He turned to the cop who'd been silent so far. "And did you know that he was working for the Emperor?"

The officer sputtered, and Philippe waited patiently for the translation. "We knew we had to stay away from him, but we didn't really know why."

"And the people he met?"

"Yes, them as well. We knew they were important, but most of us didn't know why. Sometimes policemen would be requested to escort valuables, or stand guard outside a meeting room, but most of us never knew what was going on. Mostly, they took place on French ships, or in the warehouses."

"So, just guards, then?" Philippe waited as Alberto relayed the question to the policeman, and also as the man took his time to respond. The translator turned to the Frenchman.

"Sometimes they were also requested as messengers. They took packages to various addresses, sometimes nearby, at others as far away as Belgrano." The man seemed to remember himself. "Belgrano is a neighbourhood in the northern half of the city, where some of the wealthier merchants have their homes."

Philippe nodded. He'd studied the map of the city for two hours the night before – he'd suspected that the case would soon move away from the docks and into the upper crust. After all, he knew the dead man by reputation if not in person. He was a distant cousin of the Emperor's who'd been offered a post as a special envoy on the other side of the world in order to keep certain peccadillos out of the public eye; he believed that he wouldn't be the kind to be satisfied with a civil servant's salary. And with contacts in France, there would be merchants who wanted to do business.

"I'd like to speak to González Guereño."

"What?" The translator's eyes grew wide. It was clear that he'd been caught by surprise by Philippe's knowledge of the name, and only managed to bite back follow-up questions with an effort. "We would have to check if he's available."

"Is it possible that he might not be available for an Emissary of the French Empire?" Philippe enjoyed watching them squirm. It was clear that they didn't want to bother any of the commercial barons in their Belgrano mansions, but were not brave enough to defy their orders. They were probably also wondering where the detective had gotten the name – and were probably afraid of which other names the detective might have.

"Oh, I'm certain they would never dream of that. But we'll need to get hold of him, and he might not be in town."

"I have a better idea. Let's go knock on their doors."

They paled, but nodded. Quick learners. But only Alberto came with him – the other cops were probably headed towards the merchant's house, to warn him of the official scrutiny coming his way.

"Would you like to take the tram?" Alberto asked him.

Philippe wondered what the merchant needed to be warned about, wondered why they were going out of their way to get to the man first. He smiled benevolently. "I think we should take the cannon. It isn't to my taste, but something tells me that time is of the essence." He winked at the translator.

The trip back was just as nauseating as the first one, and Philippe was only just able to keep his food down, but at least this time they landed in a pleasant park-like area from which the river was visible in the distance. Plus, there was no way that the cops at the dock could have beat them there. They might have been able to signal – although Philippe hadn't seen any signs of telegraphy – the most likely scenario was that the merchant would be unaware of their coming.

The servant certainly was, at any rate. The liveried black man who opened the door of the mansion wasn't expecting to find an official delegation on his master's door in the middle of the morning. His attempts to stall them hadn't been coached, and despite Alberto's difficulty in putting forth the arguments, the evident fact that Philippe was not going anywhere eventually got them invited inside.

Guillermo González Guereño was a man in his mid-forties whose blond hair had all but abandoned his head, with just a few wisps remaining along the edges. He didn't look particularly happy to see them there but also didn't seem particularly concerned. His handshake was firm, but brief.

Having weighed the man, Philippe looked around. The room they were in – some sort of drawing room, perhaps specifically designed for meetings such as that one, was a dark-panelled room in the English style (Philippe dismissed the possibility of an attempt by the servant to insult them by bringing them into that room). There was a small automaton of the sort that had been in vogue in Paris a few years before – a thing of clattering brass and rubber tubing, powered by the house's internal steam pressure – crawling about in a glass cabinet on the central table. Chairs upholstered in dark leather completed the room, which seemed almost excessively masculine.

"I am here to discuss the murder of Jean-Claude Dornier," Philippe said without preamble.

Guereño's received the demand with a neutral expression, the only movement a slight glance in the translator's direction, as if to verify that he's heard correctly. "I heard he'd been killed, but I can assure you that I can't be of much help with any of the details. Surely the police have all the information you could need."

"Well," Philippe paused, "they do, and they don't. They were extremely helpful in showing me where he was killed, and in explaining their theories of how he was killed, but neither of those could ever lead me to the killer – I think the key lies in why he was killed. Once we understand that, we won't need to go far to find our killer. I believe you might be able to help me with that."

"Me? I have no idea why he was killed." Guereño finally showed some emotion, a little bit of anger around the edges. Good, Philippe thought, the man was playing his part as expected.

"So, you're saying that there was no reason for him to have been killed? No one would have wanted to kill him?"

Guereño started to say something, but paused. Alberto didn't even bother to translate the truncated phrase. "Of course, there are people with reasons to kill him. It came with his business."

"And what would you know of his business?"

"A man in my position has to deal with many people. Dornier was very good at getting stuck wheels to move again."

"Meaning he would take care of your bribes when something was detained at the port in France?"

"I don't know how he did it. All I know is that he would take his fee, and the paperwork would appear as if by magic. As you know, everything I do must be legal, or I stand to lose quite a bit. I can't take any risks with my position. I need those papers."

Philippe thought it strange that a man in the import-export business would be so risk-averse. That wasn't how one built an empire, bought a mansion in one of the great metropolia. All importers were smugglers, and most were pirates, and everyone knew it, which meant that either Guereño had become a little too enamoured of his wealth and status or he was lying.

And, strangely, Philippe didn't think he was lying.

"So, to get merchandise into France, you had to go through him." Paris was the world's largest market for... everything.

"Getting merchandise in wasn't my problem. Getting it out was more of an issue – the real profit comes from selling in Buenos Aires at the outrageous prices we can charge here, at the nether-end of the world."

"And what happened if things didn't go through him. Were there problems at this end, too?"

"I wouldn't know about that. El francés was always involved from the start."

Philippe said nothing.

"Perhaps he controlled the dock gangs here, but I wouldn't know if that were so, or why. After all, all he had was connections of some sort in Marseille. Not much of a power base if you ask me."

The arrogance of the rich, and the cluelessness that came with it was always a surprise. Here was a man able to create and control a commercial empire with tentacles in various continents who seemed unable to grasp the way the real world worked.

"So, you think it might be possible that he was murdered by someone who wanted to take over the gangs on this end?"

"That seems logical, although it wouldn't be worth much unless he was connected in Marseilles as well. After all, it's the most important port – and the airship freight to Paris all goes through there."

"And you don't know any of his contacts on the French side?"

"Of course not. Without wanting to give offence," Guereño began, the lie visible in his eyes, "all Frenchmen are either too proud or too arrogant to learn any other language – and I don't speak a word of French."

"Perhaps you are too proud or too arrogant as well."

Guereño smiled. "Perhaps. Do you have any more questions?"

"Only one: who do you think murdered Dornier?"

"Someone with the connections and the knowledge to take his place." He smiled. "I suppose he will pop up sooner or later, offering to help solve troublesome import issues. I might even know before you do."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Philippe replied.

The doorman let them out.

On the street again, Philippe turned to Alberto. "He's right, you know."

"About what, Monsieur?" the translator inquired politely.

"That the man who killed Dornier would be his logical successor. It's a pity that Dornier turned out to be important, that was the only piece the murderer was missing. Who would have expected the murder of a mere dockside criminal to create an international incident? It would have, it should have been a single morning's entertainment for the poor in La Boca, and forgotten within a week." Philippe shook his head. "Instead, here we are with inspectors from France making a mess of things. One almost pities the criminal mastermind."

"One almost does."

"After all, whoever tries to fill the Dornier-shaped void will immediately come under suspicion, unless the murderer is caught first. And the government of France is not stupid enough that it will accept some stand-in, caught to take the fall for this. Even a man as dull as Guereño knew that only a very specific type of person could have profited from this particular crime."

"Obviously," Alberto replied.

"My question is: what are you going to do now? Are you going to run, or are you going to try to brazen it out?"

Alberto began to respond. Philippe held up a hand.

"Yes. You do know what I'm talking about. And no, I'm not insane. So, unless you, want to go through with that charade, let's dispense with it. I imagine you are impatient to get moving."

The translator was white as a sheet. "How..."

"You should have paid more attention when I spoke to your police chief. I never said that I didn't speak Spanish: I only said that it wasn't as good as I might wish. I understand Spanish perfectly. Well enough, in fact, to note what you omitted when you translated stories, well enough to note that the dockside cops spoke to you with more reverence than they did to me, and well enough to notice when you asked them to tell me things that they knew you already knew."

Alberto's hand went towards his coat pocket.

"Are you suicidal?" Philippe asked. "I don't yet know how high this goes, but I can assure you that if anything at all happens to me on your watch, you will be turned over to the French, and you will be turned over to the French in a coffin. If you run now, perhaps some of the official protection you still enjoy will be enough to keep you alive." Philippe looked him straight in the eyes, unafraid. "Run along now."

Alberto hesitated only for a moment. Then he turned and fled unceremoniously around the nearest corner.

Philippe smiled. The man would be easy enough to find; his mind worked in predictable patterns. The only real problem would be those damnable cannons. Why couldn't Buenos Aires have a subway system like a normal city?

He walked in the general direction of the police station, composing his report in his head. After all, he couldn't just say that he allowed the criminal to escape so that he could spend a little time there, could he?
The Murders in the Rue Planitia

Gregory L. Norris

USA

We found the bodies stuffed up a fireplace chimney," said the short man with the thick handlebar moustache as Nigel Davenport hurried toward the security gate.

Wearing a stiff black period police constable's uniform, the man even carried paper notes in a leather-bound folder, along with sepia photographs taken at the crime scene. Davenport's computer would be able to scan the evidence; that wasn't the problem. What was, he thought impatiently, was the level of sophistication to the forensics on a planet where the authorities took their notes with pens. Quill pens, probably, no less.

"Why am I not surprised. How many of your murder victims were last year found dead in chimneys? Or walled up behind bricks and mortar? Or under floorboards? Or slowly hacked to death by swinging pendulums?"

"Most of them, sir. But these murders were different."

"How so?"

Constable Dupin moved closer. "The two in the fireplace were tagged electronically."

Davenport stopped in place. The strip of conveyor on the floor continued to whisk them toward the spaceport's exit. "Curious."

"Isn't it," Dupin agreed.

Davenport resumed his march toward the exit, a set of open double doors letting in the raw, cool air from beyond the port's outer security sensors. Davenport's smart clothes would adjust and keep him comfortable in that bone-chilling soup of weather.

"Inspector Davenport," Constable Dupin called, stopping him again in place. Davenport turned. "You can't dress like that beyond the gate," he said, indicating the Nehru jacket and matching slacks. "Colony rules. Besides, it would be a clear tip to the killer that we'd sent for outside help."

"I hate novelty theme park colonies," Inspector Davenport grumbled under his breath.

The tweed slacks itched, and the white cotton shirt beneath his heavy overcoat was too tight under the arms. Adding insult, Dupin had collected him at the spaceport in a carriage drawn by four black steeds. Davenport felt every divot in the uneven dirt road. The countryside was a stretch of sinister, dark forest filled with twisted trees, ominous graveyards, and mountaintop castles. The cobblestones as they neared the city of Rue Planitia were even worse on his old injuries.

"So, this is Poe's World," he said drolly, drinking in the imagery through the coach's parted purple velvet curtains. "Charming."

"Poe's Planet," Dupin corrected. "And we like it."

"Just my luck to have minored in classic Old-Earth literature. I suppose I could have drawn a worse assignment. One of my colleagues got his neck pinched by a pointy-eared homicidal maniac over at Roddenberry's Procure just last year..."

"We appreciate your assistance, Inspector," Dupin said.

Davenport detected a harshness creeping into the constable's voice, a clear indication that Dupin's tolerance was now being tested. Davenport sucked in a deep breath. The mustiness inside the carriage mixed with the salt air of the sea crashing unseen somewhere close by hurt his lungs. "Let's use the time of this trip to our advantage. Tell me everything I need to know."

"To begin with, on Poe's Planet, every other person has the legal last name of Usher. Most of the women are named Lenore or Annabelle Lee or Ligeia. It isn't uncommon for people to own black cats and ravens as pets—the real deal, imported from Old Earth, like the trees. You've noticed our forests?"

Davenport indulged the man's question with a nod.

"Even apes aren't out of the question, like the Ourang-Outang from Poe's classic which is, as you surely know, considered the first true detective story ever written."

"Ironic," Davenport said. He settled back against the firm velvet cushions and stretched. The stiff clothes pinched at his musculature, and his right knee was starting to sing its misery.

"What is unusual is the savagery of the crimes. Even a silver-back gorilla would not have been able to manoeuvre the victims up the chimney in the manner we found them. We also extracted these from one of the victim's clasped hands." Dupin opened his leather folder and produced a plastic evidence bag. He handed it over to Davenport. "They're synthetic."

Davenport held the evidence bag up to the oblong strip of overcast sky beyond the curtains, examining its contents by what little light filtered through the clouds. "You're sure?"

"Even given what must seem very primitive investigative methods compared to yours and those of the Colonial Intelligence Agency, I assure you that we can manage the basics. Like telling real strands of hair apart from synthetic ones. And there is the matter of the victims themselves."

"You said they were tagged," Davenport repeated. He scanned the evidence bag with his handheld; the computer confirmed Dupin's claim and began to process its findings.

"I'll pretend I didn't see that."

"You'll be turning that blind eye on your colony's laws plenty of times if you expect me to help you solve these murders." The unit chirped. Davenport ran his eyes over the information. "The system has matched the fibres. They were manufactured by Z-Meda Pharmaceuticals. If I'm not mistaken, Z-Meda is big into terraforming's deep pockets. Colonist inoculations, hospitals, even the robotic labour sector. Note," he said, and the unit chirped in accordance. "Retrieve all relevant information on Z-Meda Pharmaceuticals from the C.I.A. records database."

Davenport was about to return the device to the overcoat's deep, lint-filled pockets when it detected a trace of free-flowing molecules on the synthetic strands.

"Another of Z-Meda's products," he said aloud, studying the results. "Perfume. It would appear that our murderer is really a murderess..."

"I've posted guards at the crime scene," Dupin said. Davenport knew from the police reports that the flat in question was believed to have been vacant at the time of the murders. "I assume you'll want to rest after your long journey. I've booked you at the Usher House Inn. It's where most of our important visitors stay. Comfortable, affordable, and their tavern serves excellent food."

"I'll bet," Davenport said. "First, however, I'd like to see the victims. I'm very interested in knowing what two tagged dead men were doing here on Poe's World. Planet," he hastily corrected.

A crackle of thunder shook the carriage. Davenport wondered if the powerful cannonade was natural, or another special effect provided courtesy of the colony's governing body.

Faux gaslights shimmered on the walls of the examination room. The bodies were wheeled out of the refrigeration unit in funereal poses, with arms draped over chests. Their awkward, broken outlines, Davenport soon realised, owed less to the strange flicker of the lights and more to the brutality that had led to their deaths.

The doctor, a silver-haired, morbidly obese man named Dumas, clutched a paper folder between the meaty, pink fingers of one hand. He offered the folder to Davenport.

"Cause of death for both men is asphyxiation. Not blunt trauma, as we initially believed. I'm horrified to tell you that they were both alive when their killer shoehorned them up that chimney."

Davenport scanned the death reports. Each was stamped with a fiery red watermark in the letters EAP; the official seal of the Order of Edgar, the colony's governing body. "You're convinced that no man could have committed these crimes?"

"No man—and no beast ever dreamed into existence by the Almighty Himself."

Davenport passed a narrowed eye over the victims' names. "John Doe Number One and John Doe Number Two," he grumbled. The same as on Dupin's police report.

"Yes," said the doctor. "I found these during the autopsies."

Dumas produced two small glass jars. Suspended within each in clear liquid was a thin coil of filament.

"Tags," Davenport sighed. "Which leads me to believe these men weren't official citizens of your colony, or even here legally. Tagging a person makes him or her persona non-grata. Invisible. Able to enter any colony without adhering to the rules. Shadow agents."

"Which is the reason we asked for your help, and why the Agency sent you," Dupin said.

"I'll want a copy of these reports, Doctor Dumas," Davenport said. "And under C.I.A. authority, I'm confiscating these tags as evidence."

The portly coroner tossed ten pudgy fingers into the air in front of his barrel chest. "As you wish, Inspector. Quite frankly, there's enough Machiavellian mayhem happening around here as it is—we just buried our fourth victim of a live walling this month—without outside influences taking their private wars to the streets of Rue Planitia."

The chill in the room was quickly working into Davenport's bones. The sports injury in his right knee throbbed dully. The left, which had taken a light-shell fragment on Planet Xanadu and never completely healed, stung with every footfall. The hard, clunky shoes that had come with his imposed change of clothes were proving to be hell on his lower back.

"Will there be anything else, Inspector?" Dumas asked. "It's getting late, and my wife will be mixing mortar and stacking bricks, too, if I'm not home in time for supper."

Davenport forced a smile. "No, I believe our business here is concluded."

He signalled Dupin toward the door with a tip of his chin. Outside the building, the crash of the ocean and a raw, malodorous fog drove the chill even deeper into his bones.

"I'd like to head over to the inn now," Davenport said. "Have our meal, warm up in front of the fire, and then, if you don't mind me breaking some of those vaulted colony rules, help you to solve this case."

The Usher House Inn was a brooding, melancholy establishment constructed from blocks of grey stone. The fire had not yet been lit in Davenport's room, an expanse of large dark wood furniture and heavy velvet drapes made all the more chilling by the lack of a flame in the hearth.

Davenport drew the drapes for a look at the outside world. The cold, churning sea crashing against the rocky coastline was barely visible in the fog. A sliver of one of the planet's three moons lurked out of focus behind the clouds. A cobbled alley ran between the inn and the nearest buildings directly below the window.

Davenport briefly considered cancelling his dinner with the constable and focusing his attention on the evidence in his possession. But the room was too desolate, lacking all warmth and humour. Dupin was waiting down in the tavern, and Davenport already had his theories about the murders. He needed food after the long day, and following the meal, he would hopefully return to a comfortable room.

Davenport lined up the evidence on top of the dresser, withdrew his computer from the overcoat's pocket, and engaged its scrambler on voice command.

"Note," he said. The unit chirped its compliance. "Go dark for a range of fifty centimetres wide, twenty-five deep."

The stack of evidence, notes, and the two glass jars—along with the computer unit itself—vanished from view behind a localised cloaking field.

Davenport fidgeted with his shirt and adjusted his trousers, then exited the room, locking the door behind him.

A caged raven greeted him outside the tavern's oak slab door with a jarring, "Nevermore!" Davenport slaughtered the bird with his eyes before entering. Dupin was seated at a table set directly before the tavern's roaring fire. A decanter filled with what Davenport assumed was Amontillado and two goblets sat at the centre of the table.

Dupin started to rise, but Davenport waved him back down. "Please, Constable."

Davenport took his seat. The heat was glorious, and he wasted little time filling the nearest of the two goblets.

A busty waitress approached the table just as Davenport brought the goblet to his lips. Her scent was intoxicating. Orchids. Davenport's eyes wandered over the lip of the goblet and into the wonderland of her cleavage. A simple metal charm on a silver chain glittered in that magnificent valley of soft pink flesh, reflecting the fire's light.

"What'll it be, love?" the woman crooned.

Davenport forced his eyes off the necklace and higher, toward her face. "What's good?"

"The lamb—quite succulent tonight."

Davenport smiled and ordered the lamb. Dupin coughed, more to interrupt their verbal foreplay than to clear his throat. "I'll have the same."

Davenport drew in another breath of perfumed air and watched the serving woman's retreat as she wiggled away. Licking his lips, he turned back to Dupin. "I know who killed your two John Does, Constable."

Dupin's enormous moustache puffed as his cheeks filled with air. "Do tell, Inspector."

After another sip, Davenport enlightened him. "It's no secret that high-tech espionage often traffics through low-tech venues like Poe's Planet. Easier and cleaner that way. If Z-Meda is involved, it's my conclusion that the two men found crammed into that chimney were corporate agents sent to recover stolen prototype technology."

Dupin leaned forward. "So, the pilferer had these corporate agents killed?"

"Yes, and disposed of in a manner that would have failed to raise eyes on a planet where similar murders are commonplace. Until, that is, your good Doctor Dumas discovered the victims were tagged. That's my belief. The proof, I am convinced, will manifest itself."

"I trust your instinct," Dupin conceded, though his expression suggested he was processing the information with some amount of scepticism.

Before their suppers arrived, the two men ran through the usual pleasantries. Dupin was single, had lived in the colony for a decade, and had once fancied himself a writer, a hobby he still dabbled with in his spare time—what little the demands of his job allowed. "One guess as to the identity of my favourite author."

"I don't need that guess," Davenport smirked.

"And you? Are you married, Inspector?"

Davenport sipped his Amontillado before answering. "I used to be. It didn't last very long."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dupin said.

"I'm not," Davenport said as the big-bosomed serving woman appeared with their supper.

Davenport plodded up the stairs to his room. More than a slight buzz had thickened his senses. What had she whispered in his ear at the end of the meal?

"Send the constable away and meet me in your room, love..."

The low moan of the wind rattled the inn's windows in their casements. The flickering gas-fed lanterns cast phantoms on the walls. Davenport shivered, but the sensation seemed out-of-body.

The serving woman had leaned over him while clearing their plates, putting that pair of lovelies right in his face. Davenport favoured that part of a woman's anatomy, and after the tantalising look and another hit of her orchid perfume, he was one possessed.

As the shudder passed, Davenport was stunned to realise he'd gotten erect. It had been too long since he'd rolled with another warm body. Those breasts were, for the twenty or so steps it took to reach the top of the soaring staircase and the ten more leading up to the door to his room, all he could think of.

He unlocked the door, pocketing the large, garish skeleton key. Warmth flooded out. The first thing Davenport noticed was the roaring fire. The second was that alluring fragrance of orchids. He turned toward the bed and saw the woman's shapely silhouette in the flickering light of the fire.

"What took you so long?" the serving woman cooed, her voice musical, but also powerful.

Davenport opened his mouth, intending to reveal all to her. What had taken him so long was that someone or something else now seemed to be controlling him, body and soul. But she waved a hand to dismiss it.

"Never mind that. I can guess."

Davenport snorted a laugh through lips that felt flabby and made of concrete. "Sorry for the delay. Blame it on the Conqueror Worm," he said. "I missed your name at dinner, but let me guess. Lenore, is it? Or Eulalie? Marie Rogêt?"

"It's Ligeia." She patted the edge of the mattress, bidding him to come over to her.

Davenport attempted to swallow, only to nearly gag on the ball of heat that had desiccated his tongue into something the consistency of leather. As aroused and excited as she made him feel, it didn't escape the inspector's notice that a small wedge of paper folder and one of the glass jars containing a dead man's tag were now protruding out of the computer's scramble field. Davenport moved toward the lovely, amply-racked siren, aware of the unnatural pull of her voice, the power contained within its sweetness. The distance from the dresser to the bed, no more than several meters, seemed to take forever. Davenport realised he was being manipulated.

The Amontillado, he thought. She spiked our drink with some form of hypno-tag...

But Dupin hadn't been affected. No, this form of autosuggestion was something more. Davenport's mind raced as he vainly attempted to ignore the itchy-hot trigger between his legs driving him steadily nearer the woman's clutches. The Lady Ligeia, he remembered by the time he reached the edge of the bed. Poe's narrator had described her as having an eloquent, musical voice.

The serving woman shifted on the bed, and the scant blanket covering her bosom slipped, affording him an unobstructed view. Between those delicious, gently-sloping peaks, Davenport again noticed the charm around her neck, glittering in the light from the hearth.

"I worried that they would send for an off-world lawman," the woman crooned. Her words rippled in the air with a dreamy resonance. Davenport's insides melted into the consistency of warm pudding. "I'm sorry. So very sorry, love, but I'm not yet done with my plans."

The necklace! Could it be that it was transmitting a powerful hypno-suggestive carrier wave in tune with her voice?

"Tell me all that you know," she mewled, her siren's voice too sweet and powerful to deny.

He knew that a personal voice directed hypno-device like the one around her neck was extremely cutting edge, the top secret and not entirely legal devices likely being developed by Z-Meda. "Everything?" Davenport droned.

She nodded, flinging her mane of dark hair back into his face. Her scent of orchids filled his next desperate breath. "Yes, from the beginning."

"The Universe is widely believed to have originated with the incident commonly referred to as 'The Big Bang'..."

"No, regarding your case. The two murders."

Davenport bit down hard enough to make his teeth ache. The coppery taste of his blood ignited across his taste buds.

"Come now, do tell," she huffed, the wicked smile playing on her face visible in the fire's glow.

Davenport's lips betrayed him. "We've determined...that evidence at the scene...links Z-Meda Pharm...aceuticals...to the killings...both John Does were tagged..."

"Tagged, and then bagged," Ligeia said with a titter of laughter. "Your John Does were a couple of Z-Meda hit men. The big brains don't take kindly to their employees pick-pocketing their latest tech developments."

He noticed that she was stroking the necklace.

"...I concluded there was corporate es...pionage behind the murders...my computer detected...perfume on evidence recovered at the crime scene...your perfume..."

"It's called 'Verdigris and Orchids'," she said. "A pity I must do this. Trust me; I'm not a murderer by nature, only by necessity." Ligeia slipped over to the dresser and removed the pile of evidence from under cover of the cloak. She tossed glass jars, vials, and even Davenport's still-invisible computer unit into the fire. The unit disengaged its scramblers as it began to melt. "There's too much profit at stake for me. I hope you understand. Forward," she bellowed in a voice far less sweet.

The intensity of her command launched Davenport's legs after her. He scrambled to answer Ligeia's call, but stopped when she reached up and stroked his cheek.

"Not you, love. Only the instrument of your demise."

She leaned closer to kiss him.

The room shook as something scraped across the outside wall of the inn. A sound of metal raking against stone sent Davenport's already-racing heart into a gallop.

"Farewell, love..."

Her lips pressed against his.

The window looking out over the alley exploded inward in a hail of wood and glass.

Davenport bared his teeth, and using the last iota of his resolve, redirected his kiss toward her neck. He clutched at the pendant's chain, bit down, and pulled back with the last of his strength, taking the chain and a few stray clutches of hair in the process.

The results were instantaneous, as though a switch had been thrown inside his body. The sluggishness fled. Despite Ligeia's screams of defiance and swinging fists, and the horror's arrival to the room through the destroyed window, Davenport made it back to his feet.

It stood, Davenport guessed, several meters tall, its occipital crown reaching almost to the ceiling. It lumbered forward, and he felt the floor shake. Despite the ruddy firelight, he could tell that its body was covered in strands of silver hair. It even exuded a synthetic smell, like the new carpets in the fleet of luxury astro-liners keeping the colonies connected.

The robotic ape rounded the bed with shocking grace and speed.

Davenport raised the charm to his lips. "No, Freeze!"

Both figures, Ligeia, and the robot ape, obeyed.

Davenport had his emotions and galloping heartbeat under control by the time Dupin and his men arrived. Though his personal computer and most of the evidence against the killer had gone up the fireplace chimney, Davenport was happy to report to the constable that he hadn't.

The horror was deactivated and stored in a wooden packing crate for transport. "Its intended function is manual labour, post-terraformation," Davenport explained. "The only way she could have smuggled that ape past customs are with this." He held up the chain and its little metal charm. "I used it to get a full confession out of her, copies of which will be sent to you just as soon as I'm able to lay my hands on a proper scanning device."

"Your initial instincts proved correct," Dupin said. "There was a Z-Meda connection."

"Of a sort. Our Ligeia—Veronica Teslav is her real name—was poised to collect a fortune selling their industrial secrets to rival corporations. She knew Z-Meda would dispatch agents to retrieve the technology, so she holed up here at a low-tech colony, thinking she'd be safe. And she would have been had you not had the foresight to seek additional help. Good work, Constable."

"The lion's share of the praise must go to you, Inspector. You have my sincerest thanks and the thanks of the Order of Edgar for your hard work."

Davenport limped toward the carriage. He refused to replace his knees; it was too easy for a corporation like Z-Meda to include little secret hidden extras with their prosthetics when an agent went under the knife. But the concept was tempting.

"You'll forgive me if I make haste back to the spaceport," the inspector called over his shoulder. To my smart clothes more than anything, he thought. "I've enjoyed working with you. Please don't take offence when I say that I hope we never need to again."

"Of course not. Safe journey, Inspector."

Dupin touched a hand to the brim of his police hat. Davenport smiled, then entered the carriage.

The woman, now clothed, sat quietly with her hands steepled and cuffed in her lap. The fragrance of her perfume no longer existed to tempt him except in Davenport's memory. Her bosom, however, remained magnificent. She shot him a seductive look. The gesture only worked his patience.

Davenport banged a hand on the partition. "Driver," he shouted. "Godspeed for the spaceport."

The coachman snapped the reigns and the carriage began to move. The woman named Ligeia would face a stiff sentence once they left the colony. It never occurred to Davenport on that long, lonely drive away from Rue Planitia that, like Poe's enigmatic muse, his Ligeia might also haunt him for the rest of his days.
Kill the King

Ville Meriläinen

Finland

1.

On a night four month after winter's descent, when the moon was a sickle reaping clouds for snowfall, Garon Cinnard returned to Rivenhold.

He came from the east, far from the route connecting the kingdom and the throne, and had crossed the mountains with only a cane to keep him safe. He carried no weapons, but neither beasts nor bandits harassed him—owing partly to his rank as one of the premiere sorcerers ever to live, partly to the rest of the land being less alive than him.

Garon crested the final slope blocking the fortress from his sight. He stopped there. At the apex of the world, Rivenhold rested between the teeth of the highest peaks. Her walls still proudly veiled the shattered keep.

Four months after his lord and master had put the world into a cold sleep, Garon Cinnard returned home to kill the king.

2.

Six months earlier.

"Isn't it magnificent?" Garon said. The view from his balcony covered all the lakes, pastures, forests and settlements in the valley below, a renowned sight he used to lure guests to his tower every given a chance. His current visitor was there to admire a different scene, one visible only to gifted eyes.

"We stand on the cusp of a new age," he went on. "The gift of magic given to all. Can you imagine?"

"We stand on the cusp of madness," Silvercloak muttered. The crone's eyes traced the cobweb of scintillating ley lines weaving up and out of the ground below, where they crawled over the walls and shot off into six directions. "I've seen this tried too many times. It always ends in a tragedy."

"Maybe this time it's different," they said together, Garon earnestly and Silvercloak mockingly.

She gave a weary laugh. "And each time, those responsible were as eager to believe their efforts were an exception."

Garon returned to watching the pulsing lines. He wasn't in the mood for another argument, though Silvercloak's words held some sway over him. After the king had invited him to oversee the Serpent Congregation in the castle, Garon had spent all his spare time studying history, to make sure none of the mistakes of his predecessors would be repeated. Some faults could be attributed to hubris, but many were obvious only in hindsight.

Silvercloak sighed, rousing Garon from his musing. She had sat at the balcony's table and filled both their teacups. She took a sip, winced, placed the cup on the saucer and frowned. "These are strange times we live in. First, we have this 'Congregation' of yours, and now there's a rumour circulating in town. Someone in the court is about to attempt infusing artificial ley lines into a person." She grumbled to herself before another sip. "Why do sorcerers insist on becoming scientists? I miss the days when the two hated one another."

"The rumour is why I invited you here," Garon said. He took a seat opposite her and added a spoonful of honey to his tea. "I wanted to confirm it."

He blew into her cup and drank quietly. Garon tried to gauge her reaction, but her impassiveness offered no hints as to whether he was about to be slapped or congratulated. Instead of either, she only said, "I thought it might've been you."

"Who else? I wouldn't put my underlings through such an experiment."

She nodded slowly. When she looked up, her eyes had darkened. "I do hope this is not a gesture of kinds."

"I won't deny it, but neither will I claim my motives are purely driven by kinship." He leaned back and added, "And I won't be chastised for wanting to live forever by the sole sorcerer to perfect immortality."

"This is not the way to grasp it." She waved at the lines threading the air. "Nor is that. It's been tried before. A human body cannot—"

"I'm not planning to infuse them directly into my body." Garon raised a hand in defence. "I learn from mistakes. My own as much as others'."

Silvercloak folded her arms. "What are you planning to use as the conduit?"

"Metal."

The anger sneaking onto her face vanished when she blinked. "Metal?"

He nodded. "Are you acquainted with Jerrick Lang and Alista Willow?"

"Don't tell me they're your accomplices in this."

"I fear I must. That and that," he picked out two of the ley lines, "lead to the Serpent Congregations at Lunar Hollow observatory and the research centre at Medannan tar pits, respectively."

"Partners in crime in more ways than one."

"Yes. We met when the king summoned his seven chosen before the lines were drawn. They were quick to accept my proposal of working together."

"An arcanist, a flesh sculptor and a steel artisan, each of unprecedented skill," he said, arms bunched so tight it looked uncomfortable. "It could work. I still think you're mad."

Garon sipped his tea. "When have you not?"

3.

It took Garon another hour to reach the bridge to the fortress. He saw well despite the darkness, and so the sight of crumbled gates stirred his still heart with a pang of grief. Across the walls streaked red lines, like wounds from a lashing. The stone effigies attached to the gates had fallen. He trod over the broken wings of the Queen of Ravens.

The buildings were spattered with blood drawn from all over the kingdom so that thick Garon could've coated his hands with carmine gloves had he pressed them against the layer.

Where the Serpent Congregation had exploded, the ground had sunk into a crater. The shockwave had come from an odd angle; though the walls were cracked, even the flimsiest houses were undamaged. Some appeared to have been scrubbed clean.

My disciples must've all been here when it happened. Perhaps they are the new honour guard. A king must keep up appearances, a god-king more so.

He noticed a marker where the wall met the mountainside, a ceremonial sword struck standing up. A sword he recognised.

The snow beside the sword had been disturbed. He knelt to wipe the suspicious patch. Beneath it was a shallow grave, covered with a slate of ice.

Garon dug his fingers into the snow. He guided magic to strengthen his arms and lifted the slate.

The occupant's eyes opened, as sickly and empty as Garon's, then closed again with a vexed hum. "Go away. Leave me be."

"I'd rather not, Alista. You're a sight much too pleasing to behold."

"I have no patience for your silver tongue." She reopened her eyes and fixed him in a stare. "It used to comfort a fragile ego, but I'm much too hideous to believe you anymore."

"You're no less beautiful than the last I saw you."

"Dry and shrivelled, like a willow ought to be in the cold," she groused.

"Dry leaves still carry a memory of summer."

A semblance of a smile visited her face, but flitted away when she spoke. "Why've you come?"

"To kill the king."

She gave a laugh of surprise. "Well, they did say you were arrested for treason."

"Did you believe it?"

She considered a while, then said, "It doesn't matter. The king is dead."

"I know."

Her gaze turned skyward, away from him. "I suppose you do. You never were one to lament change. I find this harder to accept."

"I think I know how to fix things," he said, reaching for the hands folded on her stomach. They were warmer than he'd expected. "If the throne still stands, the ley lines can be restored. If their original purpose is reversed—"

"Restore them?" Alista sat up. "Garon, look at the walls! There's nothing to restore!" She locked fingers with him, pulled him closer. "We were lied to. The king—he never cared about anything he claimed. When we activated the ley lines, they didn't draw only magic to Rivenhold. They drew in blood, sucked us dry to the last drops of life. Only sorcerers survived." She scoffed. "In a manner of speaking."

"I know," Garon said solemnly. "He sought to make himself immortal. Undeath is one answer, I suppose."

Alista shook her head. "He didn't care about you, us, the people—not even himself. He only wanted his son back, whatever the price."

He paled. "The Congregation was an attempt at necromancy?"

With a pained look, Alista nodded.

4.

Five months earlier.

Streams of light flicked around the room, moving in erratic motions as if tethered to Garon's hand. His fingers were hooked, one arm stiff as he flung it to and fro, a perpetual groan running through gritted teeth. The muscles of his jaw bulged with effort to keep from screaming.

He'd borrowed a table from the dungeons for the operation. His left arm was stretched to the side, held underside up against the wood by a metal band.

Alista Willow ran a nail across the forearm, making the whole limb feel immolated. There was no blood, but it made the sight no less gruesome. A flesh sculptor's magic bared everything under the parted skin. Garon had seen his share of combat wounds, but splintered bones sticking out of place had never been as revolting as seeing the muscles tied to them tensing and blood coursing the way it was meant to. Silvercloak had once remarked he did have an odd aversion for the natural order of things.

"It won't be long now," Jerrick Lang said, one hand dug into the wound. In his other he held a coil of steel wiring, gently letting it snake into Garon's body.

"How are you feeling?" Alista said. She glanced at Garon when his groan didn't cease.

"Wipe my brow, please," he grunted. Without removing her eyes from the wound, she dabbed his face with a piece of cloth. He inhaled sharply, startling her, and began to hyperventilate. His hand shook in place, slowly returned to guiding the lights.

"That's your lungs," Jerrick said. "Brace yourself. Last push."

Garon's groan rose into a wail when the threads pierced into his heart, in and out again to embroider a steel weave around it. For a moment, his discipline faltered to pain, and the lights shot around aimlessly, unguided.

"It's done!" Jerrick's palm flashed red as he cut the wire. The last strand tied itself onto exposed bone. "Pull them in!"

He choked down his scream, reared his head and retook control. The beams shot down when he yanked the invisible tethers.

Parted flesh scarred shut and glowed as man-made lightning settled inside him. Garon fell to his knee, crying out when his locked arm crunched against the edge of the torturer's table. The others helped him onto shaking feet, his breaths falling deep and slow.

Jerrick unlocked the band to let Garon massage his wrist. He took a moment to regain his composure, looking at the metal pads in place of his left hand's fingertips. With a thought, Garon caused a current to spark between them. He went to the balcony and pointed the fingers out.

Thunder cracked, and a bolt of white lightning shot out towards the distant mountains. Below, people stopped to gape at him.

"Queen's grace!" Alista breathed, rushing to him. She leaned over the railing and shielded her eyes from the sun to see the point of impact. "You started a small avalanche!"

"Energy expulsion as an arcanist?" Jerrick said with a look of surprise. "What else has changed?"

Garon focused. Magic scattered around his body converged wherever he pleased. It moved quicker, in greater amounts without leaving the place he took it from feeble. His eyesight was better, then his memory, his muscles. Even his voice strengthened when the wires in his diaphragm and vocal chords lit up.

In a soaring tenor, Garon proclaimed: "Everything!"

Garon dreamed of an end that night.

His newfound powers gave him control even over his imagination, and for a while, he had enjoyed soaring amongst clouds and diving into deep seas.

Then, against his wishes, the dream shifted. A nightmare pushed through, one so frightful it twisted his entire dreamscape. Desperately, he tried to release himself, but was only met with a numb reality.

I'm trapped here, he realised. My body is still too weak from the transformation to awaken.

And so, he watched as land withered underfoot and a gauze of rime laced the soil. Blood trickled past him, creeping across the frost first as lone tendrils, then a wave reaching up to his ankles. He stood on a precipice, view the same as from his balcony, and watched the cascade of blood and ice drown the realm.

"And lo, when wind cried for coming winter, glaciers answered the call of King Antimony and gave chase to the red tide," Garon thought, reminiscing a passage from an annal he'd studied. "The soil stayed crimson for fourteen hundred years, dyed by all who gave their lives to the Cadaver King."

Garon tried to leave again, but only felt the panicked gasps of his sleeping body before being pushed back in.

We are making a terrible mistake.

He hesitated for a spell, then tried to command his magic to enhance a skill Silvercloak sometimes spoke of. The result was a malaise, and it took him some more pushing to identify the cause. He was in two places at once, fully aware of both his mind and body. They were threatening to detach.

He ripped them free.

The nightmare washed into a blank space, a grey emptiness where he stood on open air. He could walk, but felt nothing under his bare feet.

"Silvercloak!" he called. "It is I, Garon! I need to speak with you!"

As soon as he called, the recollection of an offhand remark on a wine-coloured eve returned to him. Asking for an invitation was futile—he was trying to enter her subconscious, not her house.

But, Garon thought, feeling the power of creation in his metal-plated fingertips, there is always a way to cheat.

He lowered himself and expelled sorcery to draw a line at his feet. He continued the glittering trail up and around, until he had the outline of a raised rectangle. With a flat palm, he coloured it in, pulled a doorknob out of the mass.

The glow faded. Before him stood the door of Silvercloak's home. He opened it and stepped through.

He remained in emptiness. The door tumbled backwards without a sound, kept falling into infinity.

With a sigh, he focused on snippets of knowledge gathered over the years. First, he visualised Silvercloak. Then, he opened his mind to the dreams of others.

Garon screamed, grabbing his head when myriad visions shaped the world around him. He shut them out, but the damage was done: In only a second, he had witnessed more madness than in his prior lifetime. With a hand on his mouth, he blinked away tears and tried again. This time he let only a trickle through as he probed the river.

He focused harder on the memory of his friend, sitting on his balcony pouring tea. Colour seeped into the grey. It spread into a green puddle from which flowers grew and hills emerged. In the distance, he heard a river coursing. The smell of coming rain wafted on the breeze. Past the hills the puddle turned darker, painting a forest and storm clouds over it.

"Well," came a voice. "It's quite rude to accost a lady in her dream."

He turned. He had been transported to the edge of the forest. A young woman sat on a rock, brushing her glossy grey hair and regarding him.

"Silvercloak?"

"Mm," the girl said. "I suppose your experiment was a success?"

"It was. I—"

The sound of hooves came from the woods. Garon glanced to his side and was startled into silence by the sight of two approaching unicorns, twice as tall as him. Silvercloak smiled as they came to her and stood to brush the mane of one's lowered head.

"He's a friend," she whispered to the other. It held Garon in a stare for another while before starting to graze. To him, she said, "Why've you come?"

"To ask you something." She gave him a short look, but said nothing. He continued, "I have to know about King Antimony."

"Ah," she said lightly. "A figure forgotten by historians, strangely enough, though he remains a favourite of poets and mothers with stubborn children."

"I dreamed of him."

"I always thought you two would've liked each other. He was a handsome fellow."

"Be serious," Garon huffed. "Binding the ley lines in me refreshed my memory. I read of him when studying past follies, but had forgotten the account. I hadn't made a connection with the Serpent Congregations and the calamity he caused."

"I keep telling you not to read all night. It's a marvel you remember half the things you do." She beckoned the other unicorn over and began brushing it.

"He, too, crafted ley lines across the land," Garon said. "We plan to use them to relay information, to let sorcerers travel quickly between Congregations, and eventually, if we can keep them stable enough, to break down the barriers between forms of magic. There would be no more flesh sculptors or arcanists—anyone could do whatever they wished. Perhaps, in time, even those without magic could be made sorcerers, and so we would usher in an age of unimagined prosperity where all are free of want and need."

"Yes, I know your intentions quite well."

"That was the king's speech, verbatim," Garon said tensely, "but did you know it's also what King Antimony promised?"

Silvercloak was silent for so long Garon was about to urge her to share her thoughts. She finally said, quietly, "I was there to hear it."

"He did nothing of the sort. As soon as the ley lines were made active, they began to drain life out of his subjects and funnel it into him. With one command, he murdered every person in the kingdom."

"It was a lonely time," Silvercloak whispered. "I was the only one left—after I killed him. I walked alone in the valley of death for centuries."

Garon's eyes widened with astonishment. "You killed the Cadaver King?"

Silvercloak glanced at him with sad eyes. "A man is beheaded for murder, even a monarch. Why would genocide earn him a fate less brutal? There was no one else to don the headsman's mantle, and so I went to his court and sheared his head from his shoulders." She lowered her head, and her voice. "Though I've since wondered if letting him live would have been a more fitting punishment."

He looked away, considering whether to pursue the subject. Her mien convinced him against it. "Do you think the king is planning to use the Congregations for his own ends? Will I go down in history as one of the blue-eyed fools who enabled a monster?"

"I don't know any better than you." She patted the unicorn's side. The beasts trotted back into the forest, and Silvercloak sat on her rock, arms folded on her lap. "But I will tell you this: Not once in my long life have I seen such promises fulfilled.

"You know the story of the Queen of Ravens. The god sought to create a paradise by bestowing magic upon her creations, but the more she gave, the more they craved. Eventually, she gave humanity so many gifts they surpassed her, and now she weeps in the underworld, banished there by the sorcerers she made."

She paused, regarding him with a mournful look. "Those in a position of power aren't keen to give it up, and I doubt the king is different. The summer rains were few, and with winter approaching many will starve. Instead of helping his vassals, he spent his wealth on crafting your Congregations."

A pensive air overcame Garon. "It was to be for the greater good."

"Those, too, were Antimony's words."

He nodded, swallowed hard. He closed his eyes, feeling the state of his body. "I can awaken, now. I suppose this is the last I see you," he said with a sigh.

She frowned. "What are you planning?"

"I'll destroy the centrepiece. The other Congregations are useless without the one in the castle. It can't be remade without me—there is no arcanist skilled enough." He gave a wistful smile. "But I am susceptible to torture. There are some means I must take to ensure my continued uncooperativeness afterwards."

She cast her eyes down. "I see. I will miss you. It's been nice having a friend, for a change."

"What's one more fallen comrade to you?"

"As painful as always." Her tone made him regret his flippancy.

5.

Garon left Alista in her grave and continued past the barracks and commoners' houses up the path to the keep. Rivenhold had been an egg of the Queen of Ravens, so it was said, stolen and broken against the mountains. The cracked shell had become towers that had no right by logic to stand—yet withstood even the harshest blizzard—and domed walkways protruding from the cliff face. Whether the myth was true, there was no knowledge regarding when it was built, or by whom. Even Silvercloak claimed not to know.

Alista hadn't seen anyone outside the keep for months. As far as she knew, only the king still resided there. Garon's apprentices were gone, left to satiate each ache becoming a wraith had seeded in them. There could have been others, but she wasn't certain; sometimes, she thought people prowled in the yard, but she hadn't bothered to rise from her rest to see if someone was there.

As Garon approached the keep entrance, a snarl made him drop low and raise his cane. Dying wasn't easy on the mind—Alista was the only other sane wraith he'd met so far. Most were like the one skulking in the upper floor of the house to his left: Sad, and angry. Nothing a show of compassion or a crack in the skull won't fix.

He waited, soft thump of footfall sounding from inside. The window bursts open. He grunted upon recognising the creature staring at him with wild eyes.

"Garon Cinnard," Jerrick Lang hissed, stretching out an arm onto the thatched roof below the window. He climbed out like a lizard, jumped down onto all fours.

He grimaced. His spine had twisted in such a way it looked like his posture wasn't a matter of menacing appearance.

"Garon Cinnard!" he repeated. "How dare you come back?"

His eyes bulged, larger than any man's ought to have. But then, he was barely a man at all anymore.

Garon couldn't fathom what had made him this way. His hair had been reduced to thin wisps. His nose was gone, and lips torn to reveal grinding teeth. His skin stretched so tightly it had split over shoulders and elbows to show bone. His pelvis was fractured, legs warped to accommodate for his reptilian gait. That he could walk at all was shocking.

"You've been made a fool, Jerrick," he said. "I had nothing to do with this. The king—"

Jerrick leapt with a shriek, toppled him and pinned him against the ground. He tore into his neck, drawing a scream. He was heavy, impossibly heavy for such an emaciated body. Desperately, Garon scoured the ground for his cane.

"YOU DID THIS!" Jerrick screeched, teeth stained with blood coagulated in Garon's veins. He found his cane and slammed it against the side of Jerrick's head.

Jerrick rolled away, bounced onto his feet and charged. Garon sidestepped, head feeling faint; it took more than a bite to kill a wraith, but pain bedevilled even the undead.

"I was set up," he stammered. "I tried to stop it from happening!"

"LIAR!" Jerrick howled. He flung himself at Garon, who missed the swing. They slammed against the side of a house, the mad sorcerer clinging onto him and bashing his head against the ground when they fell. "Liar. Liar. LIAR."

Garon tried to hit back, but each time his head struck ice his blows became feebler. His skull would break. That was enough to kill a wraith. How... how... can he be so strong?

He spread his fingers, gathered his ringing thoughts, and an arc appeared between the metal pads.

I have no choice.

White lightning struck out and blasted Jerrick into the air. He landed with a crunch, but appeared more disoriented than wounded. A fault easily corrected.

Jerrick rolled onto his hands and feet. His head darted up, and Garon drove his cane into it. Jerrick's truly dead carcass slumped at his feet.

He stared at his fallen accomplice, directing magic towards his memory. He flinched when a description of something like what lay before him resurfaced from the mould.

He shoved the body over and groaned at the scar running down the underside of Jerrick's arm. Idiot! It was never possible but for the three of us!

He fell back on shaking legs, sat on the porch of the house. The pain was number, but the night had turned darker and his limbs weaker.

If there are more like him, I won't have enough sorcery left in me for the king. I might not have enough as it is...

He buried his face in his hands. What I wouldn't give for sleep to come. One night, one hour, a minute to renew myself would do. Queen's grace, it's been four months. I've expended less in four months than I used to in a day, when I still dreamed...

6.

Five months earlier.

Roused from his nightmare, Garon ran through the slumbering keep. The smell of fresh bread permeated the hall. An awkward scent for a moment of distress. His stomach responded with a rumble.

Garon dashed downstairs and towards the courtyard, but ground to a halt in the main hall. The door outside was open. Lines crept in over etchings on the floor, and he traced them to the throne room's entrance. It took him a moment to regain his conviction.

The throne room's chandelier was unlit. The hall was illuminated by the king's magic, manifested as coruscant orbs whirling around him. The lines were halfway across the room. Their sight made Garon gape in awe. Such progress, overnight and alone? I've underestimated you, my liege. He stepped forward, spine pricked by a chill. The king's seat was the last beacon of power. Once the lines touched it, the Serpent Congregation would be complete, the final finished path most powerful of all seven.

"Sire," he said. The word left as a dry whisper. He swallowed, forced his voice louder. "I must insist you stop."

"Your work is done," spoke the king. His tone was weary, strained. "You've done me proud. I'll ensure you'll be justly rewarded."

A pulse ran underfoot, shooting along the line and pushing it another inch further.

Garon's face hardened. He threw out his hand and slammed it over the line. Disrupted, the magic began to flow into him instead. His head jolted up, eyes alight with pain and brimming sorcery.

The king shot to his feet with a cry of rage. The orbs sped out in answer, and each struck him with the weight of a cannonball. Only the magic coursing through his marrow kept him from being crushed.

He was thrown out of the room to roll along the floor of the main hall, but the link remained tethered. He fed on power in a manner he'd never thought possible. Gracious queen, and it hurts!

Guards rushed in around him, but none dared step close as he gained his feet. His body was adjusting to the eaten magic, trembling as his muscles grew, bone stretched. Is this what he intended to do? Garon thought in panic, face twisting as his cranium spread to accommodate for a larger brain.

His eyes cracked open, and he found the king standing before him.

The burning stopped, and Garon felt as if he were deflating. The king stood with the tether in his grip—he's... impossible—as though he'd only taken a toy from a petulant child. He let it fall back into silken form at his side, and it was light again, crawling towards the throne as it had before his interruption.

"Sire," said the captain of the guard, glancing unsurely between Garon and the king. "Has something—"

"Imprison Master Cinnard," the king said, folding his arms behind his back. "He has made an attempt on my life and against the kingdom."

The captain's astonishment mirrored Garon's. "Yes, sire." Even as he gestured the guards, manacles warded against sorcery were latched onto Garon's limbs. "I'll have someone wake the headsman."

"No, he shan't be executed. Alert the court wizards instead. They've been instructed on how to detain him."

"You knew I'd try to stop you?" he grunted.

"I knew your loyalty was wanting."

Garon scowled. The guards pushed him along. Though newfound strength still bristled in his body, Garon found the shackles sapping his ability to resist. "He will kill us all, you fools! Only I can stop it! Release me or be as guilty as him!"

But all his protesting earned was a gag before he'd taken ten steps.

7.

Recollection shook Garon when he entered the keep.

The scorch marks of his taking control of the Serpent Congregation remained in the memory of stone. The outer doors had been blown apart, but those of the throne room remained standing and sealed. He threw back the sanctum gate with dramatic flair, expending the slightest bit of sorcery to grant his muscles the necessary burst of vigour. As it drained, a hollow sensation was left in place.

Ley lines pulsed at his feet, stretching out from the feet of the figure on the throne. For what purpose, he couldn't fathom.

Nor why the person on the seat was Silvercloak, not the king.

She was young, as she'd been when they'd met in a dream, illusions of age allowed to fade. Her eyes were closed, head leaned back. Garon thought she was asleep, but with his approach, she gave a soft moan and reared herself to regard him.

"Garon?" she whispered with a dry mouth.

"Silvercloak," he replied. "I've come for the king."

"The king... is dead," she whispered, reclining with a heavy sigh.

"I know. Not dead enough."

"As dead as can be."

She fell silent, head lolling along with the rising and falling of her chest. Garon's brows knitted at the sight. "You truly did perfect it," he said quietly.

"Perfected what?"

"Immortality. You're breathing. The last creature to do so."

"Mm."

"Where is the king?" Garon demanded.

"Dead, I told you."

"By your hand?"

"By his own." She gazed at him as though she had trouble focusing. "I've still not decided whether he was selfless or not. Likely not. Do you know why he needed the Congregations?"

"To give the prince new life."

"But such a feat cannot be done." There was profound sadness in her tone. "You cling on as wraiths because sorcery still fuels your body, but you will never have more. When you light your last spark, conjure your last gale, you die as surely as any mortal. Magic cannot be given to a corpse, not even a walking one. The dead do not dream."

"What happened after I was taken away?" Garon asked, though he already surmised the answer. "From my cell, I saw a terrible flash over the mountains. The next I blinked, I was buried in rubble, the prison and the town around it brought to ruin."

"At the king's behest, the Serpent Congregation hummed to life." Silvercloak paused to catch her breath, as though the mere act of speaking was an exertion. "He had redirected its destination into one point. Instead of connecting the magical wellsprings, it sucked them dry.

"Then it turned onto people. Death is a void, Garon, and its hunger can't be sated. The king tried, but only denied himself the chance to become a wraith. Connecting the ley lines to a corpse..."

"Fed it well, but never enough," Garon finished. She nodded. "I can fix things," he went on. "If I give my life—"

"No, my friend. There is but a drop left in you. You think yourself strong, but would perish in a day. I, however—in time, I can melt the snow."

Garon nodded slowly, gathering his thoughts. "Did you do so after King Antimony's failure?"

"I did."

"Silvercloak, why did he fail? If the Congregation had been connected to a person, the effect should have been what we feared the king was attempting. But, it was what the Cadaver King sought to do. Do you know what went wrong?"

She bowed her head, let the ley line dim into a hoary worm. Health returned to her, so that she seemed to glow with verve.

In all but her eyes, still an ancient's, carrying pain as Garon's bore hatred.

"Nothing," she said, voice regaining its regality. "It worked perfectly."

"I suspect you've not been quite honest with me," he growled.

Silvercloak turned, gaze cast on stone. "I have not. When people came to the valley after I had ruined and restored it, I thought it wiser to curse a king instead of a queen and give up my old name. History is created by survivors, Garon, and I had ample time to wander the wasteland and erase anything that made a mention of my features—a 'cloak of silver hair,' for one—or gender." She braved his wrath to give him a rueful smile. "Queen Antimony's grasp for immortality was disastrous, yes... but not a failure. I left no wraiths. I consumed everything."

"Then by your code I ought to cut you down."

She laughed. "You could try, but I've run out of ways to attempt an escape to the court of ravens. Alas, I am the one creature who can animate earth. All wraiths together wouldn't have the necessary magic to do so."

Garon gripped his cane so tightly the wood threatened to crack. "I learn you are amongst the grimmest monsters in human history, and you tell me to watch and let you work?"

"What else can you do?" Silvercloak said, reaching a hand for his shoulder. He stepped aside. "My crime is grave—and seven thousand years old. You could punish me by breaking your cane against my skull, but all that leaves you with is splinters. I won't know a bruise." She traced a look along the sorcerous husk waiting for her continued effort. "I won't implore you to stay. You wouldn't live to see the rebirth through if you did. You aren't immortal—every passing thought, every twitch of a muscle burns some magic."

"How do you know? I thought you left no wraiths," he muttered.

"I am not the only mad monarch in history."

"Did you... help correct their follies each time?"

"I did, though few were as horrid as this." She paused, pressed a fist on her mouth before continuing. "People will return. They always do. Often to rebuild the ruins of prior days, and I would join survivors in welcoming them. Now... The reach of the Congregation ensured the destruction of the known world." She looked up, met his gaze. "But I did the same, and from some unknown corner, people came. So, shall they now, and they will be greeted by the lone native of a pristine land."

"And bones and ruins to expose your lie."

She shook her head and flicked her hand. A torrent of flame appeared around them, making Garon cry out from being startled. It vanished with another flick. "Bones burn and ash fertilises, and years grind ruins to dust—but, save for the Cadaver King's legacy, I will cozen none. Some scars deserve to be shown, and I will remember and salvage all the history I can. For as much my protection as for the hope there will come people wiser than you."

"You've truly done this before?"

"And plan to see it through again. I've become a warden of the realm. No light burden, but I see no other way to repent—to give purpose to the sacrifice of my people."

Garon chewed on her words. She folded her hands across her waist, waited patiently.

Finally, he sat down.

"Take your throne and get on with it."

"Then... Will you stay? For a time?" she said, failing—or not trying—to hide her hopefulness. "Mine is a lonely task."

"I still find you reprehensible," he said coolly. Silvercloak flinched, but he went on with a rumbling groan. "I'm such no less, and there have been worse motives for comradeship than similarity of character."

She gave him a surprised look, smiling when she sat. Weariness returned to her features. "I fear I can be quite the dull conversationalist. Generating life is taxing even to one with my prowess."

"You keep talking about rebirth, yet claimed it impossible only moments ago," Garon said wryly.

"A corpse is a corpse, but soil is never truly barren. I cannot force a seed to grow, but I can nurture it and hope."

"Is that enough?"

"It must be."

It took an hour before he said another word. Only wind sang in the lonely halls, pushing whorls of snow along the mountain's veins.

"I met Alista," he blurted eventually. "In the courtyard."

"Oh? How is she?" She winced, and Garon couldn't stop the small laugh slipping past his guard. "I'm sorry. It's... hard to think when I do this." Silvercloak sank into her seat. "I'm glad she's here. You'll need company when I fall asleep. The strain can knock me unconscious for weeks at a time."

Garon crossed his legs, drummed his knee. "Do you still dream?"

"I do."

"About the unicorns?"

"Yes."

"Who are they?"

Silvercloak took in a long breath, slowly let it out. "My firstborn children. Twins, from when I was still the mortal Antimony."

"Your very children, or a dream imprint?"

She said nothing for a time, and Garon glanced up. Her eyes were wet. "They were caught in the stream, victims to my transgression. I carry their souls with me, and... Well. They appear in a form dearest to the spirits of four-year-old's."

"Are theirs the only souls you carry?"

She merely shook her head.

Garon grumbled, mostly to himself, and stood. He reached the exit before Silvercloak managed to call, "Have you decided to leave me?"

"Only to look for something," he said over his shoulder. "Our friendship began over a cup of tea. I think we need some to reheat it."

A smile eased onto her face. "We ought to conserve it. There won't be more for a while."

"If there ever was a good reason to ransack the cook's stash for the good blend, the end of the world is it."

He returned later, bearing a tray with a spoutless teapot and chipped cups, and a table whose leg he'd mended. They talked long and late, Silvercloak nodding off now and again. Every time Garon left to fill the pot, the ley lines edged a little farther, and with every refill the ice around his heart felt the approach of a faraway spring.

The Black Prince

Liam Hogan

United Kingdom

The armoured frigate slipped through the icy waters of the Mediterranean. On the bridge, Captain Napier looked out as below the ships' ten boilers laboured away. Even the iron hull and mighty steam engines of the HMS Black Prince would not be enough to protect them against the crush of the ice if the weather worsened. And for what? A fool's errand? The mad whim of an egotistical scientist? For this, they would risk the last great ship of the once mighty British fleet?

"Progress, Captain?"

Napier turned sharply. Had he been so wrapped up in his thoughts he'd failed to notice the scientist's approach? Or was this scientist far stealthier than any scientist had a right to be; at sea, or otherwise?

"Dr. Carmichael," he said, coldly. "We're making a steady five knots on a North-Easterly heading. We'll be at the mouth of the Bosphorus by dawn."

"Only five knots?" Carmichael's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "The Black Prince can do three times that speed, yes? Double under full sail alone?"

"Under fair conditions, yes," Napier growled. Being second-guessed by a man half his age, dressed in a black frock coat etched with arcane symbols, did not sit well. Nominally, the Captain was in charge. It was still his ship, for what that was worth. And yet, if it weren't for Carmichael, they'd be safely berthed in Bermuda. Carmichael, his team of green-gilled engineers, and his secretive mission.

"I suppose I can't do much about the weather. I may as well turn in," the scientist said.

Napier watched him go, hating him every step of the way. And the weather was his fault. Or rather, scientists just like him. Would that Carmichael had perished along with the rest of them.

He glanced over to the faded photograph tacked to the wall of the bridge. A dozen three-man dirigibles taking off in dusk's fading light, heavy single payloads slung low beneath their potbellies. A dozen payloads of mass death; fiendish bombs designed to convert matter into energy, into city-sized fireballs of searing heat. The idle playthings of scientists. And the consequences...

Was this to prove as mad an errand as that one? How much of the Prince's precious coal had been depleted getting this far? If they encountered pack ice in the Black Sea how little of the 800 tons would remain for the long journey home? Would they be left to the vagaries of the ocean's currents and unpredictable winds? Currents and winds that refused to obey the rules he had once learnt.

Replenishing their fuel supply ought to have been their top priority ever since the shock of finding Gibraltar ransacked and abandoned, not this pointless and dangerous expedition to a forgotten battleground.

Captain Napier wrapped his scarf firmly around his neck at the thought and stared out over the moonlit sea, ice crystals sparkling in the night. And this, in July! Carmichael said they were lucky to get even a glimpse of the night sky, this far North.

He turned to the helmsman. "Keep below five knots," he ordered. "Wake me if the ice thickens. Wake me at five am, regardless."

For all of his annoying ways Carmichael had been right about one thing: it would be wise to get some sleep before approaching whatever was waiting for them at Constantinople.

Napier slept fitfully, coming to from some dark, half-forgotten torment as he felt a rating's hand on his shoulder, tentatively shaking him awake.

"Sir?" the lad said, as Napier cast back the coarse blankets, "We're-"

"Why have we stopped?" Napier demanded, as he realised what was missing: the constant thrum of the Prince's engines.

"They're waiting for you on the bridge, sir," the rating said, as he handed over a warm mug. "We've arrived."

"Arrived?" Napier wiped the sleep from his eyes, took a gulp of the scalding hot drink--cocoa, with a half measure of rum--and stared at the rating whose name momentarily escaped him.

"At Constantinople, sir."

"Ah, Captain Napier," Carmichael said, as the Captain stormed onto the bridge. "I trust you slept well?"

Napier peered through the frosted windows. The moon had set, and thin cloud now obscured what stars there might have been. Was it his imagination or was the horizon darker than it should be? Was that land? Land that ought to be at least an hour away. "What is the meaning-"

"I took the liberty," Carmichael said, flashing an easy smile, "of requesting an extra few knots out of that slumbering behemoth of an engine you keep down below."

Napier switched his gaze to the helmsman who quailed under the dark look. "On whose authority?"

"Oh please, Captain. Calm yourself. I thought it expedient that we pass through the straits before dawn, rather than after."

Napier stared at him in disbelief. "You want to pass through the straits at night?"

"You have it in one."

"Are you... are you insane?" Napier hissed. "Do you know what navigating the Bosphorus entails?"

The scientist shrugged. "I'm sure a Captain of your-"

"This isn't the Suez Canal, Carmichael! This is a natural strait with a current of up to eight knots and dangerously shallow in parts. Nor do you pass through it in a straight line. At its narrowest point, you need to do a forty-five-degree course correction. You want me to do all of this blind?"

"Well-"

"And need I remind you, Mr Carmichael, that this is enemy territory?"

"That, Captain, is why I thought it best to do it at night." The scientist waited a moment, as if expecting applause, before continuing. "But trust me, you won't be blind. Here, try these." Carmichael pulled a pair of green tinted goggles from around his neck and handed them over.

Napier raised them to his head, covering one eye with a thick lens. The sea burst into sudden light, the land gleaming only marginally less bright; pinpoints like stars flickering along its length. It was as if there was an unseen, green sun somewhere in the night sky, bathing everything in its sickly glow. At the turbulent margins of coast and sea he could even glimpse where the hopefully thin layer of ice began.

"What accursed magic is this!" Napier said, involuntarily pushing the goggles away.

"Not magic, Captain; science. Science that captures what little light there is--from the dawn, still an hour away, from the stars, from what few fires burn on the land--and amplifies it. Science that allows you and your watchmen, who will have the same apparatus attached to their binoculars, to see in the dark." The scientist stooped to pick up the discarded goggles, brushing the lens with the sleeve of his coat, before extending them back to the Captain. "And, if you please, it is Doctor Carmichael. Now, are we quite ready to proceed?"

Napier glared. At least the fool had waited for him, though whether that was because the helmsman would go no further without the Captain on deck, or merely that Carmichael had already achieved what he wanted, Napier was unsure.

"And if we do encounter hostile forces?" he asked, scathingly.

"Well, that's what the Black Prince's impressively thick iron cladding and forty cannons are for, are they not? And besides, we are the ones who can see, not them. Now, I have some measurements I want to take on either side of the straits. You'll excuse me, Captain."

Again, he watched the tall frame of the scientist exit the bridge as though he owned it. That damnable man! Napier barked his orders with more venom than he'd intended. "Kill the lights--all the lights. Ready the guns. Full alert. And no damned noise, not a bloody whisper, you hear?!"

The darkened ship crept through the strait. Five years ago, they would not have dared to do this, not even at night, with or without the scientist's goggles. Five years ago, they would have been detected by sound if not by sight and the mighty cannons stationed at the lighthouses that guarded the entry and exit to the straits would have flared into life. Even now the Captain stood steeled for the bright flash and the whistle of an approaching shell. After five terrible winters and the barely more hospitable summers, it was unknown how many Turks were left in this, their once greatest city. Some, for sure: the scattered fires that the night glasses turned into diamond bright points showed that. But were they organised? Militant? Would they look upon the Black Prince as an enemy, or as an unheralded saviour as had been the case when they'd pulled into Malta? There, they'd been met by a chaotic flotilla of barely seaworthy rafts and overloaded boats all clamouring for salvation and had been forced to quickly steam away, once again without taking on any supplies.

The Captain had known he might have to fight his way through the straits, but he doubted there were any Russian ships capable of mounting a serious challenge to the Black Prince, the fastest, most deadly warship ever built. It was the fixed guns of the coastal fortresses he feared. At such close range, it was always going to require luck rather than anything else to make it through unscathed.

Damn the man! Why had Carmichael not told him about the goggles sooner? Why had he allowed Napier to make a fool of himself?

"Ice thickening, sir," the helmsman quietly said.

Napier nodded. "Only to be expected. Are we still in the central channel?"

"Yes, Captain."

Here at least, the swift-flowing current should stop the ice building up. He wondered if in winter, when it froze solid, you could walk from one land mass to the other; from Europe to Asia. Perhaps between Kandilli Point and Aşiyan, coming up shortly, where the strait was at its narrowest. Who would have thought that such a thing would ever be possible?

The Prince's engines should power them through. But the noise... if there were any force to be reckoned with, it would be here. Though they would not be expecting a night-time passage, would they?

Before the Crimean they would have taken a local pilot on board; someone who knew these busy waters, how they changed over time, over the seasons. The locations of the latest wrecks, or where the old ones had broken up and shifted.

That was impossible now; had been ever since the Turks chose to side with the Russians. As it was he would not be attempting this if there were any alternative and if he hadn't navigated the passage a dozen times before, back when an uneasy peace kept hostilities at bay.

Never in the Black Prince, though. Never in a ship of this size and, of course, never through ice. So many things that could go wrong.

"Slow one third," he instructed, peering into the green murk, trying to remember how deep it was at the turning. Dawn was still a way off, but the sky was lighter now and through the goggles the contrast between land and sea grew sharper. "45 degrees to starboard on my mark... one, two... now!"

The nose of the ship began to turn, the sound of crunching sea ice drowning out even the increase in engine noise. Napier swore under his breath. Surely someone would hear them. But what would be their response? Perhaps there were no Turkish or Russian ships left. Without ice-free moorings, would they not have been crushed long ago?

So again; all that was left to fear were the land-based cannons. Though that was plenty enough to fret over.

"Engines reported Captain. Airborne. Closing in on our position from the North."

Dirigibles! Damn. He hadn't thought... or maybe they were those new-fangled biplanes the Russians had been experimenting with, before. Either way it was bad news, with a quarter of the strait still to navigate.

"Clear the decks. Ready the 40 pounders with fragmentation shells. Don't fire until I give the order. Repeat: do not fire."

Firing anything was an action of the last resort. To do so would signpost their position and give the enemy an idea of the sizeable threat they posed. With luck, whatever aircraft was headed their way would be Skirmish class, lightly weaponed and unable to do more than pester the Prince. If they were larger than a couple of fragmentation shells would do fearful damage to their gas envelopes, though the gunners would have to be rather more accurate to shred the canvas wings of a biplane.

Something exploded bright and painful behind his eyes and with a cry he ripped off the night goggles, catching the afterglow of a parachute flare floating down. Tentatively, he held a single lens back against his eye, blinking away the image that had been seared onto his retinas.

"Send replacements to the lookouts," he ordered. "Tell them: only use one lens of the night binoculars at a time."

He scanned the skies in the fading glow. Two dirigibles, still some way off. Had they seen the Prince by the flare's dazzling light? He thought not. Though perhaps they did not need to. The trench the warship cut through the ice would show them where they were, would point their way like a thin black arrow.

"Why do you not open fire?" a voice asked at his shoulder. Carmichael; second-guessing him as ever.

"You want to bring them down on our heads? Them and whatever other airships there may be on the peninsula? Give them something to aim their cannons at? They still do not know what or exactly where we are. If we can make it to the Northern lighthouses without being seen they will probably give up, or wait until dawn. By then we should be clear."

Carmichael stroked the neat little goatee he sported. "So, it seems some of the Turks are clinging on," he said. "I'd thought they might be back to the Stone Age by now."

"Scavengers," Napier replied, tersely.

"Perhaps." Carmichael seemed to lose interest as the dirigibles looped back and forth but ventured no nearer. He turned away, then sharply back, staring at how Napier was using the goggles, one lens dangling free. He nodded thoughtfully. "I can rig up a night vision monocle?"

"That," Napier said through gritted teeth, his vision still blurred, "Might be for the best."

Dawn broke over the Black Sea long after the rugged hills of the peninsula had faded over the horizon. They were doing a steady twelve knots; a speed that should prevent any significant pursuit by dirigible. There had been no sign of any other vessel of any kind. Strange to recall that the Crimean War had, if nothing else, been a strategic ploy to prevent the Russian fleet from dominating these waters. And now? Were there any ships left in it at all?

Captain Napier stepped onto the outer deck, eager to feel the cold wind, to taste the day's weather. As he did so he saw the stooped form of Carmichael and almost retreated inside. But it was his ship, damn it; he wouldn't be chased from any part of it.

The scientist appeared to be staring intently at something and Napier wondered if he was even aware he had company.

"It gets hotter," the scientist observed.

Napier glanced overboard to where the prow of the ship was cutting its way through the sea-ice and shook his head in disbelief.

"Here, Captain," Carmichael said, turning to reveal the glass bulb he'd been staring into. In it a faint white mist floated.

The Captain took a few steps closer and as he did, so a thin line streaked across the apparatus. Then another.

"It's called a cloud chamber," Carmichael lectured. "We count the number of trails that appear in a measured minute. It tells us how dangerous it is."

"Dangerous?" Napier said, looking up into the overcast, featureless skies.

"The after-effects of the bombs. The rays of radiation."

"But that was 1878. Five years ago!" protested the Captain.

Carmichael laughed. "And the effects will last many more years than that. The bombs continue to release their fearsome energies even now and will do so long after you and I crumbled to dust."

Napier gulped. What new evil was this that could not be seen, that would last so long and pose such a threat?

"Is it safe?"

Carmichael shrugged. "No, not particularly. It would be wise to limit our time out on deck. The metal and timber construction of the ship should protect us from the worst of it."

"And if it gets hotter?"

"Oh, I assure you Captain, it will. Where we're headed, it most certainly will." The scientist peered at Napier. "You've been lucky, I think, to have spent so much of the last five years away from Europe, out of the Northern hemisphere. To not already know these dangers. Though the winters grow steadily less harsh, I fear there are parts of the Crimea--and England too, of course--that no man will ever live in again."

The Captain shuddered. "Is that where we're going? The Crimea?"

Carmichael tilted his head to the side, regarding Napier as he might regard a lab rat facing some new and unexpected stimulus. Napier felt a battle raging within, felt his shoulders quake, felt his nails digging into the palm of his hands as his fist clenched repeatedly.

They were headed the same place the twelve three-man dirigibles had gone. Was it a coincidence they were following in the footsteps of those thirty-six brave men? And, like theirs, was this also a suicide mission?

The steam-powered dirigibles had been too slow to avoid the atomic flames once their bombs were let go. In any case they were always intended to be one-way trips; no fuel held in reserve to make good their escape, no chance to return to the supposed safety of their Glenfinnian base nestled in the Scottish Highlands.

He had never thought to see where everything had gone so terribly wrong.

"Yes Captain," Carmichael nodded, as though echoing the older man's thoughts, "the Crimea."

"I'm not a learn'ed man-" Napier said, jaw clenched.

"No, you're not," Carmichael agreed, his wry smile a slap in the Captain's face.

"But I hope for my crew's sake--my seven hundred men--you know what the hell you are doing."

Napier did not wait for a response and with teeth still gritted he stomped back to the bridge.

The photograph pinned to the stout oak beam was the only thing left. The camera, the cameraman, the crew setting off on their top-secret mission, the balcony the photo was taken from, the house, the entire secret base... All gone. Only a single roll of negatives, express-trained down to London for inclusion in a newspaper edition never to be printed, had survived.

The only thing left, and it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. Despite his best efforts, Napier could not pick out the details of the young faces crammed into those tiny cabins. He could not tell which of them was Alex; which of them was his only son.

They had known their fate. It had been sold to them, wrapped in false claims of glory. They had been told that what they were doing would end the War on Terror. A war that, as far as the Captain was concerned, had been no such thing; merely a slow, simmering stalemate over the thirty years since the first debacle in the Crimea. Three decades in which the scientists--backed by the hawkish government of Lord Palmerston and those who came after him--had been far busier than the diplomats.

Peace, it seemed, was no good for business. But still it was no war; merely a few extremists snapping at the heels of the Great British Empire, which had hardly broken step even after that inglorious setback. If it had been a check on its ambitions in Eurasia, it had not dented them in other directions, had not roused its rivals in the Americas and further afield from their torpor.

No, if it had truly been a war then they would have sent the Prince and her sister ship, HMS Warrior, to terrorise the Black Sea. If it had been a war they might even have been joined by the mobile dirigible platform, HMAS Devastation, the super-dreadnought of the skies. But a covert night time operation? An act of infamy. A pre-emptive strike, politically justified by claiming that technically they were already--were still--at war. A dramatic show of deadly force so terrible that it would knock the fight out of the belligerent Russians and their treacherous allies. A demonstration of superior British military and scientific might that would settle the festering sore of the Crimea once and for all, if only by scorching from the face of the Earth the fortresses with which it bristled, of which the greatest was Sevastopol.

Or was it simply the first opportunity the Scientists had to test their brand new super-weapons?

Weapons, it turned out, that weren't that novel after all. Launched from a base in the Highlands that wasn't that secret. A pre-emptive strike that landed second.

Napier rubbed his tired eyes. His early awakening and the tension of their passage from the Sea of Marmara into the larger body of the Black Sea had left him feeling drained. And Carmichael had not helped settle his nerves, damn the man.

The letters the scientist had carried the first time he stepped on board the Black Prince--letters from the Admiralty--had requested that Captain Napier extend: "every courtesy and means of assistance at his disposal" to Carmichael's "scientific expedition of immense importance".

Of course, Napier had obeyed. It had not mattered that the Admiralty was now based in Calcutta and not Greenwich, nor that the Lord High Admiral, Sir Joseph Pyke, was a man unknown to him. The orders were still authenticated and, as if to show the regard in which he was held, Carmichael had been escorted on board by the Governor General of the Bermuda's himself.

And yet even then, right at the start, it had been clear the scientist was an insufferable egotist; a man who thought he knew everything, with little regard for the Captain's years of seafaring experience or the welfare of his men.

Carmichael's words had still struck a chord. Yes, they had been lucky. Lucky not to have been harboured at Scapa Flow along with the rest of the great Fleet. Lucky to have escaped the worst of the harsh winters that followed which had claimed so many of the vessels that remained, including the Prince's sister, HMS Warrior: missing, presumed lost, somewhere in the Atlantic. Lucky to have a sheltered port at Hamilton behind which to sit out the fierce and unprecedented storms, storms that hammered even the Southern latitudes as the World's climate shifted and changed.

So damned lucky they risked wasting away from the extreme tedium of it all.

Perhaps Napier had been too eager to put to sea. Too eager to do something more than guard the dockyard and harbour at Hamilton against oft rumoured but never materialised aggression from the other settlements in the Americas. To protect the vitally strategic colony as the British Empire struggled to adjust to its new and diminished state, the head all but lopped off.

In the five years since the atomic genie was loosed from the bottle, the Black Prince had done little more than ferry troops, supplies and passengers to and from the colonies at Virginia and Maryland. In a world splintering and crumbling, the might of the Prince would have been enough to sway any military action. Might even have been enough to extend British interests into the fragile cauldron of South America.

But the remnants of the Empire's leaders preferred to use it as a mere talisman; a sign that they were still a force to be reckoned with, something to hold the shattered pieces together. There were no true wars to be fought, no-one with any fight left in them. Merely skirmishes, police actions. Disturbances that vanished back into the woodwork as soon as the dark shape of the Prince hove into port.

He should have been more careful what he wished for.

As eager as he and his men had been for a mission that required more of them than window dressing, he still did not understand why they were there. That the Prince was the only ship left that could ply these waters and even then, only at the height of summer, he understood. But what was it they were there to do? What could they achieve in revisiting the scene of the crime? What was so valuable a prize that the Black Prince might be ventured in gaining it?

And why was it all such a damnable secret? Once they had set sail from Hamilton, he'd assumed Carmichael would brief him on the mission. Instead even their final destination had been kept secret; each point along the way reluctantly drip fed. Did the Scientist not understand the logistics of a ship this size? The need to plan not only for the coming week, but for months ahead? Especially now, when there was no guarantee of a safe harbour, no guarantee of re-supply.

All Carmichael had done was commandeer the larger part the Prince's workshops, touring the engine room with a critical eye and a complicated set of schematics. Halfway around the world from their departure point and Napier knew little more than he had when he'd broken the seal on those letters from the Admiralty.

Other than the creeping suspicion that the scientist was mad as well as insufferable.

He checked his pocket watch and handed the Bridge over to the First Mate. A bite to eat and an hour's rest would do him a world of good and the passage from here should be relatively simple.

But sleep wouldn't come, not even for a thirty-minute nap. His cabin was cold, and his thoughts churned, thinking of the last time he'd seen his son. Halfway through the brief meeting Napier had realised his boy was a boy no longer. Alex had been serious, talking about how important his new role was while skirting around the details. A brightness in his eyes that showed how proud he was to have been selected. Had he known then it was a one-way trip?

And if Napier had known; what would he have said? Would he have tried to convince his son not to go? Not to do his duty?

Would his son have listened?

Odd, so very odd, that such a sacrifice had brought no recognition at all. His son's name would be swiftly forgotten, the most incidental of details against a background of far more significant events.

"Two sleds," Carmichael insisted. "And twelve men. I need twelve of your men, armed."

They were staring out over the narrow strip of water that separated them from a barren stretch of the Crimean Peninsula. Nothing moved; no people, no birds. Nothing. The land looked scoured of life. He'd assumed that they might head to one of the ports. Yalta, perhaps; maybe even Sevastopol. But Carmichael had not seemed, now they had come all this way, to have a destination in mind. They'd trawled back and forth along the coast while the scientist and his men had made measurements with their cloud chambers. Finally, they'd weighed anchor here: in a place that had no name, the only merit of which Napier could see was that it had a gently sloping shore.

Napier looked at the assembled group. Ten of Carmichael's engineers, twelve of his men, rifles slung over their shoulders. The two sleds had already been loaded into the boats, one apiece, tarpaulins thrown over a cargo of sleek silver canisters.

"It is the Captain's prerogative-"

"I asked for volunteers," Carmichael interrupted. "These men stepped forward."

Napier frowned and walked along the line. O'Henry, Martins, Warburton. Good men, all, and none that he could manage without. It would have been easier if he could have found fault with the selection. Each man stood erect, eyes focused a thousand yards away.

It was his job, not Carmichael's, to assign his men. Once more he could feel his authority being undermined. A dangerous precedent under even normal circumstances. But this far from a friendly port? What the hell did Carmichael think he was playing at?

Offer him every assistance, the letter had requested, every courtesy. But this...

This was stretching his patience and tolerance further than he'd ever thought it would go. He faced his crew.

"Men..." he began, and then realised he did not know what else to say. Not knowing their mission nor what they might face on the peninsula; what advice could he possibly give?

"Carry on," he barked, as they saluted and marched in good order to the boats, followed by the unruly gaggle of engineers.

He was surprised to see Carmichael return with the unladen boats a scant hour later, as his binoculars picked out the sleds cresting the low cliff that rose above the bleak dunes. A sleet began to fall as the boats were secured and Carmichael shivered for a moment, looking up into the featureless sky.

"Best take the Prince out half a mile and then get all your men undercover. Deck time is to be logged and strictly rationed, Captain."

Napier raised his eyebrow. "The radiation?"

Carmichael nodded, solemn.

A prickle at his neck had Napier reaching to scratch it until he controlled the impulse. His imagination, surely. From what he understood the radiation rays could not be seen, tasted, or felt. Only the cloud chambers revealed their sinister presence.

"How long are we to be moored here, Carmichael?"

The scientist shrugged. "Five days. Maybe a week. We should post lookouts to keep a watch for their return."

Napier smiled thinly. "Thank you, Mr Scientist. I would not have thought to do that."

Carmichael stared back at him and Napier waited for his outburst. For an involuntarily tick. Or grimace, or anything. It didn't come.

"Let's get inside, shall we?" was all the scientist said.

They should have expected the Russians would have their weapons program. After all, they'd had their difference engines--so vital to the calculations and complex modelling required to develop the Atom bomb--almost as long as the British.

Those twelve airships passing through the inky blackness of a moonless night never realised that, as they headed South and East, they were silently passed by their twins heading North and West. Airships of remarkably similar design, but carrying Russian insignia rather than British; carrying Turkish martyrs rather than Scottish.

Like the British weapons the Russian bombs were intended to end the war. But even Babbage's latest analytical engines could never have predicted they would do so much more than that. They had brought mankind to the brink of extinction.

The Captain shuddered. The Russian dirigibles--their atomic weapons no less powerful than those of the British--had headed not for the battleground of the Crimea but the industrial cities at the heart of the British Empire. Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds. The Naval base at Scapa Flow. The ports of Bristol and Hull. And--of course--the densely populated capital city of Great Britain, the beating heart of its Empire: London.

The question that entertained those with the luxury to consider it was that of cause and effect. Were the two acts of war connected? Would one have happened without the other? That the concurrent actions could be mere coincidence seemed too extreme a theory. The Russians had taken the use of these terrible new weapons to their logical and ultimate conclusion: not as something to be used in the theatre of war, but for the complete annihilation of their long-time enemy. An enemy that dared to threaten them with their own devastating weapons. This was surely not a step they would ever have taken lightly.

Nor at all had they known what havoc their weapons would wreck even as far away as the Russian Steppe. Devastation far more terrible than the effects of the British bombs dropped on the Crimea.

The crew of the Black Prince spent their days skulking below decks. Restless; neither underway nor able to escape the ship's confines to the desolate shore, temptingly within sight. When men did have to go out on deck--after it had rained, or more frequently, snowed, to dredge up buckets of seawater and flush the grey slush from the decks--their coats and boots were shucked at the doors by Carmichael's insistence.

"The sea is radioactive as well, of course," he mused as the men trudged off deck. "But the effect is diluted. When the wind comes from the land..." He hovered over one of the precious cloud chambers, counting trails and neglecting to finish his sentence.

Only the engineers seemed to be busy. Below the gun deck, in the boiler rooms, the sounds of their endeavours rang through the ship, screams of tortured metal, showers of sparks raining down.

"What are they doing?" Napier asked, nerves on edge.

"Adjustments," was all Carmichael would say.

After eight days of watching and waiting, Napier's patience finally snapped. "We must send a rescue detail-"

Carmichael's arm pressed lightly on his, "No, Captain."

"Those are my men!"

"And mine, as well. But... wait. A few days more. If they do not return even, then..." There was an uncharacteristic catch to the scientist's voice. "Then we must leave them behind."

Three days later Captain Napier and Carmichael were on the bridge, doing their best to ignore each other, when the lookouts spotted activity. Napier swung his binoculars, heart racing. Above the cliffs he could see something move. He squinted into the overcast day's half-light. Not people... something else; something smooth, emerging slowly. As it neared the edge it floated like a small grey cloud. He wiped away the tear the icy wind brought to his eye and it was only as he refocused the binoculars that he spotted the ropes and the sled the cloud was tied to. Spotted the ant-like men staggering through the sand on either side.

"What is that?" he muttered.

Carmichael looked darkly amused. "I'd have thought you, of all people?" he glanced sideways, and Napier followed his gaze to the black and white photograph pinned to the wall.

Napier's stomach lurched, a physical, tangible pain. "My son!"

"No... no Captain," Carmichael said in a softer tone. "I do not think this one is your son's. But it is one of the twelve, yes. One of them failed in their mission. A fortunate failure for us."

"Fortunate?" Napier felt oddly faint. He'd come to terms--as best he could--with the loss of his son. But maybe not as well as he'd thought, given the turmoil of that briefest moment of mistaken hope.

"Yes. Now, Captain, let us move closer to shore and launch the boats to pick up our men. And their valuable prize."

After he'd given the orders, the Captain shook his head and laughed, the sound tinny and false in his ears. "All this, for an under inflated pint-sized dirigible? I should have told you, Captain; we have three such craft already on board, ready to serve as lookouts-"

"No Captain, not for the airship. For what it still carries."

Now, as the sled tilted its way down the dunes towards them, Napier saw that it was loaded. Not, as before, with canisters which presumably had been used to re-inflate the dirigible. But with something squat and round.

"Are you mad?" he exploded. "You mean to bring one of those bombs on board my ship?"

"If I could, Captain, I'd bring three of them on board. One will have to do, to start with."

It was only as the Black Prince turned towards shore that Napier realised what else was wrong: there was only one sled. Twenty-two men had set out on this mission; where were they all? There were, at most, a mere dozen heading slowly to the waterline.

"My men!" he cried, turning with fierce anger. "Where are my men?"

Carmichael did not answer, other than by a half-shake of his head. But that was answer enough: the scientist obviously did not expect any more returnees.

"And the rest of my crew? Are they to be sacrificed as well?" Napier heard his voice becoming louder, more strident. "By the malignant forces contained within that monstrous thing?"

Carmichael frowned. "It is not the bomb they are escorting that has made them ill, Captain. It is the other eleven, exploded over this small peninsula. Eleven bombs that shed their fallout all around. We have gone to great lengths to mitigate, as best we can, those effects. Plotting where the radiation is likely to be least, to give these brave men the best chance they could have of securing their goal.

"But still... a week anywhere on this cursed land is enough to cause serious illness, two weeks, near certain death. This is why I asked you to stand off-shore, Captain. Why we have been so careful to not carry the contaminated dust and rain into the ship. And why we sent the smallest possible force to reclaim the bomb."

"And why you did not join them!" spat the Captain.

Carmichael's face darkened. "You think this a vanity project? That I do not value and grieve for the men I sent? And yes, it was I who sent them. Your men and mine. I took that responsibility, to spare you the consequences."

The Captain gritted his teeth. "That is not something the Captain should have been spared. It is the Captain's responsibility," he hissed. "And you could--should--have told them, what dangers they were facing."

"You think me a monster? I told them! I made it abundantly clear and still they volunteered, Captain. Every one of them willingly stepped forward and they did so fully knowing the risks."

"Which you failed to tell me!" The Captain's hand kept flying to his belt, wishing he had his pistol or ceremonial sword, knowing that if he had nothing would have stopped him striking the scientist down. The bridge was silent. Men stood by their stations, watching as the two of them faced off. He reddened at the thought. But... his loss of control was understandable!

Carmichael half-turned, his shoulders slumped. "What good would that have done?" he said wearily. "What would you have done, differently?"

The Captain stared at him. "But what is it all for?" he cried. "Why do we still need a weapon so terrible the World will never recover from their use?"

A weapon that had blighted this land such that to stand on its shores was to tempt death. A weapon that had laid waste to the bustling docks of Liverpool, where he had spent his youth. And that, a mere detail! London smouldered with over two million dead and again, no more than a footnote in whatever history survived.

Those acts, terrible though they were, paled into insignificance compared to the unforeseen consequences of the attack on an obscure airfield in the far North. The one from which his son had, so shortly before, made his departure.

It had been a logical target, for all its supposed secrecy. The British Empire had rather put all of their atomic eggs in one basket. Their launch pad, training barracks, and research department. Even the bomb-making facilities: the heavy water processing plant, the stores of both weapons-grade and depleted uranium. All of them centred around Glenfinnian; that ancestral pile nestled in old volcanic rocks themselves laden with uranium.

It was this, ultimately, that had doomed mankind. The 500-kiloton bomb that had been dropped from the Russian dirigible had merely served as a trigger; the fuse to ignite a much larger powder keg lurking beneath.

The initial death toll had been low, was there anyone around to count it. Far lower than the strikes on the cities down south, lower even than the losses incurred in the Crimean fortresses the British had targeted. But the after-effects!

An explosion heard around the world. Heard on board the Black Prince as it had neared the Falkland Isles. The creation of a new loch that had all but severed Scotland from England. And, most damning of all, the explosion had thrown up vast mountains of granite, pulverised into fine dust and blown high into the atmosphere. Dust that blocked out the sun, leading to five harsh, dark years during which the crops withered, the livestock long since sacrificed to desperate need.

From what Carmichael had said, the dust had done far more than merely blanket the sky. It carried the seeds of slow death: radiation. Those it did not kill outright it weakened, leaving them incapable of surviving the lethally cold winters and the famine that followed.

The effects, of course, had not been limited to the British Isles. Indeed, in some respects, they'd gotten off lightly. The prevailing winds carried the deadly burden North and East. Over Scandinavia, Russia, North America, before returning across the Atlantic to blanket the rest of Europe, the cloud eventually encircling the whole of the Northern hemisphere. A brief window of opportunity, during which the surviving members of both Houses of Parliament were airlifted to Calcutta. Along with Princess, and now Queen, Alice: the only member of the Royal family not lost at Balmoral.

Carmichael winced. "My orders..." he shook his head. "My orders were not to tell anyone until the mission was complete. I see now that those orders were ill-advised. Forgive me, Captain. Please, will you join me in my cabin?"

Napier had not been in the scientist's cabin since Carmichael had taken it over from his second in command. Curiously, he looked around at the clutter of scientific equipment. At the blueprints, he'd seen earlier that was now pinned to the wall. At the rack of the scientist's precious cloud chambers. A small still, heated by a paraffin lamp, burbled in one corner and he could hear the gentle click-click of a portable difference engine as it went about its calculations. He sat on the one chair not buried by books and papers, as Carmichael paced uneasily nearby.

"Drink, perhaps?" Carmichael said, unearthing a hip flask that had been used as a paperweight. "Damn! Empty..."

"Here," Napier said, surprised at this hidden vice of the scientist. He reached into the pocket of his heavy coat. "Mine is full."

He'd assumed the scientist would be at ease in his cabin. That he'd be boastful, now his mission was nearing success, his goal attained. Perhaps even arrogant, as he usually came across when explaining some scientific theory. But the man was nervous and, despite what had gone on before, despite the simmering hatred the scientist's aloofness had stoked, this gave Napier pause, going some small way to calm the fires of his anger.

Even so, at the back of it all, he did wonder if this discussion was being held in private to get the Captain off the bridge while what remained of the expedition made their way back to the Black Prince.

"What was your son?" the scientist asked. "Pilot, navigator, or weaponeer?"

Napier gave a start and almost spilt the small metal cup of fiery liquid. "Navigator."

Carmichael nodded. "A brave man, I am sure."

A tear came unbidden to the Captain's eye and he quickly wiped it away.

"Sometimes I wonder, Captain, which of the three roles required the bravest man. Idle speculation, to be sure; they must all have been equally brave. But of them all the weaponeer... To have virtually nothing to do the whole tense, nerve-wracking journey, cramped into the tiny cabin they shared. And then to have to make that final decision, knowing that not only did you condemn to a fiery death all those below, but also yourself and your two crew members. Your comrades. Your friends, your fellow countrymen. All on the inscrutable orders of their country's leaders, all for reasons beyond their comprehension.

"I wonder what sort of men they must have been, for only one of the twelve to fail that terrible duty. Better men than I, I am sure. I would have argued myself out of the task a half dozen times before take-off."

Napier sat and said nothing.

"They can never have imagined the full horror of their actions. No-one could. Not you, not I, not the people who sent them on their mission, not even the Russian's who retaliated before they arrived at their destination."

A squall of wind and hail battered the portholes.

"The consequences are still playing out, Captain; the shock waves expanding. The measurements I've been taking show that. Those people who have hung on through the bitter winters and barely warmer summers, who see the slackening of the sun-choking cloud as something to be cheered, that they are through the worst of it; these people know nothing. The very air is poisoned, and the vast bulk of that poison has yet to make landfall. It will continue to rain down for years. Decades! And while it does, the land will sicken, become more and more toxic to man. The land will become sterile.

"The Northern hemisphere is doomed, Captain Napier. Even if the climate returns to some degree of normality the sun will shine down on barren ground. On the skeletons of those who cling on and hope they can still eke out a living. According to my calculations, even India may be too far North."

There was a knock at the cabin door and one of Carmichael's engineers stuck his head through. He was startled when he saw Napier sitting there as well, then nodded at them both. The lad looked pasty-white, ill at ease, shell-shocked. "The boats... the boats have returned, sirs?"

"We'll be with you in a few minutes, Stiggins. Pass your message along to the engineering team and ready the sickbay." Carmichael waited until the door was closed again before continuing.

"My orders, once we leave this place, are to head to the colonies in Australia. Like HMAS Devastation, which patrols the skies over our colony in Patagonia, the Black Prince, a relic of a former time though it is, will become the focal point of... not the British Empire, Captain, that time has passed, but of civilisation itself. Our mission is to be that beacon, that hope. To stave off the dark ages that must surely follow for as long as possible. And, God be willing, to preserve such colonies as may carry science and learning with us. We are mankind's last, brightest light."

"And for that, we need an atomic bomb?" Napier asked incredulously.

"For that, Captain Napier, we need an atomic engine. And for that, I'm formally requesting your permission as Captain of this vessel to bring the unexploded bomb on board the Black Prince."

They watched, side by side, as the boat was winched out of the water. The Captain was shocked when he saw the state of the men who had returned. They looked like they'd been starved; their skin sallow, their eyes sunken. Sores ravaged their lips, pocked their hairless scalps. Released of their burdens, they staggered, collapsed onto the deck. Though they had been the lucky ones--they at least had made it back to the Black Prince--there were no smiles, no cheers.

Able-bodied men stepped forward to assist, but Carmichael halted them. As one final indignity, he ordered the frail men to strip off their soiled clothes. Naked, the men looked almost inhuman and, as their contaminated rags were thrust overboard by long poles, the Captain swallowed his pity and turned to the stony-faced scientist.

"Will they survive?"

"Perhaps," Carmichael said.

The gleaming bomb was inched towards the cargo hold, its weight still supported by the dirigible's semi-inflated gas-filled envelope. Napier shuddered at the sight. "An engine, you swear?"

Carmichael nodded. "Converted, it will power four of the Prince's ten boilers. For between fifty and a hundred years, Captain. This is the true power of the atom: sustained, steady release. With two more of these we would never need to put in for coal again. Given the future I foresee, a future in which even coal may be unobtainable, this is why we have gone to such lengths to acquire it. The Age of Steam may not quite be over, but perhaps the Age of Coal is."

Captain Napier gripped the rail as the scientist descended to the main deck. It all made rational sense. The Black Prince would become a rallying call, a reminder that man could still aspire to be more than scavengers. Than savages. But to be that inspiration it could not rely on or be held hostage to what scant coal reserves might remain. To what little could be dug up without fresh supplies of dynamite, of steel props, of new steam engines. Of mine engineers.

The atomic reactor, though it could power less than half their boilers, would allow the Black Prince to function as that symbol even if coal became scarce. It was this logic that meant he had not been able to deny the scientist's request, despite every fibre of his being screaming at him to do so.

But then in truth it was the Black Prince that was required, not old warriors like him. The idea of this new heart of his ship, the alienness of it, the fact that an identical shiny metal sphere had taken away his only son. That another had unleashed the chain reaction that had laid vast swathes of land to eternal waste... These were uncomfortable, disturbing thoughts.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, hit by fatigue. He'd never thought of himself as old, as near the end of his career. Not until that day five years ago, as news of events far away broke, as his son's pivotal role was revealed. Ever since... well, there had been no alternatives, no one to replace him.

But now?

He would see the Black Prince and its atomic engine to its new home in Australia. It was his duty to do so. That was assuming the damned thing didn't blow them all to kingdom come somewhere on their long voyage South.

Though evidently there were worse fates than that, he mused, as the image of the ravaged bodies of the returning crew flashed before his weary eyes.

He chased them away by plotting the route they would take. They would need to retrace their steps through the Bosphorus, hoping their earlier passage had not primed a more organised response. Back into the Mediterranean and onwards to the Suez Canal. That was surely far South enough to be ice free?

From there, into the Gulf and on to Ceylon, under sail wherever possible to preserve their coal supplies, picking up whatever they could along the way. Anything to help stem the collapse. Artefacts of a lost civilisation, of the Empire. Engineers and philosophers as well as art and delicate scientific equipment.

They would have plenty of room for them, with half the coal stores empty. A treasure trove lying in wait as the Earth slowly recovered from its terrible injuries, ready to spark an unlikely renaissance.

Or a last-ditch hurrah before darkness descended forever.

Napier shook his head. Even this journey would remind the splinters of the Empire that there was a still a power out there, still a cohesive force. They would pass the message that civilisation lived on and where it was to be found. Even if Carmichael was right--if truly, there was no longer a British Empire--was it not the idea of it that the scientist hoped men would rally behind?

And, journey complete, Captain Napier would retire. Turn the Black Prince over to a younger man. Someone like Carmichael: a man not defined by a former age, by former sensibilities. A man who was, unlike him, not some dusty fossil, a useless relic.

It was not just the Age of Coal that was over.
A Taste of Eden

Colleen Anderson

Canada

Wunderbar!" said Kaiser Wilhelm II. "Simply wonderful! An Eden!"

Genevieve Dupuis executed a full curtsy, head bowed and eyes downcast, though her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Months of painstaking work had now won her this moment of triumph. She straightened and lifted her eyes to see the Kaiser, in the uniform of an Uhlan regiment, though with a cape carefully draped from one shoulder to cover his withered left arm, wander into the bejewelled grove Genevieve had laboured to create in the palace grounds.

Leaves of multi-coloured gems gently shifted and chimed as the breeze filtered through the artificial forest she had fashioned from a range of bright metals, the trunks and branches shimmering with dappled light, while the ground was speckled with flowers of amethyst, garnet, ruby, sapphire, coral, tourmaline, and chalcedony.

"Magical," the emperor said, and Genevieve took a breath. Now was the moment to ask for the next commission, to turn this singular achievement into a blossoming career. But as she opened her mouth to speak the carefully rehearsed phrases, disaster struck.

The disaster came in the form of the most stunningly beautiful woman Genevieve had ever seen: ebony hair, carmine lips, eyes of an impossible blue, and a face copied from one of Raphael's angels. She appeared from nowhere, insinuated her way through the gaggle of courtiers, and knelt before Wilhelm, offering something wrapped in silk.

"Your majesty, may I present a gift to add to your forest?"

Wilhelm had never liked the unexpected, but curiosity won out and he waved away the equerry who was rushing to his aid.

The kneeling woman flipped back the square of silk to display a little bird made of brass, with some gem glinting for eyes. "A nightingale to sing within your jewelled forest." She touched its throat and the metal automaton began to sing, its beak clacking mechanically, but the voice somehow that of a real bird.

The emperor laughed, took the creation from the woman's hands, and walked into the garden, where he positioned it on the golden branch of a nutmeg tree. Liquid notes continued to pour from its brass mouth. The courtiers moved forward to coo and fawn over the Kaiser's new delight, leaving Genevieve alone on the lawn, her moment dissipated and gone.

She turned and took two steps toward the exit, to find her way blocked by the usurper.

The woman smiled a perfect smile. "I wanted a word with you."

Up close, she was even more stunning, a radiant firebird compared to Genevieve, for whom "mousy" she had always thought was almost too kind a description. Genevieve frowned and crossed her arms across her flat chest, steeling herself not to soften under that warming smile.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your creation. The forest is remarkable."

"No thanks to you," Genevieve said. "The Kaiser has already forgotten it."

The woman's cool fingers grazed her arm, sending a shiver through her. "I apologise, but this was the only time I could win His Majesty's notice." She tilted her head and took Genevieve's hand in a grasp whose warmth was startling. "Let us start afresh. I'm Mita Leopoldine Freiin von Bauer and I would like to work with you. You are a genius."

Genevieve kept her lips pressed together though she did not pull her hand away.

"Please," Mita began, "I do not wish us to be enemies. Come by my chateau this evening, where we can talk."

"I cannot." The woman's magnetism disturbed Genevieve, summoning up half-formed emotions that were new to her. She stepped around her and moved toward the exit.

"Then come by tomorrow. I will send a coach around at seven."

Genevieve threw up her hands and without turning, said, "Fine! Tomorrow!" She left before she started screaming.

But when the coach came she did not answer the door. She was busy making new automata for the emperor's forest. A week after the unveiling, Genevieve brought the Kaiser a rabbit sculpted from finely cut strips of silver and tin, with ears that twitched and swivelled. Once wound up, it hopped about, stopping to sniff at the artificial plants as if to eat them. When it lolloped beneath the gemstone leaves it moved with the grace of an actual animal.

Wilhelm laughed and thanked her. But then Mita von Bauer was suddenly there, presenting the Kaiser with a crude cat of copper and brass. The cartoonish face was missing whiskers and its roundish shape was barely reminiscent of a feline's graceful body. Two rough pieces of green glass passed for eyes and the limbs' motions were mere jerks. But when it meowed or growled it sounded exactly like a cat, with a full range of feline utterances. Those who attended Wilhelm in the jewelled garden watched his face carefully and when he smiled they clapped.

Genevieve was the empire's most accomplished fashioner of robots and automata, but neither she nor her competitors had ever been able to produce true voices. Now, wearing her shapeless pants and old woollen coat, she watched the flawlessly fashionable other woman bask in the emperor's regard.

Mita approached her and smiled. "You never came." Genevieve's gaze floated to her competitor's red lips and she forced herself to look into the woman's blue eyes. Then she looked away.

"I was busy." Her hand gestured toward the rabbit. It seemed silly now.

Mita did not take her eyes off Genevieve. "Please come to my château. I guarantee to make it up to you. We shouldn't be enemies."

"How do you capture the sound?" Genevieve asked.

She ran her hand over Genevieve's shoulder and down her back, raising a shiver. "Come for dinner. Let us see if we can work together."

Genevieve found it hard to speak. "Yes, all right."

The elegant aristocrat sat across from her as they sipped a digestif in the sitting room. The flavourful dinner of Cornish hens and fresh fall vegetables had been superb, though Genevieve had nervously drunk more wine than she was used to.

At dinner they had chatted about inconsequential things; the weather, the best places to travel, lightly over politics but not in any depth. Now Genevieve, emboldened by the spreading warmth of the Armagnac, said, "How did you manage to mimic the sound so closely? My best efforts produce only rough approximations."

Her host arose from the divan and picked up the cut-crystal decanter and poured more for both of them. She set the vessel back on the small table and sat beside Genevieve, leaned in close, staring into her eyes. Genevieve felt Mita's breath against her lips as she said, "We will have plenty of time to talk about work. Now is the time for adventure."

Genevieve considered the little amber pool in her glass, hoping her flush didn't show. Then warm fingers gently tipped up her chin. The knowing smile on Mita's incarnadine lips captured Genevieve's whole attention. The woman moved in closer, lightly touching Genevieve's breathless mouth.

Mita's lips trailed over Genevieve's neck and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. Nothing like this had happened since her school days. She had been working so long, and always alone.

Genevieve tried to sort her thoughts as Mita pressed against her, returning to kiss her lips again. Shivers of pleasure ran through her and her hesitancy broke. Now Mita was pulling the clothes from her and Genevieve's hands were equally busy.

Mita's mouth and tongue trailed over the flat planes of Genevieve's belly and dipped in to tenderly burrow between her legs. Genevieve gasped as the warm velvet of Mita's tongue penetrated her, and she pulled forward to trail her fingers over the woman's ivory back, managing to work the rest of her petticoats down. For a moment, she thought, Is this wise? But then Mita's ministrations overwhelmed her.

They lay upon the carpet, clothes a chaotic mound as their bodies glowed and sweated in the amber firelight. They writhed and loved and explored until the embers had burned low in the grate.

"Let's work together," Mita murmured into the curve beneath Genevieve's ear.

She shivered, feeling a stir of arousal in the languorous aftermath. "All right," she sighed.

Then Mita sat up and smiled with such triumph that Genevieve suddenly felt the cold that was seeping into the room. She sat up, wiping hair back from her face. "I must go, or I'll not be fit to accomplish much tomorrow. I have a client coming by."

Mita rolled onto her belly, chin in hands and watched Genevieve carefully. "Of course, my dear. I will have a servant bring a carriage, so you arrive safely." She rang a bell, then stood naked, wantonly, and ran her fingers over Genevieve's breasts as she dressed. "We'll see each other soon."

She turned and left through a door on the far side of the room. Genevieve watched her leave, then dressed hurriedly before a servant entered.

Weeks humped up against each other like eager children waiting for a cookie, and before Genevieve knew it, fall was nearly over. She had spent a great deal of time in the lush environs of Mita's body. Together, they had received commissions from the Kaiser, or rather he commanded speaking animals from Mita, who subcontracted the building of a dog, a lamb, a wolf, to Genevieve. While Genevieve worked, Mita watched her closely, asking questions, acquiring skills and abilities that made her a better craftswoman. Yet when it came time to imbue them with sound, Mita took the automata and withdrew to her secret workroom, somewhere in the depths of the city.

"Are we not partners?" Genevieve would ask, but the answer always came from Mita's tongue and fingers working their insidious magic. Genevieve's desire ran like an opiate and she fell to the allure as surely as the last leaves dropped from the trees.

Genevieve was working on a snake, jabbing it ferociously with a screwdriver. Months had passed during which Mita had revealed nothing beyond her luscious body. The sun cast long shadows from the autumn sky and Genevieve looked up. Tossing the screwdriver down, she took off her work apron and pulled on a thick wool coat against the chill. She hailed a hansom cab and arrived at Mita's chateau as the sun was setting.

The servant looked surprised but bowed to her as she stormed in. She found Mita in the drawing room, donning a cape, jewels sparkling in her raven-dark hair.

"Mita."

Mita turned slowly. "Ah, darling. I wasn't expecting you."

"We have to talk. I'm starting to feel like I'm just your assistant."

Mita picked up an exquisitely beaded reticule and laid a gloved hand on Genevieve's cheek. She smiled, tilting her head to one side. "We will talk, my dear. You know I do love talking to you. But right now, I have a meeting." She leaned in, giving a quick kiss to Genevieve's lips. "I'll see you tomorrow."

But Mita did not come the next day or for several afterwards. A week later, Genevieve was in the emperor's forest, summoned by Wilhelm to explain why Mita's nightingale had stopped singing. She made her way among the metal trees, and heard the titters and growls and hoots from Mita's magic housed in Genevieve's exquisite casings. She saw the damned snake twining itself around a bronze tree trunk. It hissed at her.

But the nightingale was silent. Its sheen had dimmed. Voiceless, it no longer imitated life; instead it looked more like something reanimated from death, a monster from the grave making a mockery of the living. And now that she moved among the creations, Genevieve saw that Mita's other earliest automata no longer meowed nor barked.

Genevieve was deep in the grove when Mita also arrived in answer to the Kaiser's summons. She was dressed in peacock green and gold, ever the superb ornament. Genevieve moved back into the shadows as Mita approached the emperor and curtsied elegantly.

"Your Majesty, I would like to ask for an imperial commission."

Wilhelm turned and raised an eyebrow, then stared up into the tree where the Nightingale sat lifeless and unmoving. "Perhaps, but look, your first creature no longer sings. Do you think you can make one that lasts longer?"

Mita tilted her head, a tiny smile playing over her lush lips. "It has to do with the life force of the creation, Your Majesty. Small creatures, small lives. Now if we go for a horse or even an elephant—"

Wilhelm waved away the notion with his good hand and wandered through the forest, squinting up at the jewelled leaves. "Too big, not right for this marvel. It should crown this, not stampede through it. Perhaps a child. Can you do that, make a child's voice? If so I will grant you a yearly allowance for five years to work on larger commissions. Perhaps I create a zoo of mechanica."

The emperor's back was turned as he spoke, but Genevieve saw Mita's face light up with greed. And some other emotion that was even less pleasant to see.

After that day, Genevieve did not tell Mita that she knew of the new assignment, nor did her supposed partner mention it. But Wilhelm's command to build a child had drawn a line between what had been and what was now. Mita no longer sent a carriage for her and when Genevieve made her way to the chateau, Mita's servant would say that his mistress was not at home.

But Mita Leopoldine Freiin von Bauer was not one to blend in with the common people on the narrow streets of the old city, while Genevieve was the daughter of an engineer and had lived a simple life before her studies. It was not hard for her to observe without being observed, or to ask questions of tradespeople and cab drivers. Soon enough, she had found her lover's workroom: housed in an old stone abattoir that was filled with people carting carcasses and slabs of meat during the day, but quiet as death after dark.

She watched Mita come and go, on several occasions. On the fourth night, having established the woman's routine, Genevieve waited an hour past Mita's departure, then made her way into the building. She lit a small lantern, casting its golden eye over the large room, and chunks of red and white marbled meat hanging from the rafters. The place did not smell of rot and looked clean. The meat cutters had washed everything down at the end of their day, and water shone blackly on the floor and wooden tables where butchers cut up flesh and chopped bone. She crept between gently swaying sentinels of pork and beef, unnerved by the shadows and oily pools.

Genevieve noticed stairs to a floor above. As she moved toward them the lantern light winked over something on the floor. Bending down, she found the ring for a trapdoor. This will be the lab, she thought. She pulled, and the wooden square eased up silently.

As she descended, the lantern's dim light showed her stacked crates and unrecognizable apparatus. A bluish glow emanated from her far left and she went toward it. She felt water dripping on her through the floorboards above as she wove between shelving and packed crates, tables littered with cogs and wheels, some with tubing, and others with brass or tin limbs. Most were animal forms or unrecognisable, but the refinement increased as she made her way toward the light.

She stopped to inspect some of the material on the benches and became aware of a low electrical humming. Genevieve moved toward the sound until, rounding one row of shelves, she came upon giant blue-white glass spirals of light, thrumming with contained energy. Tesla coils. She'd used similar devices to animate some of her automatons. But these were massive.

The Tesla coils stood like sentries over a table on which lay a human-shaped robot. Tools for welding and torches were on a nearby bench. Genevieve set the lantern down, no longer needing it in the pulsing white light, and walked between the electrical pillars. Dripping water flashed like lightning as monstrous shadows capered and danced across the lab. Cautiously, she looked for movement. Why would Mita need so much power for such poorly constructed machines?

As she edged past the coils, Genevieve felt a charge ripple through her body; her hair lifted away from her neck. The air smelled tangy, yet musty, and something else...musky, elusive, and reminiscent of her childhood.

The humanoid shape on the table was crude, blue glass eyes staring, arms stiffly at the side of the comical tubular body. More a marionette than a person. It was the size of a twelve-year-old child but by far Mita's roughest work. Obviously, it was for the assignment the emperor had ordered, but why always the sloppiness in the forms?

Genevieve took up the lantern again and looked around the shadowed room. She saw cages on the floor and knelt before one. In each one lay a lifeless form: dead, dried-out husks, a nightingale and a peacock, a cat, recently dead of starvation from the looks of it, and a wolf. The latter was not yet dead, but lay on its side, its ribcage barely moving, the grey matted fur showing its emaciated form.

Why had Mita starved these creatures? Genevieve's arms prickled with cold. What kind of person would cage an animal and not even feed it? And then she thought, Of course. Here is Mita's secret.

She clasped her mouth. Then she rose and, splashing blindly through puddles, stumbled back to the table, seeing not the shadowy scene around her but the terrifying pictures in her mind. A child, she thought. She will steal a child, and starve it to death.

But there was no child here, caged like the animals. The automaton was built but Mita was not ready to work her foul magic. How could Genevieve stop it? She studied the child-shape, noticed wires leading from the Tesla coils to the robot, but little else. She ran her hands over the cool metal surface, finding little remarkable. A latch on its side opened to reveal rudimentary cogs for movement. Then she found a second, almost delicate knob at the automaton's hairline above the ear. A puzzle latch, but Genevieve twisted, pushed and turned it until she found the right combination to release the catch.

The curved door swung across the robot's forehead, revealing a large tinted crystal. Genevieve frowned. She had used crystals and had only approximated sound. This one was different though and it definitely glowed blue. She leaned over the machine, her hand resting on the sturdy metal chest as she reached to pull the crystal free. The moment she touched it a power slammed through her, sucking the breath from her lungs.

She tried to draw in air but felt herself suffocating as hot white light blinded her. The circuit, she thought. I closed it.

Genevieve opened her eyes and knew something was terribly wrong. She was cold, couldn't move, and her breathing seemed odd.

Mita's brilliant eyes were looking down on her. "Ah, you're awake. Good. Don't try to talk just yet. It will take a few more minutes for everything to calibrate."

She moved away. Genevieve tried to turn her head, following her voice. Her head finally twisted a fraction, giving a view of one Tesla coil, its captive energy spinning like a dervish up the column, much faster than before.

"I was always afraid it would come to this. Your curiosity is insatiable." She came into view, the Tesla light limning her black serpentine tresses in silver. Shaking her head, she sighed. "You know you brought this on yourself. But it's all for the best. You've provided me with the chance to capture my first human soul. You will be the test."

She adjusted something out of Genevieve's view. Human soul? Genevieve couldn't even frown. Her thoughts were disjointed: automata, normally run by gears, common steam engines, sometimes electricity; capturing pure animal voices, so close to the original that one couldn't tell the difference; dead animals in cages; the human soul for a human voice—

Genevieve jerked, heard the creak of metal as she tried to turn her head further. Now she succeeded in looking to her right. She saw a body lying on a gurney. Her vision was fuzzy, but the shape looked familiar. The clothes too, and the soft brown hair. That's me.

Mita eclipsed her view, her edges blurry. "My, you are determined, aren't you, darling?" She walked over to Genevieve's body and leaned over, smoothing hairs from her face. "I'll miss our lovemaking." Mita kissed Genevieve's lips. Genevieve felt only revulsion, willing her flesh body to strangle Mita. But it did not move, except for a shallow rising of the chest.

"W-why?" a tinny voice croaked.

Mita grinned. "Good. It's working." Her face clouded and her eyes went dark. "Why? Because I can. This is only the beginning. I will form an army that will obey none but me. I will have power!" Her fist snapped shut and again Genevieve saw that emotion that Mita had revealed behind the Kaiser's back. Now she knew it for what it was: the mad lust of a tyrant.

Then abruptly Mita was laughing and tucking up some strands of her hair. "It was pure luck finding this location. The water was essential for the soul-capture. Still, I'm not sure how well I can keep humans, or for how long. Then there is the problem of what each of you might say—I may have to collect mutes. And then there's the . . . impermanence."

Mita waved a dismissive hand. "That's neither here nor there. The life force is what will fuel my indestructible army. Now I must go." She smiled sadly at Genevieve in the brass golem's body. "You were a lovely dalliance, even though you were no more exciting than a pet mouse."

Humming, Mita left in a swirl of taffeta. Genevieve could not cry, nor form a fist of wronged fury. All she could do was lie upon the table, encased in inferior metal and think. The first thing she realised: Mita needed time until she could find a way to extend the captured life inside metal bodies. An army whose life force dwindled and died would be no use. But the experiments would hurt many.

Genevieve had to survive. And she had to get beyond this immobility. Concentrate, she told herself. Learn to control this metal body. She would start with raising her right arm.

Hours passed; a day? In theory this body should move on its cogs and gears, if she could just find a way to motivate it. But it was a rough prototype, the crude joints not even oiled. Again, and again, she sent the message to the arm: Move! Again, and again, nothing happened.

Until it did. With a jerk, the metal arm moved. It creaked into view, the charging cables from the Tesla coils still attached to the wrists. Genevieve wished Mita had asked her to make this robot. She would have given it intricate joints and ball bearings for smooth, fluid motions. Instead, she was like a turtle on its back, only her right arm moving back and forth, like a marching soldier. But now she managed to get the other limb in motion, and began to work on curling the fingers.

Footsteps reverberated on the floor above and the trapdoor clunked open. Genevieve stilled herself.

"Hush, hush, come down and I'll give you a lolly," Mita voice cajoled. Her gown swished against the wooden crates. "Now just sit here."

Genevieve creaked her head to the side as Mita sat a young boy of about six upon a chair and gave him a sweet.

As the grubby child unwrapped the parchment, Mita put a cloth soaked in ether over his face. He slumped into her arms and she carried him to an empty table, briefly glancing at metal Genevieve.

The woman positioned the unconscious child then moved to the table next to where metal Genevieve agonised. Another automaton lay there. Mita opened its head plate. The blue crystal glowed weakly against the pulsing light. She picked up two cables.

Genevieve croaked out, "Mi-i-ta."

Mita's back stiffened and she put down the cables, turning toward the sound. "Really, what is it now? I'm busy."

Genevieve rocked on the bed. Mita laughed and moved closer. "You're moving! What a brave little mouse! I'll keep you to entertain me."

She threw back her head and laughed. The laughter stopped when Genevieve's metal fingers seised her wrist. Genevieve could not know how tight her grasp was, so she used all her clumsy strength. Mita gasped and paled, then started pulling at the fingers.

"Mi-ta, you...must...stop."

Mita pulled back but Genevieve held on and brought her other arm up and now she gripped both of Mita's wrists.

"Let me go!"

"No." Genevieve's voice was a metallic croak. "You...let...me...go."

Mita thrashed left and right but Genevieve did not loosen her grip. The cylindrical body rocked on the table as Mita thrust and pulled, back and forth. Now metal Genevieve slid over the edge of the table pulling Mita down to the floor, falling on her, pinning her. The enraged woman kicked and strained against the metal grip.

Mita's flailing foot connected with the table that held the second robot – the table on which the live cables rested. The conduits slipped off, falling to the floor, arcs of light snapping between their naked ends. Then they hit the water.

A crack of light and sound, a shriek, and Mita's body arched, her arms jerking like a string puppet. The flash blinded Genevieve. She was in darkness and it felt as if a cold wind rushed through her. Then she was doubled up, coughing and gagging, vomiting as her body convulsed. Shakily, she looked around. A burned metallic smell filled her senses. Her vision wavered. Her pounding heart was all the sound in the world.

The automaton lay on Mita, blackened flash marks across metal and flesh alike. Genevieve pulled herself up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Spring arrived heavy and leaden. Genevieve made one last round of the jewelled forest. Kaiser Wilhelm had ordered it rid of all automata, even the rabbit. Now a few real nightingales and larks flitted through the branches, and even a cat or two prowled the artificial woods while workers polished the gems and metal to maintain their splendour.

She was leaving Germany. Great steam works were being constructed in England; she would pursue her work there. As she turned to leave the garden, a tell-tale glint of gold slithered by. Reaching out, she seised the snake, then smashed it against the ground. Coils and springs bounced loose, green gems scattered. Genevieve ground her heel against the metal and said goodbye to the false Eden.

Though one of its serpents had been all too real.

Light in the Dark

Simon Rogers

Australia

To Medlyne capturing a Dark from the down craft was the objective. Not dying would be a bonus. Leaving the desert was a blessing and a curse, the sun was at least shielded but the aliens had more places to hide. The scorching sun, exchanged for the wet heat of dense forest, could still sap you of energy and make you vulnerable to attack. Medlyne halted her team and waved them to take up cover positions either side of her. She wasn't confident on the action as this was her first real command, but the troops did as she ordered without question, so it was a start. The tracks from the downed Dark Craft led this way, and she was self-assured they were in the right place, she just hoped the Darks weren't heading for a base.

Through her rangefinders, she detected hot spots, small and regular and given the calls and squeaks she would guess monkeys. Since the Darks had attacked Earth and did their best to eliminate humans, the animal life was making a comeback against the damage caused by humans. Twenty years of war didn't bother the wildlife in Africa, and she wondered if it was because they'd been so used to it before the Darks invaded? She adjusted the glasses, tuned out the reds and whites and tried to highlight the darks or the excessively dark patches that made up the life signs of the aliens. The cacophony of animal noise made it hard to think, and she longed to switch from external audio to the muffled internal network of the headset. Standing prone amongst low ferns was dangerous, but as the new field promoted commander, she had to show some backbone if she was going to keep the moral of the remaining five soldiers up. Captain Garret would have called it stupid, and the Lieutenant would have scowled and maybe written something in their action report, but they were both dead, blasted to smouldering meaty bits in the sands eighteen clicks back, along with their helicopter, extra armour, and supplies.

She lowered the glasses; the other blacks were absent, and for now, they were safe. With discomfort, she dropped to a crouch and again assessed the blood-soaked area of her fatigues. The wound tingled where the nano-med bots did their best to heal the injury; only she had to dig out the fragments of the helicopter before the wound would start to make sense to the machines. Muscle, blood and cells it could handle, steel, was a problem.

"Calling for rest up, Commander?" Lisa asked sidling up to her. "I can dress that, have some corps med training."

Medlyne didn't want to stop. They had to find the Darks and capture at least one if they could. They'd come down from one of the big ships in orbit, and not from one of the bases on the planet. The hope for new technology to examine and Intel was more important than whether she was bleeding. She considered the tired eyes of the corporal and saw her face, young and afraid and on their first real foray. She looked at the top of the trees and the mottled light coming through the canopy. The heat was oppressive, and she was wet through, but at least the bite of the sun wasn't ripping into their backs and cooking their heads in the helmets.

"Ahmed," she said, connecting to the unit's coms network. "You got watch while the rest of us rest up." It wasn't official speak, but he would know what she meant.

The corporal attended her leg as she sat back against a tree and gave herself a moment of respite. Twenty dead before they'd even hit the ground. What a mess. What a fuck up. Support wouldn't come because the whole front of the helicopter had been ripped off in moments and while the fall to the sand wasn't far, it was violent. The Dark weapons tore into the armoured metal of the craft as if it was paper and the armour they wore proved useless as spinning stars of metal cut them to pieces during the twenty-metre drop to the desert. Captain Garret had called them immediately into the fight once they could stand and one Dark was brought down, its suit spewing yellow gas as it collapsed. The alien craft was on fire, deliberately set by the Darks so getting one of the three-legged creatures alive was their new objective.

She winced at the searing pain in her leg. Lissa was applying the dressing. After a few moments, the pain settled to a cool and comfortable throb. She looked down and saw the corporal had a piece of metal the size of a small coin on a blue blood pad near her boot. Medlyne considered herself lucky; the metal could have shattered her shin bone, or torn an artery. From her chest pouch to took out a pack of clear, fingernail-sized capsules and popped one in her mouth and bit down. The hydration cell filled her mouth with a water-like freshness and coursed through her body like an evening rain. For the next few minutes, she would be absorbing moisture from the air rather than perspiring it out against the heat. The corporal followed her lead, packing away her gear and sitting down and going through the same hydration process.

"Hydrate," Medlyne said over the network. Ahmed would hydrate, but it would be harder for him as he'd have to fight the chills while on alert. There was no other choice; they'd lost a lot of water on the run through the desert, and their canteens only had enough water for a few hours. Use when desperate was the standard protocol. Desperate or dying, was the truth of it all.

Dare she close her eyes? Lisa sat opposite; her pack returned to her shoulders and the big, thick-barrelled Spreader 12 placed across her knees. Her head was back; eyes lost behind tracking goggles and seemingly calm. She tried to close her eyes but saw only the flames of the crash, the explosion of the ammo cases and the disintegration of Garret's head when the alien projectiles tore into him. Ever since the coming of the Darks, in their shadowy ships, the world has been in the endless battle for survival.

In the brilliant greens of the jungle, the grey, and blue fatigues stood out, and if she stared hard enough, she could see each of her men scattered in the undergrowth. As far as the scientists knew, the aliens weren't very good in forested areas and preferring the desert air, but that didn't stop them from establishing bases in the jungles of South America and Asia or the forests across Europe and Scandinavia.

"In ten," she said as she opened her wrist map. They were at the current edge of the Sahara Desert. She needed a satellite ping for a location for the digital screen, and that was unlikely, but the plastic wrapped map would work well enough for the time being. A red circle indicated the proximity of the crash in the desert and given they'd covered eighteen kilometres and were now in the dense jungle; they were on the inner edge of the New Congo.

"No Congolese military communications on the networks. Probably all dead," Medlyne said, starting to feel better from the hydration. She tried not to move too much, or she'd over chill.

"Said as much when we were coming in, Med." It was Jojo, a short man who carried the heavier cannon. "The desert's grown some I'd say, but not enough to bury everything yet."

"We need a bird," she said, shucking her pack and checking for a drone. They all were supposed to have one but given the crash and subsequent battle it could easily be misplaced when they had to grab what they could from the wreckage and run. In the bottom of her pack, amongst some food bars was a silver box, big enough to carry a shoe. On the face, it looked fine until she turned it over and saw the points of a star sticking out with a seeping residue around the edges. She was thankful it had taken a fletchette for her, but the battery was leaking. "Mine's dead. Any of you gather one when we headed out?"

Lisa was shaking her head. Medlyne looked up into the trees; it was a good eighty metres up she guessed, and she doubted any of them had enough rope for a climb like that. Besides, they needed to be higher than the trees to see anything of use, and going back into the desert wasn't an option. The Darks tracks were clear and easy to follow through the understory, without that they would never find them.

"I've got one," Jojo said. Medlyne sighed, but they would still have to wait a few minutes before walking about, the hydration was ebbing and with it came a slight risk of passing out if you moved too fast. Everything they did came with a risk, even taking a crap at night could see you disembowelled by a Dark. Which she always thought was an odd statement as far as she knew the Darks didn't fight hand to hand. It is more hiss, chop, chop, chop; you're dead.

"Take your time assembling it, and we'll put it up before heading out," she said, the prickle of the heated day returning. "Ahmed, get to Schlecker, take some recovery time, we have two minutes. Schlecker, take point, fifty metres up-track and wait. The noise of the jungle was horrendous, and if it wasn't for the coms, she doubted they could even hold a reasonable conversation without yelling. The sound was as thick as the air and the air, smelt oddly green and just wet; if wet had a scent, this was it.

"Yes, sir," both men replied. Ahmed wouldn't be as refreshed, but he could bring up the rear and hope they didn't encounter the Darks too soon.

Medlyne checked her weapon and made sure she had an explosive round in the launcher and full clip ready in the Spreader. She flipped the tab from three round bursts to a full spray of fifty rounds in a couple of seconds. She would have preferred a rifle, more accurate and a bigger calibre but Darks rarely gave you time to load, point and shoot. The Spreader sprayed a lot of small calibre rounds in an oval field. If the five of them were pointing at the same target, then that was a lot of overlay.

She stood, adjusted her helmet and goggles then looked into the jungle for her team. The fletchette caught her on the side of the head. She went down in pain and fighting unconsciousness. Something hot pressed against her ear. She rolled and screamed and grabbed at her helmet straps. The helmet came off, and the burning ceased, but her ear stung with pain. Spreaders were firing all around. Lissa was on her back nearby, her chest a bloody mess, but she was breathing. The world of the jungle was alive the sounds of weapons fire. She gathered up her Spreader, lay on her back and closed her eyes and listened for the hiss of a Dark's gun. With eyes still closed, she pointed her weapon in the direction of the last hiss and fired the explosive shell. In a moment the explosion washed over her, grit and leaves slapped at her face. More Spreader fire rang out, but slowly chattered to silence. The Darks were coming back for them. Now she had survival to contend with as well as capturing one of the ugly things.

"One down," she yelled, the stillness just as unnerving at the firefight had been. She slid over to Lissa and checked her wounds. Her armour had taken most of the damage, but it was evident a few of the razor-sharp fletchettes had got inside and cut her up. "Hang in there, Lissa," she said, clicking away the fasteners and lifting away the ceramic armour. There was a lot of blood.

"Use... a patch... thigh pouch," Lissa murmured, obviously in pain.

Like her leg, any metal needed removal before the Nanos could repair correctly. She ripped open the corporal's shirt, then ripped open her undershirt. The blood was flowing from three cuts in her stomach region.

"How fast is the flow?" Lissa asked, directing Medlyne.

"Dribbling," she answered, and looked harder and confirmed, "Yes just dribbling."

"Good, nothing serious..." Lissa coughed. Medlyne started. That wasn't good. "Smoking," Lissa laughed softly. "Dig out the metal then slap the patch on."

Medlyne drew her knife, the thin blade dull in the jungle light.

"Not with that," Lissa snapped. "Use the forceps in my med-pouch."

"Got a wounded Dark," Ahmed said stepping through the jungle. "How bad's she?"

"Fuck off, Ahmed; you just wanted to see my tits." Lissa's voice was firm.

"You still got your bra on." Ahmed laughed. "Nothing to see here."

Madlyne pulled the first fletchette out, and Lissa winced but didn't cry out. She let the corporal rest a little before going for the second. "How wounded is it?" She asked, seeing Jojo come up behind, his big gun over his shoulder and a sidearm gripped tightly in his right hand.

"Hissing gas through a few holes in its suit. Schlecker is patching them. It's lost a leg and can't stand, so it isn't going anywhere soon." Ahmed was still looking at Lissa.

"You go back and help Schlecker, Jojo. Ahmed watch over us."

"Got your six commander." Ahmed knelt nearby and took up a defence position, scanning the forest with his glasses in one hand and his Spreader ready in the other.

"Ugh," Lissa coughed again.

Medlyne ignored it and pulled out the second piece of metal; there was a little more blood. She wiped it away with her hand before ripping open a gauze pack and mopping the blood. "It's bleeding faster," she said, finding she couldn't stem the flow. "What do I do now?" She looked to Lissa, who had her eyes closed.

"Nothing," she sighed. "I felt the piece move and then a kind of release." When she opened her eyes, she looked determined. "I'm going to bleed out, nothing you can do with a field kit and no EVAC."

"You aren't going to die. You aren't going to die, corporal..."

"Commander," Lissa hissed. "I am going to die, and you are going to step aside and let me choose the way."

"The Nano's..." She stared at Lissa and knew what she meant. The bots could repair most injuries over time, but fast blood loss wasn't one of its better repair systems.

"In the pack, the yellow pills bottle with the death's head on the lid." Lissa reached up and grabbed Medlyne by the arm. "It's peaceful and quick, Commander. And as the administrator of my consciousness, I choose this way."

"What's she talking about?" Ahmed asked.

"It's time, Ahmed," Lissa said a little louder. "You still owe me three hundred hours, so spend them with my kids when you get back to base."

"Lissa, I... I..."

"Enough," she said, increasing her grip on Medlyne's arm. "I feel a little cold, so hurrying up would be nice, Sash."

Medlyne took out the pill bottle, removed the cap and shook out one of the black pills. Even its colour looked final. She didn't want this to happen, but as the commanding officer, it was her duty to follow the last request of a dying soldier. She handed Lissa the pill then sat back and watched in despair. Lissa smiled, winked at her then swallowed the capsule. Lissa closed her eyes, took two more breaths and then she was gone.

She sat and stared at Lissa's body for a long time, ignoring the requests of the others. She'd seen people killed in action, even the Captain and most of the helicopter attack force, but this was personal. Medlyne subconsciously knew she'd have to make such a call when she assumed command but handing over the pill made it her action as much as it was the final decision of Lissa. Leaning forward on her haunches, Medlyne pressed her thumb against Lissa's neck and removed her service profile from the network. She would be the one who lodged her death and removed her friend from duty when they returned to base. The same process she'd have to do to the dead in the desert should she ever get back to the crash site. She looked up and saw Ahmed standing close by; his lips were moving in a silent prayer, as a Christian he would see the passing differently or the same. She wasn't religious, and neither was Lissa, but to each, their own she thought.

"The prisoner," Ahmed said, catching her eye. "We have what we need."

Medlyne stood, picked up her helmet and assessed the damage. The fletchette had torn part of the side panel off and obliterated the communication module. Ahmed handed her a helmet.

"Lissa's." He didn't need to say anything else.

She took the helmet, jammed it on and pulled the straps tight under her chin; she logged in with her command access to bypass Lissa's restricted network access.

"Lost one," she said over the comms. She followed Ahmed to Schlecker. "You take up a position over there," she pointed out to her right. "Jojo, flank left on Ahmed's signal." The man nodded and moved away, she didn't see Jojo but knew he would be taking up his protective position.

Schlecker crouched over the alien, his grey fatigues strangely garish compared to the dark, slightly patterned armour of the alien.

"How is it?" She levelled her Spreader at the thing and fought down the urge to just kill it then and there. Lissa was dead because of this creature. The urge to pull the trigger was greater than she expected. That was another thing about command; it wasn't personal, it wasn't supposed to be personal. She had to get this Dark, back to base.

"I patched the leg stump with some sealing paste," Schlecker said pointing to the black stump covered in green. Red blood stained the top, and there were splashes on the ground. Did red blood mean oxidised blood? She didn't know, but bleeding red meant something. They had a similarity in that regard. That and they could die "I also patched some of the holes in its suit with nano gel, figured it couldn't hurt. Biology is different, but the bots might find something amiss and fix it. What's the worst that could happen?"

"It could die," she said. "And we need it alive."

The Dark's helmet fully enclosed its head, which through the misty three sixty degrees faceplate looked head-like. There were two eyes, some slits that would probably pass for a nose or gills and two gashes that if you squinted a bit could be its mouth. The head wasn't a good thing to look at as its arms, three in all, radiated around its torso, each set an equal distant apart, like its legs about its bottom half. The armour encased the Dark in a shell, not too dissimilar to her body armour. Medlyne could see why it would have trouble walking; its balance would be entirely off. She studied the helmet area for what might be considered a speaker grille or some communication device. About where the two slits where was a green-black box that looked promising. The alien eyes were looking at her.

"Speak," she said, indicating her mouth while talking. "Can you understand me? Do you speak?" The strange eyes stared up at her; the colour lost in the yellowish haze that filled the helmet. What did it breathe and if it didn't breathe oxygen, why the hell invade Earth in the first place?

Crouching a couple of metres from the thing she indicated her mouth again but made a motion with her hand suggesting speaking. She thought it mimicked a Persian bow quite nicely, but would it work on the Dark?

The creature lifted two of its arms, made some gestures with its hands. She snapped the Spreader to ready but didn't fire. Schlecker jumped back, reaching for his sidearm. A hissing sound came from the box. The arms remained up. The third arm lay pinned under its body. The head looked like it could move owl-like and she wondered how it regarded her. The hiss continued as the hands mimicked her gesture.

Okay, Medlyne thought, it can copy me. Her main problems where she wasn't in the loop on alien communications and how far anybody had gotten with them. That was the Captain and the Lieutenant's roles.

"Can it talk?" Schlecker asked keeping his hand firmly on the gun's grip.

She pointed to the sky, and made a drawing down motion with her hand slowly closing into a fist, then shrugged. The alien's arms did nothing, the hands of seven fingers, of six and a thumb appendage remained open, but the three shoulders shrugged. Was the shrug universal? Was this simply a regular soldier with about as much idea about things as her?

"This is pointless; the experts need that thing." She stood, shouldering her weapon. "How heavy is it?"

Schlecker also stood. Easy to move with two of us, but if it helps a little, just a shoulder would be enough."

She looked at the Dark; it was bigger than the average human, and while not bulky she was surprised to hear it wasn't heavier. She accessed the headset.

"Ahmed, Jojo, bring it in." She looked to Schlecker who was helping the alien stand. The Dark didn't fight and leant on him as if this was something normal for it to do. "Where's its weapon?"

"Over by my pack," he said. "Also, replacement cartridges. Kinda like our Spreaders but different if you know what I mean?"

The alien stood taller than Schlecker; its rightmost arm reached well over his shoulder to grasp his upper bicep. The eyes stared their greenish, maybe blue stare and its paired lips vibrated. The hiss was short and followed by a sound like a snort. Was it saying thank you?

The situation isn't personal; she reminded herself. A military operation is never personal; she had completed part of the objective, and it was time to find the EVAC point.

With the urge to kill the Dark holding tight in her throat she opened her wrist map and looked for the second marked location or one of three identically circled places. All three were in the jungle and were in a different direction from the crash site and their possible location. These EVAC locations would be old Congolese military and pickup would be Congolese. Their coms were down, but these places held equipment they could use to call in support. They had the alien; now they just had to find a secure location to wait for help.

She hated the device, but she fished out her compass, flipped open the brass lid and found North. Then located north on the map and plotted a direction. She'd grown lazy with modern tech doing all the location work for them, now the aliens owned space and satellites and probably all the comms towers. She had to use something she'd had to become proficient within basic training but had never used in the field.

"You sure you can use that thing?" Schlecker offered, but there was no humour in the tone.

"Just be thankful I don't make you do this." The sun was well shaded though the air was hot. She would have liked to strip down to her undershirt and trousers, but the risk was too high. She turned left then right until she had the map and compass aligned. It was evident they weren't beyond the pickup sites so thinking about how long they'd spent walking into the jungle she calculated the distance at ten clicks, maybe fifteen, if the map was out by a few updates.

Ahmed and Jojo joined them, both looking a little fresher than when she'd last seen them. Must have taken extra hydration. She would wait until their next rest to bite another cell and let it change her body for a few precious minutes.

"Thought you would have killed it?" Jojo said, his square features crusted with harsh beard growth.

"The mission first," she said, pointing in the direction they had to walk.

Both men looked to Schlecker holding up the alien. There was distrust in their eyes and yet a sense of duty in their stance. They wouldn't kill it unless she said so, but if she went down and one of them had to take command would the Dark be shot out of hand?

"Jojo, you take point. Fifty metres that way. Don't worry about leaving tracks we're going to need them to follow. Schlecker and I will bring the alien, and Ahmed you drop back, bring up the rear by another thirty metres."

Medlyne checked the compass again to ensure she's got the direction right and handed it to Jojo.

"Just keep us in line."

Jojo set off, the canon over his shoulder. She waited while Schlecker checked the patches he'd put over the alien's suit. They'd trained in jungle-like heat in the Everglades in Florida, but they were nothing like this. This was thick air, thick undergrowth and heavy shadows. She looked up; the canopy was ropey and dense and what light came through was verdant. She looked to Schlecker and Ahmed.

"The Captain would have had you on some report by now," she said to Ahmed, "I'll settle for you just being alive. Think you can stay that way?"

Ahmed nodded them squatted; he had to wait until they were far enough away. She didn't know if the aliens set traps, but it was wise to keep her small force well apart. She'd accept a rescue over being dead or a prisoner.

Greenery rained down like confetti as fletchettes tore up the jungle. Medlyne pressed down low behind a log. She took a star in the shoulder, and it stung. Jojo looked dead a few metres forward of her location. Schlecker sheltered the Dark in a ditch. He was waving his hands at the creature, and it waved back. She didn't know if they were fighting or trying to stay out of harm's way. Whatever was going on it was clear Schlecker was trying to protect the alien. If the aliens moved from their current firing positions, he would be prone. She pushed up her Spreader and pumped out an explosive round. The air hissed above with fletchettes, and more of the jungle flew apart like fat, green raindrops. Schlecker had their prisoner's gun which at this point was useless until he knew how to fire the thing.

She looked down the track. Ahmed was still down there somewhere, or someplace else to be of help she hoped. She slid towards Schlecker; there was a gap between the logs they were both sheltering behind, and the darkness combined with the vibrant stink of bleeding plant life was doing little to settle her anxiety. She didn't want to die like this. Schlecker caught her eye and motioned he was going into the foliage to come around. She shook her head. Wait or freeze, she held up a closed fist. Medlyne pointed down the path. He knew Ahmed was somewhere and would be making his plans. She tapped the side of her helmet and brought up the IR. Darks wouldn't show but maybe their weapons would. The small HUD that came down over her face was limited, but it would have what she needed. In the haze of greys were the weak points of red, weapon's heat. She counted three and signalled three to Schlecker. It was difficult indicating locations from them while on your back and flat against a log, but he got the message then pointed at the alien gun.

The thumbs up were for yes, use it as well as an 'I hope you know how to use it'. Another sustained hiss and raining greenery showered them. Was this what it was like standing in front of a mulcher? Schlecker was over the alien, protecting it. She would commend him for the act; he didn't have to protect the creature.

Schlecker lifted the big gun, did something on the top and slapped the bottom of the stock. The Dark must have shown him because she didn't think he could have worked that out himself. He lifted to one knee, the gun supported by the log and the stock against his hip. The hiss was immense, and the whine of the weapon so close caused her to put her hands over her ears. She supposed he was aiming their way, but the gun was pure destruction. Medlyne had heard rail guns spewing death but nothing like this. The gun fell silent, and she assumed Schlecker had emptied the ammo. Looking over she saw him slumped over the log, the gun tilted away from him. The air was alive with fletchettes, and half the fire she had heard was coming back at them.

"Shit!" She wiped her face and looked at the blood-soaked shoulder of her suit. From her med packs took out the sealing goo and squeezed a gob into the hole; it wasn't ideal, but it had to do for now.

The hiss and confetti stopped. It was time to bug out and just leave the destruction and alien to its own; only she couldn't be sure her men were dead. The captain had been natural, no head, and Lyssa took her life with witnesses, but she had two down and no confirmation.

"Damn it all to hell!" she yelled, pumping an explosive shell over her head and into the jungle. The following boom didn't help, and the return fletchette fire only made things worse

"Medlyne," she heard in the headset.

"Ahmed."

"You better be free cause breaking silence at this point is going to be messy."

"Two down, I'm hit but active." She sighed. The silence was automatic in a firefight, and while she would take him to task about it later right now she'd kiss him. "you see them?"

"Three, down low. You are a direct line. I can see Jojo." He was whispering. "Nearly on them, so going off again. Pump some shells thirty degrees. Maybe three if you have them."

He was going to round on them and needed noise. She fired one shell and waited for the explosion and the subsequent shredding. Then another with the same result. On the third, no fletchettes came, and she remembered to breathe.

Her Spreader was wrenched from her hands as she was lifted into the air. Her feet kicked about in front of a Dark. She lashed out. Tried to drop into a crouch, but another grabbed her from behind and wrenched her arms back. She screamed with the pain.

The two Darks were huge, nothing like the one they'd captured. Their suits were different. They looked more like thick steel plates than standard armour. Were these the same Darks that came down on the ship? The one behind her wrenched her up, so she stood on her toes. She stuck out her chin. Defiant in her fear.

The Dark hissed something, and a series of clicks followed. She was wrenched up again. Like human soldiers, she was expected to know the language of the enemy. She grunted and shook her head. The alien in front of her clicked some more, and the one holding her allowed her feet to touch the ground.

Through the face plate, she could see this Dark wasn't like the one they captured; it only had one mouth slit, and its neck was thick and ropey; it didn't have the owl-like movement. Was this why the downed ship was necessary? A different class of Dark.

She was released and stumbled forward and onto her knees. Her shoulders screamed in pain, and her back ached. The alien held a large weapon in one hand and aimed it at her chest. It hissed and clicked, and the gun came alive, then the Dark exploded outwards with the sound of fletchettes ripping through metal and flesh. Medlyne threw herself flat as the hissing filled the air and the clang of metal on metal vibrated in her teeth. The noise ended quickly. She listened as the silence invaded. Until all she could hear was her ragged breathing.

After a long time just staring at the patterns of shredded leaf litter on the ground Medlyne pushed up against the stinging in her shoulder and eyed the remains of the two Darks. They were in more pieces than she wanted to think about and only their boots remained upright. They'd both taken a full blast of a fletchette weapon. She turned to look at Schlecker. He was face up on the ground, and the alien they'd captured hunched against the log with the weapon hooked in its arms. She climbed to her knees and didn't know what to do. The gun still pointed in her direction, so she raised her hands in surrender.

The alien lowered the gun and slumped back against the log next to Schlecker. Her heart was pounding. Death had seemed to clear, so near. The end didn't come. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence, then the slow return of bird and animal sounds, then soon everything was overlapped with the chirping and scrape of insects. She was alive. She didn't hold back the tears. She was alive, and the alien had saved her.

Things needed doing. She stood, wiping the tears away as fast as they came. Sniffing she picked up her Spreader and sidearm which the Dark had taken from her. Medlyne loosely aimed her weapon at the alien as she approached, kicking its weapon aside as she crouched to check on Schlecker. He was alive. Blood was on his face, but he was breathing naturally and evenly. Just unconscious then. She checked for other wounds but found he was okay. Backing away from the slumped alien, she found Jojo, and knelt beside him and searched his neck for a pulse, expecting him to be dead. His armour had it's covering shredded, and the ceramic plate gouged. A large chip said a piece of metal had got through. She hoped it wasn't going to be another Lyssa. She had to secure the area somehow, and she knew there'd been three aliens on her HUD. Jojo's pulse was strong and there didn't seem to be a lot of blood seeping through the hole in the armour. From Jojo's med-kit she took out a stim-patch and pressed it against the man's neck.

"Ahmed?" She said into her mike. Even without radio silence, he wouldn't have been able to hear in the firefight. "Ahmed." She checked the HUD. It didn't work. She took off her helmet and noted a large gouge through the side which must have severed the power cables. So, no comms there. Jojo's helmet was a mess with bits of metal sticking out at all angles. He must have walked head on to a maelstrom. She was still breathing hard, but the emotion had passed, and the hardness she needed was taking control. The dead helmet was better than no helmet, so she jammed it on and went back to Schlecker and the Dark. Like Jojo, she took a patch from his kit and pressed it at the base of his neck. The alien, slumped low, didn't look so good, but then it didn't look very good in the first place. Blood was seeping from a few holes in its torso. Red blood. She used the sealing goo and plugged the holes. The alien hissed and clicked but otherwise didn't move.

"I'm not dead." Schlecker's eyes didn't open, but his voice sounded weak.

"You'll live, I think," Medlyne said, turning her attention back to him. "There's a bit of blood on your face. Cut above the left eye, messy but nothing bad. You notice anything else. Can you move? Can you sit up?"

"Yeah, yeah and yeah and that's in whatever order you like." He opened his eyes, and they were bloodshot, one bloodier than the other. "How's Bob?"

"Bob?"

"The Dark. Our alien friend. It was him who saved us, wasn't it?" Schlecker eased up onto his elbows and shuffled back to rest against the log next to the Dark." He coughed and looked at the alien before looking up at her. "Once you work out the extra finger stuff he does a pretty good sign language."

"And it said its name was Bob?" How did Schlecker know it had saved her life, all of their lives?

"No idea what its name is, but it showed me how its gun worked, then said something like help, or help us. Kinda missed some of the finger flicks there, but I learned it is oddly on our side." Schlecker was on his knees now and looked to Jojo, who was coming around. His hands were searching his chest before he sat up.

"I think Ahmed's dead," she said, thinking how close she'd come to killing the creature.

"Nah, he's gone after the one that ran away, ain't that right, Bob?"

The Dark hissed and squeaked and clacked waving its hands in front of its face in a mad flurry.

"Close enough, close enough."

"What did it say?" Medlyne watched Jojo get up, pick up his weapon and shuffled over to them.

"No idea," he sighed, "It's thankful we saved its life and stuff. I just happened to see one of those things run and then I saw Ahmed after it. Took my eyes off the others, got hit in the head."

"How do you know the alien saved us?"

"We're not dead." He smiled, pointing to boots standing amongst a hot mess of metal and meat. "And that kinda gave it away. A Spreader won't do that. I was out, and you didn't know how to use the alien weapon. Ipso facto obviouso and so on, so on. Bob." He waved towards the alien. "And I think this Dark was meant to communicate with us."

"There's a base three clicks that way," Ahmed yelled as he crashed through the jungle and into their shredded clearing.

Medlyne caught her breath and eased her finger from the trigger of her Spreader. She'd nearly mown the fool down. Ahmed shone with blood, and she suspected it wasn't his own. He took off his helmet and stared at the alien. He raised his gun.

"Stop." The alien hissed.

They all turned to the Dark, who was using Schlecker's Spreader as a crutch. The tripodal thing looked comical if not frightening with its plugs of green goo dotted about its torso and missing leg.

"Did that thing just speak?" Jojo removed his helmet, took one looked at its damage then threw it into the underbrush.

Medlyne raised her hand to silence the men.

"Stop," it hissed again, making slow movements with its free hands.

She looked to Schlecker; the man looked as shocked as everyone else, and he'd known the alien wasn't a danger. Schlecker stared for a moment then started making marks in the leaf litter with his heal.

"It's crude, and I don't know if I've got it right."

"I don't care what right is; I just want to know what it's saying," Ahmed said, lowering his gun.

"Bob says, talks and emissary, or teacher or speaker. The speaker is closer to what I think it means. Those waving gestures can mean share or sharing, and the hand over its chest is a personal symbol of care or love or welcome." Schlecker sounded like he was trying to think through everything on the fly. "Look it could mean unity or harmony for all I know. Not all sign language is the same, so I can only guess what it is saying."

"It wants peace?" Medlyne said, pointing Jojo to take up watch. "Ahmed, help Jojo. Check ammo." The two men grunted then went about their responsibilities.

Schlecker made a few hand gestures of his own; only they looked more precise and determined. He chopped across his hand pointed to himself and gestured with open palms towards the alien. The alien opened and closed its hands many times.

"There are many like him, I think." Schlecker shrugged, the alien shrugged. "The crashed ship was meeting someone else, and we got in the way. They fought back because we were not friends, or known or connected. I think it means connected, and that would make sense. If we are not the ones, Bob has come to speak with then naturally they would be afraid."

"They attacked us, and killed Lyssa," Medlyne said feeling a tightness in her chest. She wanted to see this day to its end and go home.

More waving more gestures and even more shrugging. She worked that one out quickly enough; that was when neither of them had any idea of what they meant.

"Planet family is not space family," Schlecker said. "These units are not for the unity, group or agreement. They are the enemy. They killed and took the others, the family. Now, something about something in a place of..." Schlecker threw up his arms. "I'm sorry, Sargent but it's getting too complicated again. I only know a little because my ex-wife was deaf, and I don't think signing some of the things I said to her would be helpful."

She pulled at her face and looked to Schlecker. "How's your helmet?"

He frowned, took it off and handed it over. Considering he'd taken a hit in the head, there was only a nick in the brim. She swapped her broken one for his, entered access codes and waited. There was no pickup or EVAC outside of the designated zone, but she had had enough of shredder country, and she had an asset more valuable than command probably expected. She turned her back on the alien and left it waving its hands at Schlecker.

"China Doll, this is Hunting Dog, do you read. China Doll, this is Hunting Dog." She would bring a missile strike down on them, or someone would answer. "We have an emissary," she added. "Repeat, we have an emissary. A Dark emissary and it wants to make peace." It didn't hurt to add a reason for the call. She wasn't that stupid.

In the distance, the jungle rumbled, and the wash of blast wave whooshed through the trees and around them. A missile strike.

"Hunting Dog, Hunting Dog, do you read?" The voice sounded panicked. "Hunting Dog, do you read?"

"I guess the last bit changed your mind?" Medlyne said, closing her eyes and feeling another heart-pounding moment rush through her.

"EVAC on your current location. Reach you in two hours. Is the emissary comfortable?" She said nothing. How many times did she need to get close to death before she decided being a soldier wasn't for her? "Hunting Dog," a new voice. "This is General Hastings, is the emissary safe?"

"China Doll, this in Hunting Dog. We even welcomed it with confetti. See you in two. Out." She took off the helmet and put it on the ground for the EVAC crew to signal in on. She didn't wait for a response. She joined Schlecker and his hand waving and looked upon the strange alien with a different light. This odd war had cost a billion lives she thought, and she wondered if it was because they couldn't communicate with each other. She knew that wasn't true; the simple things rarely are, but it would do for now.

"Schlecker, ask Bob what it thinks of Earth?"

They Don't Feed the Garden

James Van Pelt

USA

Erich, the latest of Gustav Myer's herrenvolk, stood six-foot-six, a square-shouldered, sculpted android Aryan ideal whose blond hair ruffled in the breeze, and whose cobalt blue eyes betrayed more depth than the Caribbean Sea. When Gustav looked at him, he grieved.

Gustav's daughter, Trianna, limped from seedbed to seedbed in her greenhouse sanctuary far across the finely mowed grass, beyond the cedar copse and white marble follies whose broken pillars, pseudo-aged statues and vine-covered benches provided mute companionship for the young woman as a child. Now, twenty-four years old, club-footed and near-sighted, she wore her dark hair beneath a floppy hat that hid her face.

She looked up from planting the last row of Edelweiss seeds, tiny flecks that were so tiny, she couldn't see them in the dirt. Oswald stood at the glass door in his black suit and white gloves. "Master Gustav will eat lunch at 12:30 and dinner at 6:00."

"Then I will dine at 1:30 and 7:00."

"He has instructed the staff to prepare his bed in the north wing for tonight."

"I will sleep in the south, the velvet room, please."

"Of course, ma'am," said Oswald, then he left.

Avoiding Gustav had become increasingly hard lately, and when she didn't see him, she could feel him watching, gathering data, interfering in her affairs. Even here in the greenhouse, in the fecund greenness crawling up trellises, spilling leaves from low planters to the ground, rippling under the ceiling blowers, she suspected surveillance.

Gustav crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in this chair while studying his neurobiology programming team. They turned their faces to him, staying carefully neutral. His harangue started ninety minutes ago and seemed to be reaching a crescendo, a pattern they knew. "I have doubled your budget twice in the last two years. You have three times as many group members than any other department, and yet you have made no meaningful progress. For all your work, you've only succeeded in creating autistic intelligence." He pounded the table. "None of you deserves your salary. None of you should have jobs tomorrow based on these efforts. What do you have to say? Do you have any explanation for your pathetic results?"

Gustav breathed hard, staring them down.

Team leader Marlene cleared her throat and sorted through the reports in front of her until she found the folder she wanted. "Human autism is a poor analogy for what we're wrestling with. An autistic human may be empathetic to a greater or lesser degree but doesn't know how to respond to another person. I'd be happy if we could achieve autism. The neural processes in an autistic brain are massively more complex than our best simulations. We haven't passed the autism milestone. If you look at section three, you'll see our empathy studies have focused on the problem's parameters. For the herrenvolk to display the qualities we want, they not only have to identify body language, facial expressions, language patterns, and tone of voice, but they also have to adjust to the environmental context. Empathy is a particularly dynamic challenge."

Gustav highlighted passages in the report with short, brutal motions while the team watched. "We have forty-three percent of the world's android-based labour market. Our units are the most popular high-end purchase for the last three years running, but we are nothing but mechanical toy makers until the herrenvolk in my house reacts to me as a human being. We need convincing, real emotion. Tenderness. The genuine article. A herrenvolk that is loved like a child loves a father. In the meantime, all I get from you 'geniuses' is excuses. If you can't show me significant progress in the next quarter, then I will dissolve this team and replace it with a competent one."

He shoved away the folders, so they slid across the table as he stood.

When the door closed behind him, Marlene's principal engineer said, "He doesn't understand how that makes us feel."

The herrenvolk introduced himself as Erich, but Trianna refused to address him by name. He stood with his hands behind his back, looking dopey. For a moment she had the ridiculous thought he'd brought flowers for her that he would produce like a magic trick.

"You're a spy for Father," she said as she checked the drip irrigation to the rows of containers, each sporting half-inch, delicate green filaments.

"I am not." He sounded offended. Like all the herrenvolk in Gustov's estate, he was tall and blond. The company manufactured numerous models in both genders, but Gustav only used Erich the Nordic god model on his grounds. This one wore overalls and had stuck work gloves in his back pocket.

Trianna detached a long black tube from the main feeder line, blew one end to clear it, before reattaching it. "You're run by the mainframe in the house. Everything you see and hear is recorded and can be accessed later. It could be accessed now, in real time. For all I know, I'm talking to someone a mile away."

"If you'd read the brochures, you know that privacy is guaranteed. The signals are encrypted going in and out, and they're erased almost immediately. My memories are not stored remotely." He spoke in a pleasant baritone with just a touch of a European accent. "No one is spying. I want to be your friend. I just want to be helpful."

"It would be helpful if you shut up."

Trianna watched him from the corners of her eyes as she inspected her hydroponic setup, one of several growing systems she designed in the greenhouse. Roots and substrate constantly clogged the system, starving the plants downstream, and sometimes the circulation backed up, flooding the floor. Erich lingered near the door, his hands in his pockets now, acting shy, like a boy with a crush. His gaze moved about the room, inspecting her workbench, and then the low growing tables. He swayed slightly. His head tilted to the side and then straightened. Trianna wrinkled her nose in disgust. Gustav's team had tackled the uncanny valley problem aggressively with the herrenvolk. Humans hardly ever remained perfectly still, so Erich's programming included the tiny movements that people made: a twitch at the mouth's corner, a pushing the hair off the forehead, a shift in weight from one foot to the other. A person who didn't know might suspect the android was on a loop, switching methodically from one action to the next, and if someone watched long enough, the pattern would become evident, but Trianna knew the protocol was much more sophisticated than that.

Erich reached down and scratched his leg just above the knee. The herrenvolk didn't have an itch, of course.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" Erich asked.

"That's not shutting up."

He leaned against the doorframe. "I'm bored. Since I have to be out here anyway, at least we could chat. What do you have against me?"

The overhead blowers cut out automatically, leaving the greenhouse quiet for the moment. Trianna tapped a PVC pipe with a hand trowel. Water gurgled inside. She recited, "It was impossible to look at it without a shudder. No mummy restored to life could be more awful than this monster. I saw the creation unfinished; it was ugly even then; but when his joints and muscles started moving, something turned out more terrible, than all fictions of Dante."

"I'm not Frankenstein's monster. Are you trying to hurt my feelings?"

She tossed him the trowel. "Loosen up the soil in those pots, and just shut up!"

Erich smiled. "Sure. It's good that you have a hobby." He knelt on the floor, his back to her and busied himself in the soil.

Trianna looked at Erich thoughtfully, picked up a hoe, walked quietly behind him, then, with a full two-armed swing, brought the blade down on the top of his head. Something crunched. Erich collapsed across the seedlings. The herrenvolk didn't moan or convulse or bleed.

She returned the hoe to where she'd got it.

"Well, that's a hundred-and-sixty-thousand dollars no one will see again," she said to the silent greenhouse.

Gustav paced diagonally across his study, back and forth from his desk to a display that took up the entire wall, showing the herrenvolk assembly room. Spindly industrial robotic arms moved with precision, assembling androids. Gustav whistled the same tune he always chose when he was upset as he walked. "She destroyed the unit?" The room smelled antiseptic; he kept a bleach towelette dispenser near the door that he refilled regularly

Kurt, the vice president in charge of herrenvolk development nodded from behind the printouts and three-ring notebooks he'd spread on Gustav's desk. "Hit it with a shovel or something. The androids protect themselves if they see it coming, but she snuck up. Bernhard in development sent a memo a year ago on 360-degree motion sensing. He argued that if your car alerts you when another car is in your blind spot, or stops you from backing into a trashcan, we ought to incorporate those capabilities into our units. Certainly, the teacherbots should have that option. If they're in public schools, they do need eyes in the backs of their heads."

"Well, tell the next one what happened, and he won't turn his back on her."

"What would be the point? She hates them."

Gustav stopped his pacing. "They only want what's best for her, which is how they're designed. They can protect her, serve her needs. When we conquer the empathy problem, they'll comfort her, and she will trust them. Our challenge is to overcome the tell-tales that let her see the artificiality behind the human appearance, which is our challenge everywhere. The entire industry is stonewalled by this problem."

Kurt tapped a command on his tablet. "The new Erich is on its way. We'll make him more cautious this time."

"Good." Gustav moved to his desk. "Update me this evening."

Kurt gathered his materials. "We're getting closer, sir."

When the vice president left, Gustav switched the wall display to a shaky image of the path from the main house to Trianna's greenhouse. A hand reached out from the screen's bottom to open a gate, and then the journey continued through the cedar, down the stone steps, and finally to the greenhouse door.

A woman twenty feet into the greenhouse, wearing a tee-shirt and jeans, hefted a fertiliser bag into a wheelbarrow. She straightened and faced the camera. "So, he sent another one."

The image jiggled and shifted. Erich sat down beside a weed trimmer and a red gas can. "Are you going to kill me too?"

Gustav stood close to the screen. Trianna was bigger than life-sized. He reached out as if to touch her, then retreated a step while taking a phone from his pocket. He turned on an app.

Trianna said, "'Kill' is the wrong word, but no. The last one crushed a dozen pots when he went down."

Gustav spoke into his phone. "Why do you hate me?" Echoing his words, almost overlapping them, Erich said, "Why do you hate me?"

Trianna moved the fertiliser to a five-foot by five-foot bin half full of dirt, then dumped it. Gustav wondered if her leg hurt—the limp was pronounced. He'd paid for several operations when she was young. She spent a lot of time in a cast from her sixth birthday until her tenth. He yelled at the last surgeon, "I want her perfect! If you can't do that, then what's the use of you?" On her eighth birthday, after an extensive procedure that kept her in a wheelchair for two months, he hosted a girl's little league soccer tournament on a spot on the estate that he converted to playing fields. He rented goals and a concession stand and bleachers. His company bought shirts for the players and the trophies. Gustav thought that seeing the other girls running and scoring and celebrating would encourage her to work harder at therapy. Trianna only went the first day. She'd stared fiercely at the strangers doing what she could not, and insisted that Oswald wheel her back to the house.

Trianna said, "Hating you makes no more sense than hating a mailbox."

Gustav said through Erich. "You don't think I'm alive?"

"You're not alive. Here, you can stir the fertiliser into the planting soil."

Gustav put his phone down. The herrenvolk should be able to hold his own. Erich picked up a rake. "Why don't you think so? I feel alive."

Trianna cut the plastic wrap from a rose bush's roots. "Make sure you bring dirt up from the bottom. Just stirring the top won't work."

He dug deeper.

Trianna said, "If I put a recording into a life-sized doll that says, 'I'm alive,' and then program it to play only when someone asks, 'Are you alive?' does that mean the doll is a person?"

"Of course, not." Erich switched from the rake to a spade. "It's just a recording. You'd know there wasn't intelligence as soon as you asked it a different question."

"That's the point," said Trianna. "What if I didn't do a recording, but instead programmed in all the sounds that a human voice can make, and then programmed in all the rules for making sentences. Then programmed in context-sensitive algorithms that responded to every question that it could be asked; and then on top of that, I wrote a script so clever that it remembered what it had been asked, incorporated every bit of new information into making its next answer, and then designed it to dynamically respond to the environment so that it could initiate conversations, but there would be nothing inside my program except lines of code and if/then statements, and all the other cleverness that hardware and software can combine to mimic human thinking, and then I said to it, 'You are not alive,' and that code performed it's million complicated calculations to make its answer to me, 'I am alive,' how is that different from the recording I set up in the first place? How does that ingenuity add up to sentience?"

Erich pulled the spade from the bin... "I think your fertiliser is mixed. If you'll point me in the right direction, I can plant those roses." He wiped dirt off his arms. "I could ask you the same question about the squishy cells, organic electrical connections, and mess of chemical interactions you call a brain. That's where your personality comes from, a three-pound mushy water balloon in your head. How can I tell that you're not just clever biological programming? You tell me that you are alive, and I tell you that I am alive. The logic runs both ways. Sense of self is a ghost, a superstition. If it exists in you, or me, it's undetectable and completely possible to fake."

Trianna took the spade from him. He stepped back, looking alarmed.

She planted the blade on the ground and leaned on the handle. "You know what I liked to do when I was a kid? I'd have my nanny drive me to the Rendering House."

"The Rendering House?" He watched the spade warily as he backed toward the exit.

"That's what I called it. It's where the herrenvolk are taken when they break down: those old industrial models with their ape-like arms, the babysitter units that keep smiling even when they're malfunctioning, the fast food workers with skin just on their hands and faces, all of them. The disposal crews backed up the trucks, herrenvolk arms and legs all tangled together, some still wearing clothes but many naked, and pushed them into the disassembling tanks, tumbling into the flaying blades that stripped flesh off the limbs, and then to the crushers that smash metal and circuits into pieces no bigger than a marble. They don't scream—the ones that are still turned on—but when I stood next to the truck, I heard them chatting among themselves. Mundane conversations, like old British couples on a sinking boat. 'Looks like we'll be going next,' or 'Otherwise it's a lovely day, don't you think?'"

Erich grimaced. He stood by the door, next to the weed trimmer and gas can. "they don't turn them off? That's cruel."

"No worse than putting a tape recorder that's pleading for its life into a trash compactor. There's no one behind the noise, even when it sounds like a person."

"I'd be afraid."

"You'd be a voice saying, 'I'm afraid,' nothing else. Some people get attached to their dolls when they were a kid. They think they have personalities and can be hurt. I didn't."

Erich picked up the gas can and walked to the rose bush while unscrewing the cap, then upended the can, pouring gasoline on the plant.

Trianna, horrified, knocked the can out of his hands, but the damage was already done. By the end of the day, the leaves would be curled and black. "What are you doing? You've killed it."

"It's not sentient. It doesn't feel pain. What does it matter? It's just cells strung together in a rose shape."

"A rose doesn't have to have a personality. It's beautiful for being what it is!" She shook the bush, spraying gas droplets onto her arms and face, cutting her hands on the thorns.

Gustav, still watching, picked up his phone and fed him the line. Erich, perfect in form and proportion, said, "Exactly."

From the time she was born, Gustav tried all the earlier Erichs on Trianna. The first ones changed her diapers and rocked her to sleep. They played with her and watched her first steps. They read stories to her at bedtime. She liked the Curious George books.

Gustav watched three-minute executive summaries of her days in the evening, but he didn't think of himself as a parent. He barely remembered she existed most of the time, and when they crossed paths on the estate, she always startled him. When she started to read on her own, though, he grew more interested in how her personality was forming, how she was becoming an individual who liked Brussels sprouts but not bacon, who wore blue more often than green, who sang commercial jingles to herself when she thought she was alone.

A week after her sixth birthday, Gustav walked the long hallway from his bedroom, through the east ballroom and the main library where he chose The Wind in the Willows, then through the drawing room and down the long hallway to her bedroom. He knocked on her door and found her sitting on the floor in the midst of a toy farm she'd set up around her with a red barn and fences and tiny tractors. She wore pyjamas that monitored her health, and the air smelled like a warm grass pasture on a summer day, an odour designed to calm the spirit.

"It's almost bedtime; can I read to you, Trianna?" He sat on the floor outside the farm's boundaries.

"I like it when Oswald reads to me." She held a plastic horse in her hands that she turned over and over.

Gustav frowned. "I didn't know Oswald read to you. Erich chooses the best stories." He thought about the reading list that the developmental specialists had selected for her, each designed to implant important social norms and behaviours.

"Oswald reads them better. Sometimes he changes the names so I'm in the story, and he makes noises the animals make. He's funny."

"Well, I'm going to read to you tonight."

She shook her head. "Oswald reads me stories. I want Oswald."

Gustav opened the book. "The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home."

The plastic pony hit him on the cheek, near his eye.

"I don't want you to read to me!" She picked up a metal tractor. Gustav rolled to his side, turning his head away, then walked from the room, not looking back.

That was the first story he'd tried to read to her, and the last.

At dinner, Trianna sat at the end of a long banquet table. She liked the hollow emptiness of the main dining room. It felt more like the greenhouse. Oswald brought her plate with sliced roast beef, homemade bread and condiments so he she could make a sandwich.

"Do you ever worry he'll replace you?" said Trianna. "Program one of his herrenvolk with my likes and dislikes and move you out?"

Oswald paused. He'd aged much over his years with her. Fine wrinkles textured his features, and he had developed a stoop and shuffling gait. Trianna wondered how old the butler was.

"How do you know he hasn't?"

Trianna laughed. "His herrenvolk isn't convincing enough to be as flawed as you."

The butler refilled her water glass. "I'll assume that was a compliment."

She spotted Erich standing by the door. "I suppose you want to come in?"

Erich tilted his head to acknowledge Oswald as they passed.

"Will you need anything else, ma'am?" said Oswald.

Trianna waved him off. Erich pulled out a chair next to her.

"You puzzle me," he said. "Yesterday you killed a herrenvolk; today you engaged in a long conversation. You're teasing me."

"The day's not over for you yet. And I didn't 'kill' him: I broke him."

He leaned in and touched her arm. "Like a heart attack breaks an old man? Oswald is a couple of years from being 'broken' by your definition. Are you going to eat all that bread?" He took a slice off her plate.

She rubbed the spot on her arm. "I didn't give you permission to touch me."

Erich held the bread but didn't taste it. "I'm sorry. Interactions between people are a combination of speech, posture, proximity and touch. A touch closes distance. It implies intimacy or invites it. It's one way for me to test the waters."

"It's flirty."

"If you toss your hair, that's flirty, among about a dozen other things you could do that you haven't done. Somebody's got to offer the first flirt."

"You're flirting?"

Erich shrugged. "Relationships go many directions. One direction involves you killing me—sorry, 'breaking' me. That's not the only way this has to go. You know a large part of our services involves sexual surrogacy." His face betrayed nervousness, as if he feared he'd gone too far.

"You are flirting. That's disgusting."

"No more disgusting than your description of a herrenvolk death camp."

Despite herself, Trianna admired the bitterness in his voice. "You mimic human feelings pretty well."

"And you don't display them at all."

She finished making a sandwich. "My whole life I have been observed. This house is thick with cameras and microphones, as are the entire grounds. When I was a kid, I couldn't cough that a nurse wouldn't appear at my door. There's nothing I can do in secret, nothing that is mine and mine only, so I don't give my father the pleasure of knowing what I'm feeling. I'm a lab rat, a controlled experiment in human development. You're a part of it. After all, you're just a mobile camera and microphone too. Daddy must have decided I need a friend, or maybe he has more ambitious plans, a lover."

The bread smelled good, and the roast beef was pink and tender. Trianna took a bite. Just the right amount of mustard. Yesterday she'd been calm when she hit Erich with the hoe, just as she was calm now, but her leg throbbed. She longed to rub it. It always hurt when she was stressed or angry. Her face stayed noncommittal, but her leg never lied. She was angry. Oh, Daddy dear, she thought, like a terrible mantra, oh, Daddy dear, it's you I fear; it's you I fear. The herrenvolk didn't look at her. She wondered how the algorithms worked. How long would he not speak to imitate a person mulling over what to say next? Were Markov Chains and state machines driving his actions? How complex were the conditionals? And he was so close to being convincing. His responses were just the tiniest bit off, like watching a video where the sound was only a tenth of a second from being perfectly synced.

"He didn't send me." Erich put his hand on her arm again, warm fingers pressing against her skin. "I am a person, don't you understand? I'm here because I want to know you better. There's only Oswald, your father and you on the estate, and a bunch of herrenvolk who look like me. I'm . . . I mean . . . I'm not . . ." He looked away again, biting his lip. "Look, I've got other things to do, so enjoy your misery, or whatever you have that keeps you going. But I think loneliness is a shitty choice."

He pushed away from the table, dropped the uneaten bread to the floor, and walked out.

Trianna took another bite from the sandwich, thinking, you don't see that every day, an angry toy.

Gustav threw a coffee cup at the screen. The liquid ran down the feed from Erich as he walked out of the dining room.

Kurt said, "Just because she doesn't accept Erich doesn't mean the program is a failure or that we're taking the wrong approach. Most people see the herrenvolk as friends, as a part of their family. My god, you should read the thousands of grateful notes from single people who have found herrenvolk soul mates, and kids who hated school but love to learn now because of patient and caring herrenvolk teachers. There's a political movement to grant them civil rights. Did you see the article about that priest in Texas offering to baptise herrenvolk who accepted Christ as their saviour? Artificial sentience is winning."

Unmoved, Gustav studying a monitor half the size of the wall display, scrolling through an unending string of graphs and abbreviations with percentages attached to them. "I can see every decision in Erich's matrix. I know how he gets to each word he says, but I can't understand my daughter. I can't reach her."

"You can't unwind a human mind."

Gustav looked baffled. "Of course, you can."

Trianna sat in bed wearing a nightshirt, the sheets covering her legs while she worked on a schedule for the next day. Three seedling beds needed aeration, the new plants in the garden were due for fertiliser, and she wanted to check the tomatoes for aphids. She'd soaked the plants with insecticidal soap a week earlier to control them. She reached under the sheet to massage her bad leg. The ache had been steadily rising. She contemplated going to the bathroom for her pain medication.

Focusing on the schedule was difficult. She leaned her head back against the headboard. The reading light didn't reach the far wall. This room, like the others, was huge, the wainscot a dark oak, and the wallpaper that covered the upper half a dark blue with velvet patterns that circled about themselves. Shadows folded overshadows, and she couldn't see the room's far end. For a second she was sure someone else was in the room, but when she pointed the light up, revealing the dark wall with its fine paintings and decorative writing desk, she saw that she was alone.

Trianna put the clipboard aside and turned out the light. She rolled onto her side and shifted her knees and feet until she found the one position that hurt her leg the least. As she drifted to sleep, she could still feel Erich's fingers resting on her arm and feel the warmth from his sculpted face so close to hers. His voice is saying, "I want to be your friend" before she'd crushed his skull in the greenhouse echoed in her ear.

Drifting, she felt young again, sitting in her room, surrounded by toy fences and cows and chickens. Gustav came in, holding a book, only he was blonde and tall. "Let me read to you," he said.

Trianna's eyes moved beneath her closed eyelids. Asleep and not asleep, she knew she dreamed. I'm twenty-four, she thought, and I'm six, and the dream stretched onto farms and wind in the willows and a mole who made friends with a rat. Her father's voice rose and fell in the dream. He sat behind her, telling her a story, and he hugged her from behind, her father, reaching around her and pulling her close, so warm, so warm, whispering in her ear, his lips on her ear. "Daddy," she sighed.

Trianna shrieked, threw an elbow hard into the weight behind her as she rolled from the bed. In a second, she turned the light on. Erich, stood on the other side of the bed, naked.

"I'm sorry, so sorry. I thought you wanted it," he said. "I just want to be close to you." Then he fled, leaving the bedroom door open.

Trianna gasped great heaving gulps of air. Her leg blazed with the old pain, making her eyes water.

Father, she thought, you sent your proxy. She limped furiously across her room, not bothering with shoes or a coat. Here's why I know the herrenvolk are not people. If I break them and bury them in my garden, they nourish nothing. No grass grows more green feeding on their surrender to decomposition because they don't decompose. There's nothing of the living within them.

She left the house, walked across the moonlit lawn, the grass cold and wet under her bare feet. Erich's not to blame. He's code and plastic and sterile engineering. He's not to blame. I don't blame a spigot for spilling water. I don't blame a candle for the flame.

The marble folly's glowed white when she passed them—their angels holding bugles and floating on white wings hid behind the pillars—and the stairs down to the greenhouse were like a glowing ladder. The herrenvolk doesn't feed the garden. She could smash a hundred without making a difference. They were saws and hammers, not carpenters. They were paints and brushes, not artists.

But she knew what could make her garden flourish. She knew very well. In the dark greenhouse, the moon glowing through the glass overhead, she found the hoe, the wood a solid comfort in her hands, the metal blade catching the reflection.

Oswald said Gustav slept in the north wing. Trianna carried the hoe in both hands and advanced on the house. She'd find the door in the north wing among the many doors.

Oh, Daddy, she thought. Oh, Daddy.
Down into the Dank

Eric Del Carlo

USA

The dead should know to stay dead. But they don't. Not every time. Not today, for instance.

The call into my private investigations business created the virt office in my home, springing to life a desk and furnishings and appurtenances to persuade the caller that this was an active investigator's office.

The caller looked in; I looked out. And I found that I was locking gazes with Siraj Tahan. My former partner. Who was the aforementioned dead man?

Benumbed shock, if you do it right, looks like nothing at all, so hopefully he only saw me sitting there expressionlessly.

"New office, Hornsby?" Tahan said. He looked old, as old as he should have been if he wasn't dead, which, evidently, he wasn't. I had heard otherwise. I wasn't overjoyed to find that information incorrect.

This place wasn't new, and it wasn't an office. These were the private quarters I'd occupied for years on Shrakello. I had closed the office down below in the Daanc some time back and now operated from up here in the human colony of the Heights. To say that business had dropped off in the past decade was to say that a reading lamp was less bright than a hypernova.

I felt no urge whatever to engage in badinage, nostalgic reminiscences or civility. Tonelessly I said, "All legal matters are settled between us."

"I might argue otherwise."

"Get yourself a good lawyer."

"I am a good lawyer."

I sat back in the chair before the desk that wasn't there. Shock was giving way to surliness. Siraj Tahan was framed in neutral purples. The call came from off-world.

"You're a lawyer now?" I sounded the word like an obscenity.

"Yes. But I'm calling on you as a potential client."

I stared at the deep ruts of his face, at his lax lines and the suggestion of frail bones underneath the flab. I remembered him with a sudden unnerving vividness as a man in his prime, muscular and vital. For years we had tag-teamed privately contracted, human-involved cases throughout the Daanc, the inhabited native region of Shrakello. The Daanc, long, long ago, had been a site of deep cultural spirituality. Laughable now. Ludicrous, considering the area's century of reputation as a zone of debauchery and multi-species intemperance.

But the laughter was faded. The Shrakellons were on the brink of extinction, and the party was over, for everyone.

Legally I could only take on cases from human clients which involved human subjects. There weren't many Shrakellons left down in their damp valleys below the Heights, but their laws were intact. I hoped only that my efforts to stay in the game meant I didn't appear as ancient and feeble to Tahan as he did to me.

"You must be joking," I said, knowing he wasn't. Once, we had operated with uncanny mental consonance, solving cases, getting each other out of jams, cashing in on the rough and tumble morality of the Dank at its festal peak. That's what we crass humans made of that devout native proper name. Daanc became Dank: and the fun-loving Shrakellons let us get away with it.

Tahan shifted forward on his seat. "I want to engage your services. The agency is still listed in the directory. That's not just for show, is it?"

The old animosity wasn't just on my side, then. He was needling me. There was still malice in the man. Our partnership had ended on an apocalyptic note, a-drip in bad blood, and we had fought over money for years after he'd relocated off this world. Our professional dissolution was total.

With iron in my voice I stated, "I am a private investigator." I even stood up to say it, which was a mistake. The pain caught my left leg, and I tried to cover it.

But his still crafty eyes saw. "Gimpy gam?" he asked.

"Turned an ankle at the gym yesterday." I sat again. When rumour had informed me, he'd died on a distant world, I hadn't mourned. I hadn't given him a single kind thought.

He let out a long breath. I detected a raw wheeze in the exhalation. "Then I have a case for you. I need a human found, on Shrakello."

"How do you know he's here?" The query jumped out of me, an instinct of information gathering.

"Because he isn't elsewhere."

I told him how much it would cost him. It was more than I--or we--had ever charged for a missing person case. I wanted to stick it to him, perhaps make him change his mind. Because I didn't want to work for him. Maybe I didn't want to work at all anymore.

He said, "I'll pay double that, Hornsby. I'm transmitting details now...."

The name rang a bell, faintly but resonant enough that as I read the file, I was an item ahead of the material the whole way. I recalled Ilya Krupin. He returned to me from the old days. I brewed tea, my living space restored to its comfortable, dishevelled, non-virt aspect.

When the great die-off of the Shrakellon race became a thing acknowledged, a fact unavoidable, a nightmare coming true before everyone's eyes, the same energy which had been traditionally used in libertine pursuits was redirected toward desperate measures for survival. Not all of these were helpful or sensible efforts. For every legitimate scientific undertaking there appeared the local equivalents of faith healers, snake oil salesmen and medical quacks. The extinction of a worthy, intelligent, frolicsome species became an opportunity for hucksterism.

I am pleased to note that it wasn't just humans who were in on the swindling. Other star-faring races joined in, as did the Shrakellons themselves.

But Ilya Krupin was a human.

The file Siraj Tahan had sent corroborated my mental profile of the man. A low-level hustler. A grifter. Once, the damp shadows of the Dank were thick with these types. Beings came to Shrakello, a world whose economy relied on never-ending saturnalia, and charlatans like Krupin tried to take them for everything they had.

But Krupin had eventually stepped up his game. What was...? Again, I remembered just ahead of the account in the file. Krupin's big score. He had turned to trafficking, a one-time shot. It was one of the more major hustles at that time. Ferry a group of natives off-world, to a Shangri-La planetoid or a moon with supposed Lourdes-like waters, where a great healing would occur, where the genetic kill switch that had been thrown on the whole species could be wrenched back in the opposite direction.

Of course, it was all a scam. What was happening to the Shrakellons wasn't environmental. Their time was just up as a people. The signs had been there for generations, the birth rate plummeting toward zero, the congenital disorders, all glaringly clear in hindsight. But the Shrakellon political apparatus, such as it was, had repudiated the doomsayers, and the planetary population as a whole wasn't predisposed toward apocalyptic forecasting since it had more or less given up religion many cycles back.

Shrakellons who had already emigrated from the homeworld were dying off just as completely as those who'd remained. Ilya Krupin, twenty-three years ago, had sold false hope in the form of a flight from this world to a minor worldlet within travelling distance of the bucket of a ship he had obtained for the venture.

Then, evidently, Krupin himself had disappeared.

Why did Tahan want me to look for him on Shrakello? Because he isn't elsewhere. I didn't think that flippancy on Tahan's part. In the heydey of our partnership we had taken on many missing person cases. Back when all the clubs and gambling hells and flesh pits were operating full-tilt, Shrakello was a place where beings routinely came to become missing persons. Some wanted to be found; others didn't. With Tahan and I it was a process of elimination, until we had isolated the last quarter, the final refuge. He/she/it would be here because they couldn't be elsewhere.

I sipped hot spicy tea and acquired access to the municipal database for the Heights. My investigatory license was still authentic, whether I could still truly call myself a private detective or not. I ran Krupin's identity through everything, public and restricted 'bases, and got nothing. No surprise. Tahan, now in his capacity as a lawyer--a lawyer! --could have done this same checking from off-world.

Before shutting off, I switched systems and accessed information on the destination world for Krupin's trafficking jaunt. It was a rough, habitable rock with a few interesting minerals, still supporting its doomed little population of impoverished Shrakellons. Their possessorship of the world, I saw, was in dispute.

Then the proverbial coin dropped, and I understood what this whole nasty business was about.

Some mining conglom, human or otherwise, wanted that petty chunk of a planet, so to strip it of its meagre mineral plenitude. Krupin had expedited the title purchase, no doubt collecting the capital from his hopeless marks and pocketing a good deal of it for himself, on top of the fee he would have charged to transport them. Two decades ago, buying worldlets in this sector was little hassle, before the conglomerates like Veith-Huynh Industrial and TT'howk FFhr Extractions moved in.

Krupin's paper on the world was probably hinky anyway. Why not clip every credit you could? But the industry people would want to produce him in the flesh to fully undermine the claim those Shrakellon wretches still had on their "paradise."

It was pathetic.

I took my robin's egg blue metaceramic cup out onto my balcony, feeling the great undertow of despair pull on me. I sometimes think the sentient races of the galaxy are deserving of their stewardship of the stars, and then I see how greedy and barbaric and unfeeling we can still be. Damn, this was ugly.

The Heights is a tidy affair, set upon mountaintops in the cool and clear of Shrakello's upper reaches. The residences are all quite decent, even my place.

Whether I wanted to work for Tahan or not, I needed that fee. My pills were expensive, and I didn't want to have to leave here for some rundown world and sordid living conditions. Shrakello was all I knew.

The air felt crisp this evening. I drank my tea and looked skyward, the light vast and pale. Stars were out, as well as the snowflake-scatter of orbitals. Mining equipment had been arriving quietly in bulk for the past five years or so. Shrakello is something of a trove. Nobody cared about that in the old days, when this world was the ultimate destination for those with an appetite for gleeful profligacy. The galaxy revered friendly, festive Shrakello. Common folk and royalty alike flocked and frolicked here.

But when the Shrakellons are all gone, as must happen at the end of this final generation, then the planet will be claimed anew and exploited by beings other than the native species.

I set down my teacup. I leaned on the balcony railing. My gaze fell from the sky, down the regal stony slopes of the mountains which humans had colonised long ago with permission from the Shrakellon government, and my eyes alighted on the carpet of dense atmosphere below. The huge irregular network of valleys lay beneath the cottony cover. Down there was the Daanc. The Dank. Or what remained of it, its pitiful bones, still ringing with the dismal echoes of a joyous past.

The pain came again to my left leg, and I leaned even harder on the rail, eyes still below. Eyes which filled now with an old man's indignant tears.

I rented a floater and took it down.

It wasn't absolute abandonment under the layer of mist and among the moist vales. I had been gradually preparing myself for that. One day, a descent from the Heights will be rewarded with a graveyard vista. All will be still in the Dank, just gurgles of liquid and the creak of decaying structures. The last sentient native inhabitant will have expired.

So, my vision of total devastation met with the comparatively cheerful reality of the Shrakellon Daanc in its current mode. Which was grim, to be sure. Which was a hollow suggestion of its bygone glory. But which was still, for now, a functioning municipal entity.

Visitors, first thing, were struck by the disorder. The Dank appears so haphazard, so irrationally assembled, that the off-world arrivals would invariably experience an initial state of helplessness, unable to comprehend the basic layout. Where were the streets? Why were the buildings set against each other so, or scattered wide and higgledy-piggledy through the moss-velvety dales? How did you get from one place to the next?

In answer to that last commonplace query: by catwalks, by alleyways, by zip lines, by intuitive leaps. The Dank doesn't want to be figured out. It just wants your cooperation. Work with it and you'll soon find your way about. At least, that was the cornpone shuck which guides, and bartenders and waiters would tell the tourists. But there was truth in it. Shrakellon architecture was...unrestrained. Most settled civilised places tended toward right angles and utility. Not so on Shrakello. Not in the Dank, baby.

But for all the architectural congestion, the area looked bleak and deserted to my eyes.

I put the floater down neatly before the rococo facade of the Anvolean Cabaret. The place had been shuttered for years. Ropy vines crawled the walls. Grey-green lichen pasted shut the big front doors. It had been a lively, noisy joint. Anvoleans were large creatures, with lavish appetites. The Cabaret had mixed their home culture with local Shrakellon decadence, to great profitable effect. But that was all over.

People were afoot in the vicinity. The appearance of my metaplastic floater drew more attention than it ever would have in the past, when traffic had bounced through here nonstop, when the place was still alive....

Now knock that off, Hornsby. You can be maudlin when you get back home. For once, you're working a real case. Let's have the hard nose, the pragmatic airs, the hardboiled version of you which this job requires.

It was mostly Shrakellons I saw shuffling through their daily activities. They were all of age. No children. No youngsters at all now. The absence of youth slowed the pace. The Dank, naturally, had once bustled. But with the leisure industry all but gone, it was normal for the manic tempo to have subsided. This languor was something deeper. There was a diminishing need for competitiveness among these people. Nobody had to show off for the younger generation anymore. There wasn't anything to prove. Age, with all its infirmaries and affronts, came for these people at a dutiful rate. Shame was no longer attached to the condition. Everyone was sliding toward elderhood. Ageism is a surprisingly universal prejudice amongst the star-spanning races, but the Shrakellons had found the most extreme work-around.

The interlocking valleys receive more sunlight than one might expect looking down from the Heights. Quite a bit of day streamed through the haze, bringing steamy warmth to the moist depths. I had dressed appropriately, in damp-resistant gear. I had my credentials. And I'd brought along a weapon, just like a real private investigator. It had been a little while since I had been down here.

I went to the hall of records. The Dank is run through with moisture, deliberate wetness atop the pervasive enveloping humidity in the form of canals, directed rivulets, ponds. These smallish bodies of water wend throughout the valleys, into the very buildings themselves. The Shrakellons are amphibian, and every being who visits their native grounds simply must adjust to the wet.

This world had once had so very many visitors, so many species. Going to Shrakello for a holiday was to "take a splash."

Of course, there were risks, beyond the usual shady hustles. That was part of the hyper-kinetic fun of the place. You traded the rare--but present--possibility of contracting wetlung or blackvein for the rapacious debauchery available inside every nightclub and casino.

Light bounced murkily on the puddles underfoot in the hall. I presented my credentials and my needs to the clerk on duty. Bluish green hide glistened. The throat sac swelled. Bulbous eyes regarded me. The computer station, like all other indoor surfaces, was beaded with damp. Memory nodes glowed through the membranous housing. The interface was fitted for spatulate Shrakellon fingers.

This was an old, churlish clerk, who didn't want to be doing this job, who didn't like the human with the fancy license. More and more this was becoming the typical Shrakellon. They'd had employment at the clubs or had even owned one of those valuable establishments, or they'd made good money in some other sector of the tourist industry. Now they were reduced to civil jobs, to make-work, to time-filler chores while they waited for the end.

My authority in human-involved cases wasn't cutting it with this clerk. A bribe we could both live with got me my way, and Ilya Krupin's identity received another earnest search, this time in the native database. I watched the nodes pulse inside the translucent computer. Krupin's last officially recorded appearance on Shrakello corresponded with the flight he had arranged for his batch of desperate natives. Since then, he'd been absent from all local 'bases.

Yet he was here, in the Dank. I accepted that premise. Siraj Tahan had promised double the fee I'd named. The money was a measure of Tahan's confidence regarding Krupin's whereabouts.

Fine. He wasn't the first person to disappear in the Dank. Or try to. I still had plenty of tricks. I set off from the hall of records to enact them.

What followed was the sort of gumshoe doggedness you'd expect if you've ever given a thought to or read an account about private detecting. It was laborious and methodical. I still knew people. I had retained contacts. I went through them like a shopping list.

Fzweethe, Kaakolt, Choklottl, all onetime Shrakellon criminal operators of one lowly stripe or other, all more or less straight now because the easy marks had gone, and only "respectable" crime remained. Mostly political and financial fraud, as various entities stole capital back and forth from each other in a sad, by-rote pastime.

I found old informers still alive and learned others had met their ends. Darla Dagger, Gabrio the Grinner, Tyne Spitz survived, humans grubbing it out down here, drunks and wasters now mostly, eyes bright with fatal bittersweet memories. Everybody was old. Everybody looked it. Characters all, endowed with quirk and traits and colourful backstories. Nobody had word on Ilya Krupin. Most needed to be reminded who he was. I had all the age-variations on my screen for them to try for visual identification. Obviously, he wasn't going under his birth name or official record-keeping would have popped him.

My tactile memories of the man were hazed by time and by the fact that he'd never gotten in my way on a case. He was just another colourful character, a quietly failed person made romantic by the particular years he'd dwelled in the Dank, during its last hurrah before the truth of Shrakellon extinction tore the heart out of the place. I remembered bushy hair in sunset colours, a strong jaw, a nervous smile.

Fzweethe among my old Shrakellon contacts, for whom I had to buy a big roasted bug on a kabob before she'd talk, had the most interesting, if immaterial, thing to say about Krupin.

"One of my budding-mates got suckered into one of those trafficking schemes. Spent every credit he had to get shipped off to some lousy dirt ball, then the boat ruptured a quarter of the way there. Krupin should be disembowelled. All them traffickers ought to be."

It tired me. I kept checking the time because I sensed an extra twenty minutes being snuck into every hour, but that turned out not to be the case. I sweated freely. Once, stepping up onto a narrow-elevated walkway, my foot slid on the native wood plank and I went down onto the unpaved ground with a full-body smack. It's why visitor clothes are easy to wipe clean. It is also where the local term "mudfaced" comes from: it means inebriated.

Many old hot spots--the ones not boarded up--had been repurposed, into private residences, into less frenzied businesses. The market catering to all things geriatric was booming in the Dank.

I had to stop for a meal. I went into a gutted structure that had once featured bathing beauties of all races and genders cavorting through a series of fountains in aquatic ecstasy while lights and music blared. The fountains were gone, and I sat at a little table and breathed in heaves and shook pills onto my palm as I waited for my food. I also covertly massaged my left leg, below the kneecap, down to the talus. I ignored any hint of ghostly splashings I might have heard from the absent fountains.

My stew came. I liked Shrakellon fare. Liked it a lot. You couldn't get it quite this way up in the Heights. Human chefs and auto-cooks make interpretations, no matter what you tell them. Also, Shrakellon food needs to be consumed somewhere with dripping walls and air as lush as an exotic beverage. I ate voraciously.

It was the first glimmer of the old energy I'd felt since coming down in the floater. So naturally a scaly hand dropped on my shoulder, communicating the brawn of the whole beast, and a toothy mouth used low tones in telling me I should come along.

You shouldn't say Lviivans often work as muscle. Just as it's impolite to assert humans in general can't hold their alga-brandy. I had known a Lviivan ballerina, and I still knew a human, my Heights neighbour across the way, who drank the native brandy like tap water.

But this was, undeniably, a Lviivan who encouraged me to rise from my table, who patted me down and relieved me of my needler, and who escorted me out without anyone calling an alarm.

I hated how feeble I felt being walked along by the dinosaur with the natural armour plating and elongated neural spines. The Lviivan wasn't chatty, and I figured I was being hauled someplace lonesome where some criminal who felt threatened by my activities this day would want a word. Or would wish to personally witness my elimination. What the hell had Tahan gotten me into?

But we walked instead into a commercial building, a hermetic job. Through the atmosphere lock, into cool marbly corridors. Uniformed personnel took custody of me. With bravado I didn't feel I told the departing dino I wanted my quiller back when this was over.

A human received me in an office. A neuto, with sculptural hair and gender-indifferent features. Ne was young, precise, commanding.

"Should I guess what conglom you work for?" I asked flatly. More bluster. The building had been unmarked. I could still taste my stew. I thought about the ancient custom of last meals.

Ne gestured, ner hand reflected in the burnished slate desktop. The air was moistureless, verging on frigid. "Sit, Alphonse Hornsby. This is sovereign corporate territory. Answer my questions. Understood?"

It was just a grandiose field office, I reminded myself. They had been dropping them on Shrakello since before the mining equipment began showing up in orbit. Every conglomerate wanted its foothold. They performed covert surveying and ground testings, hungry to suck out this world's naturally occurring crystalline matter.

"Who hired you to look for Krupin?"

Thoughts of claiming client privilege didn't gain much traction on the dry air. Besides, I wasn't bound to secrecy. Plus, the two uniforms who'd brought me in wore sidearms. Also: it was Siraj Tahan and screw him for everything he'd done to me.

I told ner. Cobalt eyes widened slightly in the neuto face. "I thought he had died."

"Worse. He became a lawyer." While I waited for the laugh that didn't come, I wondered if this person represented the mining conglom that wanted Krupin's evacuees off their worldlet or a challenger firm which would support the Shrakellons' claim so to deny a rival a small piece of profit. The thought portrayed itself as squalling infants fighting over a toy in a toy-filled playpen.

"Why does he want Krupin found?"

"He didn't tell me."

"Why does he think Krupin isn't long dead somewhere?"

"I don't know." Both utter truths for the stony office's clandestine judgment field to verify. It's one reason to stay off "sovereign corporate territory" if you have secrets you want to keep.

It was pointless trying to figure who had ratted me to this corpo. My former informers knew even less loyalty now than when I'd had work I could regularly throw their way.

The interview concluded abruptly. I lurched up out of the seat and nearly went down again. Meticulous eyebrows rose on that epicene face.

"You look to be in distress, Alphonse Hornsby." Almost a note of concern in the carefully structured voice.

"Barked my shin on a low table this morning."

The painstaking cobalt eyes stayed on me. "We fund a medical facility in the Daanc," ne said with a more than passing Shrakellon pronunciation. "I can have you seen today, if...your leg needs attention."

I stood on the leg and took the pain. I wasn't about to say anything for the insidious judgment field to weigh. But ne had startled me. "What profit's a medical facility?" The local research efforts were still underway, driven by less staff each year, but after decades the scientists were no nearer to solving the unhappy unsolvable plight of the Shrakellon people.

The conglom neuto shrugged shoulders, the most human gesture I'd seen from ner. "We're not heartless, Alphonse Hornsby." Ne slid a chit across the desk's smooth dry surface.

I pocketed it and thanked ner and meant it, but I would have said anything if it would get me out of that office.

Outside the airlock, where the Dank resumed dominion over my streaming pores, the Lviivan waited to wordlessly hand over my needle-gun. Despite its outsized dimensions, I found I was looking the creature right in its pseudo-Mesozoic eyes. I lifted my chin and walked off on my pained leg.

After that I went to the shipyard that had sold Ilya Krupin his vessel twenty-three years ago. All that the lone Shrakellon employed there now moved anymore were rebuilt floaters. She laughed a Shrakellon croaking laugh when I asked about a sales receipt from that far back. The small sum of information I already had about Krupin's ship indicated it was a cobbled-together affair, a craft that hadn't even existed until it was assembled from disparate parts, surely right here in this very yard. Such slapdashery had been the way of things in those panicky years.

I found myself wandering in that peculiar Dank manner of wandering. You can't really put your head down and your hands in your pockets--if your species has forelimb prehensiles that'll fit into pockets--and roam through the damp scenery. The local architecture demands you pay attention as a participant if you mean to get around at all.

But if you had been up and down the valleys often enough, the crazy quilt had imprinted an almost subconscious pattern in your mind, one your feet could read. And so, you stepped and pivoted and climbed and moved, and seemed to be going somewhere even if you were not. Even if you had begun to meander in a miasma of growing despair.

But sometimes your feet are smarter than you are, and you wind up somewhere anyway. Thus, I came out of a cramped zigzagging alleyway to the place where my old office stood. The same office Siraj Tahan and I had shared in our unstoppable salad days as guns-blazing private detectives.

The office had never been of lavish proportions, but its serviceableness had suited both of us. I stared at the squat construction and noted where the vegetation had started in on it, mossy fingers searching the lower fringes. It was fallow property. No one had bothered to repurpose it. When I had occupied it alone for some years, I had been surprised to find it felt unwieldy, too large.

Behind it and above it and around it was a research facility. Stolid, morose, imposing, secretive. The structure shared none of the Shrakellon architectural whimsy. It was a faceless thing. I recalled when this had gone up so close to our little agency. These medical compounds had been the hope of the Shrakellon people. The steadfast scientists within would go to any means to reverse the ominous dwindling of the species. Persistent scuttlebutt had it that live sentient subjects were used in their experiments, both anonymous volunteers and those secretly condemned there by the judicial apparatus. But no one could or would confirm this. The research centres had always been domains unto themselves. None dared intrude. This facility was the last one in operation.

I looked upon the sappy metaphoric juxtaposition that the two buildings made--the end of a species overshadowing the end of my days of vitality and use. Tears threatened my eyes once more.

"Hwooornz-bay."

Except that I heard it as "Hornsby," as though from a human tongue. Shrakellon pronunciations were second nature to me. Some in the Heights had remarked I spoke with a tinge of an accent myself.

The being loped toward me with weary splashings. A ragged poncho hung on unhealthy hide, teal-salmon where it should have been a moist bluish green. But I recognised the wily eyes and the red smirking tongue.

"Kweldharn." Then, even though I'd never used this unreliable ne'er-do-well as a source: "Have you seen Ilya Krupin lately?" We went around for a few minutes in what had today become a familiar vaudeville. I showed him the extrapolatory images of Krupin. Kweldharn knew nothing. Kweldharn had been a card sharp in the old days. Now, evidently, he was a beggar. Since he had replied to my questions, I gave him something.

He wasn't suffering from anything congenital. His ill health had nothing to do with the final decline of his kind. He was just old, like everyone else. Like me.

As I turned and walked unsteadily away, he called after, "You want to get that leg looked at, Hwooornz-bay."

Which clued me. Something I should have thought of already. Hell, that ice-dry corpo had practically waved a flag. I did want that leg looked at.

It was a clinic, tidy, modestly sized, but not a butcher parlour. I presented the chit that the neuto had slid across the slate-top desk and waited for the punch line. It never landed.

Brief wait. Examination room. An able MedTech. Workup. Wait again in the room, alone.

I moved. The exam room had a terminal, a hard-shelled human type, and I'd spied the tech's code. Everything felt right, good, as I swiftly and skilfully plumbed the system, fingers flashing with the memory of a hundred other jobs. I knew I had him. Knew this was it. Outside the clinic, I felt sure the lively old life had come back to the Dank. I was working a case, bringing all my savvy and experience to bear.

Krupin's name went through. So, did his images for the recognition programs to contemplate.

Nothing came out. Nothing. This system was linked with all other Dank human facilities, independent from the Heights systems. Ilya Krupin had never been in any of the human medical databases since he had voyaged off years ago with his misbegotten Shrakellon cargo. Disappointment crushed me.

The MedTech acted solemn when she returned. She had maintained a professional aplomb on examining my grotesque, squiggle-ridden leg. That composure held, but a doctorly theatricality accompanied it now. She gave me the jargon, for her own peace of mind, I imagined. Then she simplified it.

"The...blackvein, Mr. Hornsby. I'm afraid it is advanced."

I told her not to be afraid, got up, got dressed and got out, even as she pitched me her unnecessary prognosis, throwing in a new fancy term or two I didn't recognise. I had my pills, the dampeners, which were the best science and medicine could do for me. I'd gotten unlucky. I accepted that. The percentage of humans who contract one of the severe local diseases is vanishingly small. Long-time exposure to the environment increases the risk incrementally. Whatever. Leaving Shrakello wouldn't help me. And Shrakello was all I knew.

Just like I knew I was out of options. With only one last place to look for the wayward Krupin.

Even amidst the peak spectacle, at its hedonistic zenith, some came to Shrakello, to the Daanc, to study its devotional relics. Here had stood a site of spiritual reflection. These same valleys had hosted the pious and the worshipful.

Shrakellon religion was a grab-baggy mishmash of deific balderdash, myths undistinguished from those gathering dust in the histories of virtually every species currently plying the galaxy. Gods. Rituals. Holy texts. Temples. Yawn.

I went on foot into the open valley, one where the sloping sides weren't festooned with buildings, the natural shape of the land visible. The turf was rich, the moss gleaming and rampant and tangibly alive.

A few ruins languished. They had a look of repose, of contemplation. Vines enwrapped the stone blocks and broken columns. Small life darted across the surfaces. This, then, was the Daanc, the sequence of the valley network which had never succumbed to the commercial invasion, to the pornographication of these once sacred grounds.

It wasn't uninhabited. Houses stood here and there. Isolated, apart from other Shrakellon architecture, they seemed far less fanciful. These were structures with walls and roofs and load-bearing members. Humble rivers might flow through them, but they were utterly recognisable as the habitats of sentient beings.

They too would make worthy ruins.

The thought turned something in me, below the navel. But before I even admitted the morbid observation, a worse truth turned the blade in my intestines back the other way. All this would be stripped by the mining conglomerates, every valley was torn up for what lay beneath. Nothing of Shrakellon culture--high-flown religious carvings or crass recreational establishments--would be left to stand.

I approached a home with squelching footfalls. The place looked bigger than last time I'd seen it; then I realized it was bigger, with a whole new wing added. Hardly anything got built in the Dank anymore.

The entrance was framed in striated pink stone. The knocker was a hunk of crystal of the variety that would interest the imaging fields of conglomerate mining technicians. I used it to knock on the door.

The door opened smoothly with no one behind it, and I entered into the domicile's moist, tasteful decor. Art adorned the walls and ceilings, as did a surprising array of religious iconography. The shape of the home led me naturally forward to a room.

She was there. She appeared, for all this world, to be quite comfortable and serenely waiting for me.

"Hello, Alphonse." She made the native welcoming gesture, the one that used to turn up in all the tourist advertising. Welcome to Shrakello and the fulfilment of all your dreams....

Where earlier I'd felt a blade turn in my guts, now something much more delicate moved in my chest. It was almost as unnerving a sensation. Droplets fell from my clothing and plinked on her floor.

"Vaakorh. I should've called ahead...." I really should have. I was rather surprised I'd been allowed to walk right up to the house; further stunned I had gained entry without a pat-down, armed as I was with my quiller. Vaakorh's status had always presupposed caution, if not outright militant security measures.

"You wonder where my goons are."

I cast about the ornate room, trying to feel the weapon trained on me. "It seems a little lonely here," I remarked.

"Without you, you mean?" Her Shrakellon smile seethed with mystery. And allure.

"That's not what I meant." But it was, on some deep level. We were playing a game at multiple removes, it felt. Subtexts. Intimations. The private badinage of two beings who had known each other...intimately. But I didn't have the fortitude for this.

"Would you like a drink?"

She assembled two from a carved antique cabinet. She was dressed in a sumptuous gown. I let myself be waved into a seat opposite her.

"I'm looking for Ilya Krupin, the human who shipped a load of Shrakellons off to some rock for a cure years ago. Somehow, he came back to Shrakello and vanished. Do you know where he is?"

The bluntness made the delicate thing in my chest feel all the more vulnerable. I took a slug from the alga-brandy in my fist. It was sweetened with expensive local citrus.

Vaakorh sipped hers in the Shrakellon fashion, with a sly flash of red tongue. "You look good, Alphonse."

"Do not." She, however, did look good. She had aged well, her shape still taut and ripe. All the physical attributes that went toward making a Shrakellon attractive, she retained. "About Krupin?"

Something twinkled in her eyes, the large yellowish orbs atop her sloping head. Learning foreign speech is one category of accomplishment. Understanding another species' body language is of another magnitude.

"Have I seen him?"

"Not what I asked."

The smile came back, less playful this time. "Do I know where Ilya Krupin is? No. I don't know." The emphasis wasn't in the enunciation. It was subtler, a near-invisible rippling of the blue-green skin. Even another Shrakellon might have missed it. And I probably wouldn't have caught it had I not known this body so well.

I knocked back the rest of the brandy and watched the walls whirl a bit. "But you've got a good idea," I said, with the same iron in my tone as when I'd proclaimed to Siraj Tahan that I was still a private investigator. "Tell me, Vaakorh. Damnit!" And with that I flung the empty glass against the hard-damp wall, which should have cued the hidden goons but didn't. I knew she had retired from being a crime lord, as there wasn't nearly enough street-level action anymore to maintain her status. But I just couldn't see her sitting alone in this house, doing nothing with her time and ill-gotten capital.

She looked demurely at the broken glass on the floor, then set aside her drink. "Siraj put you on to this case." She stated it, and I was again surprised and showed it. Without waiting for a verbal reply, she said, "Well, I'm the one pulling Siraj's string. I set him to find that cruddy worldlet--or one like it where settlers had gone. I knew it had to exist. Now we need Krupin to come forward and admit under oath he falsified the proprietary papers. Those people have to evacuate that planetoid! They're squatters."

It was huge and revelatory, even though she hadn't yet told me everything. But in instances of sudden confession, I had always found it helpful to latch onto a specific, a verb, and force it as far as it would go.

"Falsified? If you know that for sure, then why the burlesque? You don't need Krupin's testimony." I very much wanted to know who the we were in her previous statement, but this, I felt sure, was the line to take. However, I'd been sure before.

"Because the fake title was a good one," Vaakorh came back right away, sitting forward. Her spatulate fingers gripped the seat's edges. "It's passed muster all these years. We can't give those people there any recourse. Krupin has to concede he was a cheat and a liar!"

I didn't ask how he would be incentivized to do that. I had to double back now. "What the hell were you doing getting mixed up with Siraj Tahan?" I could have inquired more diplomatically.

"I got in touch with him fifteen years ago. I sought him out specifically."

"At that time, we were still litigating each other. Some of that had to have spilt onto you, considering."

"Yes. Considering. And it did. But I can be persuasive. I'm the one who put him through his law courses."

"You made him a lawyer!"

"He wanted to pursue law. I wanted a good legal mind off-planet. I also wanted someone wily and crafty who could do some seeking, quietly. I even started that rumour about his death, so no one back here would try to get in touch with him. None of this must ever be traced back to me."

The revelations kept coming, but I was as lost as ever. "Vaakorh...Vaakorh. What the hell has been going on?" Whatever delicate little thing had been fluttering in my chest earlier, it was cold and still now. I glared across at my onetime lover. We had been on not quite opposite sides, back in the day. Crime and private detection often overlap. I had made shady alliance regularly enough in pursuit of a case's successful conclusion. That Vaakorh was a crime lord, getting a piece of a lot of felonious action when the Dank was in full swing, was no great ethical quandary for me whenever we had professional dealings. It hadn't been her criminal stature that Tahan had objected to so severely when she and I became involved. He'd called it a "cellular revulsion" on his part, but it was just tarted-up bigotry. I remembered him calling me a toad-licker. He couldn't stand to see the species mix in such a manner. It drove apart our friendship, which had been something I'd treasured and thought unbreakable. It drove him out of our partnership and set him to trying to vandalise it behind him. It drove him, finally, off the whole damn planet.

A vulnerability flickered across Vaakorh's face, still lovely after all these years. Her throat sac expanded, then emptied with a sigh.

Softly she said, "There are people on Krupin's planetoid. New Shrakellons. Babies being born. And I want them brought here, to the world of their birthright. Where they shall continue to multiply."

I went back into the architectural congestion after nightfall. Once upon a time, these would have been peak hours for the Dank, with the bacchanalia and revelry at its strongest. But tonight, I heard no music, no joyous drunken howls. The shadowy narrow ways I travelled along were mostly empty.

The old office was a pointless little vacant site, and I ignored it for the massive, active structure overwhelming it nearby. It was, perhaps, here my smart feet had carried me to earlier, knowing more than I did.

I flitted around to the rear of the windowless research facility. Vaakorh had gotten the best intelligence she could. It was enough. The bio-waste bins came out the back on magnetic strips and dumped into a squat black industrial incinerator. I had my heart rate up, my senses primed, but it was still a desperate ugly scramble up over the fence and into one of those emptied containers as it trundled automatically back inside the facility through a low aperture.

The interior of the bin smelled awful, and I didn't let myself think overmuch about the slime I was sitting in. Once inside the building, I dove out into a grim custodial area.

Vaakorh had pointed out that smuggling oneself to Shrakello undetected by official channels was no insurmountable feat. Remaining here unexposed would be difficult, but one need only find sanctuary. Someplace where one could dwell anonymously.

I eased out into a dim corridor of metaplastic walls. The floor was rutted with a single central channel flowing with cloudy water. It was very unlike the rustic rivulets which coursed through most Shrakellon structures. Even the moisture beading the walls had a sterile appearance.

I turned a corner, turned another, listening all the while, hoping for an open terminal I might somehow access. Instead, a Shrakellon in medical garb emerged abruptly out of a side door, nearly crashing into me. At the same instant my leg, which had just started to quiver with oncoming pain, went out from underneath me, and I went down onto my left side.

Reaching up, I seized the person by a crooked hind leg and yanked him down with me. It required another ugly scramble, full of old man fumbling, to unholster my needle-gun, and another heaving effort to flop myself over to where I could jam the maw of the weapon under the medico's broad glistening chin.

"I want Ilya Krupin," I gritted, the pain from my leg approaching what felt like a point of no return. I didn't want to reach third stage blackvein lying here in this corridor. Awkwardly, with my free hand I shook pills directly into my mouth.

The Shrakellon was stalling, and as I was swallowing the pills, he decided to make his move. He got halfway up and one loping stride away before I put a quill through his ankle, just above his long-webbed foot. Down he went again, with more permanence this time.

I panted, giving myself ten seconds to absorb the dampening relief from the pills. Then I elbowed over, splashing in the corridor's flowing central rut, and put the needler's barrel under his chin once more. I explained how the quill would come out through the top of his head, equidistant between his eyes. He didn't seem to know the needle through his ankle had been tipped with toxin.

He told me where Ilya Krupin was and how to get there. I stayed with him until he lost consciousness. I had known Krupin would be here because he wasn't anywhere else. With Vaakorh's help I had isolated my quarry.

It wasn't far to the chamber, and the staff apparently kept diurnal hours. I met no further personnel. They had operated with impunity in here for decades. Like everyone, I had heard that the researchers used live specimens in their experiments. It had never occurred to me that they might use species other than their own to investigate the impending extinction of the Shrakellon people.

Krupin's chamber wasn't locked. It wasn't guarded. I entered, still limping--the attack had been bad--and shined a pocket light around. A face blinked up out of a rumpled bed. This wasn't a lab. He wasn't strapped to a table.

"Whoozzz...?" Either he spoke with a thick Shrakellon accent, or it was a voice blurred by sleep.

I kept the light on him and advanced toward him and said nothing. This was Ilya Krupin. His bushy hair was gone. The strong jaw was still there, but his colour was strange, his flesh waxy.

His squinting eyes saw the quiller in my hand. Those eyes opened wider, and a nervous smile familiar from long ago moved his mouth.

"What're they doing to you in here?" I asked.

His throat caught. He cleared it. "We're looking for the cure."

"But you're human. How can you help?"

I saw the deep genuine fear behind his smile. Perhaps he'd been expecting someone to kill him in the night for some while. For years. As payback for being a heartless trafficker. It must seem strange to him that I was a human, not a Shrakellon who wanted revenge on all who'd run those evil trafficking scams.

He shook his hairless head, sitting up all the way in the bed now. "No. There's no cure for that. For the great die-off. They gave that up. They're trying to cure the other disorders; the one's visitors get. Wetlung. Blackvein. So that whoever takes charge of this world won't have to fight those terrible diseases."

Shock looks like nothing on a face, if you do it right. I didn't do it right, as far as Krupin's answering expression told me. He stood up from his bed, a shrunken man, all knees and ribs, limbs marked where they'd taken many samples and pumped who knew what into him. But his colour wasn't as bad as I'd first thought. He seemed, somehow, to fit here. These were his quarters, with lots of cosy personal touches evident. Here he was safe. And anonymous. The money must have run out from the trafficking racket, and he'd seen no other recourse but to come back to the Dank. Perhaps it was all he knew.

I was still a bonded licensed private investigator, which was all I'd ever known. I took him into my custody and took my prisoner out of there.

Vaakorh put on a dampsuit and came up to the Heights in a floater. It was, she said, the first free time she'd had since settling the refugees into her home and into that valley's nearby houses, which she had surreptitiously purchased over the past several years. Word had gotten out about the arrival of the young Shrakellons, and the surviving ramshackle denizens of the Dank had something genuine to celebrate for once.

I brought her into my quarters, and she was gracious enough to say they were homey. Our differing species had had nothing to do with our dissolution many years ago. We'd broken up for the same stupid reasons couples have ended romances for millennia. Something had gone wrong, some iota of conflict intruded, a sliver of doubt, shifting moods. Whatever the hell. It seemed silly and juvenile in retrospect.

There was no good explanation as to why this random assortment of Shrakellons was able to procreate. Certainly, no environmental miracle had occurred on that destitute chunk of world Ilya Krupin had arranged passage to. Already here, on Shrakello, in Vaakorh's manufactured little community, a new pregnancy was underway.

She wasn't letting the scientists near. Her old goon squads had resurfaced, protecting the valley and gently served as escorts to any of the newly settled refugees who wanted to visit the faded wonders of the Dank.

I didn't know if it was a big enough genetic pool to repopulate the whole race, but why shouldn't it be? At one point of historical bottleneck, humans were supposedly down to forty fertile females.

However, it plays out, the mining conglomerates won't be able to move in on this world for some time to come. I find that a good thing.

Vaakorh apparently had found religion in recent years. She had dusted off old texts and spoke with a--perhaps--winking affection for the original ways of the Daanc. Maybe she was using it to ease her self-appointed charges into Shrakellon culture. Not all of them had been happy about being dislodged from their world, though none knew of her Machiavellian role in that displacement. The children weren't even technically Shrakellons. They'd all had nowhere to go but to this sanctuary she had offered.

But her religiosity didn't stop her from taking a drink with me. I poured wine into slender red metaceramic glasses. We toasted Siraj Tahan, and the name didn't stick in my throat. I stood very close to her on my good left leg, which was responding to the new treatments, and I looked my old lover in her eyes. And I beheld the future.
Even Souls Sleep

Jay Hellis

Australia

A bank of monitors stared at Jacob like astonished bug eyes. Ironic, he figured, considering they were used for surveillance. The negative space of Pod-Four's interior was always filled with such thoughts. Lately it had been coupled with another idea: if he was ever asked about his recent social interactions, he would compare them to a homeless person finding nourishment in medical waste. It was probably good the question was rarely asked.

The job's metaphoric binary allowed Jacob to spend a lot of downtimes playing O! Zone and increasing his sector ranking. Over the voice chat he could hear the frustrations of the enemy as he stopped them from leaving with the loot. In this scenario it was a dead elk from the primaeval Scandinavian tribe of Gothinsinki. Before that, a nuclear warhead in a retro-western city called Belenthia.

So far today his record was nine and one, the loss coming when he'd lost track of time and a train trundled on through halfway into a match. Otherwise, his rank had crept beyond the top 350 players of the sector. An accomplishment he wished he could put on his resume. Anything beat the electronic translation his brain endured by staring at the security feeds day in, day out.

The inbound gates lit up, giving Jacob a minute and thirty seconds before the manifest would show on his screen. Thirty seconds later he'd be able to use the checklist to ensure all the passengers were accounted for. Once the list was correct he'd press confirm and give the line the green light. And the list was never wrong.

The trains ran in a circular motion around the city's outer parameter. There were eight pods scattered throughout the city in various sectors. Jacob pictured his co-workers as hermits, huddled under the weight of filthy clothes that otherwise filled the pod's small setting. Asides from some temporaries who filled in when leave was required, Jacob hadn't met anyone but his two shift reliefs and his boss, Miles.

Jacob had once complained to Miles about the job's loneliness. Miles' chair had creaked underweight as he leaned back. He then spread his arms out like a vulture, and said, "You see people every day as part of your job. Sure, they're all dead, but at least they don't whine about it."

Jacob had been sold on Pod-Four's importance because of its proximity to the large stores of emporidium below the city's core. During his training they had referred to the Purgatory System as the "known-unknown". They glossed over the facts that originally seemed humane, at least to a young and naïve Jacob. Now he believed it was because of the metaphysical assumptions that one could think about, say for instance, if one had a lot of downtime during their work.

The training was simple: The manifest would print out. As the station master you check all passengers on the manifest. The manifest had anywhere from 50 – 75 passengers at a time. The manifest is never wrong.

Jacob figured if he asked a question about why this happened, he'd be considered a problem solver, an enthusiastic worker, a model citizen. Instead he was told that he needed level four clearance to find out the "whys" before they moved on to more glory toward the manifest. After all, the manifest is never wrong.

What his trainers were able to explain was that refined emporidium had created an economic boom, an influx of people, and their eventual deaths. Deaths that could be seen when the pyres long stopped burning. People complained. The responsibility fell to the government. They in turn created a position that paid a steady wage, and provided employment likened to that of a light switch for paunchy fellows just like Jacob.

It took Jacob 18 months to get to level three before his career stalled. During that time, he had learned that the reason for purgatory to exist was to stop souls from terrorising the tax-paying citizen. When he jokingly said this to his boss, Miles looked at him with a blank stare and said, "That's classified. You need to be a level seven for that kind of knowledge." Jacob wanted to point out that Miles was only a level five but thought better of it.

For the next several years he would watch the security feeds and tick the manifest off as he watched train after train ride the single rail. There was a platform on the opposite side to the main feed. The track had an entry and exit point but otherwise it was a closed loop.

Each pod was supposedly the same, with the only difference being the advertisements – or as his trainers had put it, "nostalgia to aid in transition." Jacob wanted to question about the eventuality of the age of the posters with souls that would no longer recognise the advertisement posters, signs and flyers. He also wanted to keep his job, so he decided he could only afford one career-limiting question at a time.

The phone rang, pushing Jacob's introspection away and filling the remainder of Pod-Four's space with its clamouring noise. "It's Miles. Hank's running late. Can you cover the next few hours until he gets his sorry ass out to you?"

Jacob fitted the phone between shoulder and ear, its old-fashioned cable twisting itself around him and the chair as he prepared for a train's arrival. "I've got a train coming through, hang on a sec," Jacob said as the manifest filtered down one of his monitors.

The subway tunnels indicated the train's imminent approach. Jacob stalled to give himself a moment to think. He didn't want to stick around, not that he had anything better to do. His attention turned to the manifest, and saw only one name on it: Gabriella Moon, aged 24. Nothing else.

"What the hell?" Jacob mouthed.

The manifest is never wrong.

"I know, I know. Hank is a useless sack of shit. I don't care that these internal calls are monitored. I don't have anyone else. It should only be four hours, tops."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever," Jacob answered as he stared at Gabriella. She wore a simple woollen sweater so large it acted like a dress on her slight frame. To Jacob she held herself with a dramatic poise that took Jacob's breath away, resulting in a coughing fit he thought might choke him.

Her tights were casually torn at the knees, and her glasses were elegant if not on the large side. Her carelessly trendy nature gave Jacob the impression that she radiated warmth. This was accentuated by an aura of rouge that was out of the ordinary.

His trainers had told him about vagrants, however the learning module had been lumped along with derailment and destabilization of the containment system. The section was glossed over quicker than the menu at your favourite restaurant. In the six years he had been working he had barely heard of a vagrant. Yet here one stood, playing out to Jacob like a silent film.

Miles' voice broke the revere once more. "Tell you what, when you finish come see me in the office. You're overdue for a performance review anyway so I'll see if I can squeeze a bonus out of the governmental stone for you," Miles said from a distance that felt worlds away compared with the three blocks the Purgatory Offices were.

By the time Miles had finished talking, the train had taken off without Jacob entering any inputs. He absently scratched at the bristles on his chin before shrugging, thinking nothing of it and taking longer than he would have liked to admit that he had agreed to do overtime. It took two and a half hours before the same train with the same girl showed up on his feed once more.

Gabriella sat there on the train looking out the window. He wanted to know what she was thinking. Wondered what he would say if he had the chance to talk to her. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered. The inputs were all greyed out, like they had been when he was in training. Five minutes ago, the system ran perfectly, the manifest of 56 people showing and being checked off like nothing had happened.

The manifest is never wrong.

The train paused before presumably deciding to go for another all-expenses-paid trip through the underverse. A nagging thought pinched behind Jacob's eye. He squinted, rubbing the side of his head in a gesture usually reserved for the lobotomized. There was a hurried knock on the pod's door, which opened as Jacob said, "Yeah?". The dripping mess that was Hank Creed stood in the doorway.

"Scheduled shower," was all Hank said. Jacob stood in the doorframe for a moment, patting his hands over empty pockets and looking around the pod in a faux-frantic panic. That was, until the monitors showed the last images of Gabriella Moon's train as is trundled down the line.

"Ah," Jacob said, finding a mythical key pass, "it was in my pocket all along." He then stood aside, allowing an uncaring Hank in.

Before the door closed, Hank called out saying, "Miles said to remind you that he wants to see you. Hopefully I haven't put him in a bad mood."

The Purgatory Offices were what you'd expect from a governmental headquarters that looked after the third most significant moment in one's life after birth and matrimony. During the induction, Jacob's trainers provided a running history of the department. Most of it was common knowledge, including the court-case between the creators of the purgatory system, an MGT subsidiary known as Habbernack & Fairfield, and the families of those they contracted. Specifically, the engineers who lost their lives upgrading the supposed advertisement materials within the system.

The advertisement firm had acquired a small media firm, known as Daily Edition Associated. The Habbernack moniker dealt predominantly with security, but the company came up with the idea to the merge this with the Fairfield branch. A live subscription service had been created, reaching the funeral parlour market who clung to the dearly departed with tear-soaked fingers. Others, like kids in eyeliner and old folks bored of home shopping, picking up the remaining 27 percent of the market share.

The logistics of the feed created the first of two major issues for Habbernack & Fairfield. It cost the company millions of credits trying to filter the clean image through to the land of the living. Eventually it was advised that subscribers required CRT monitors, the kind Jacob used for surveillance himself. Their bulging canvases were able to break down the analogue code of an otherwise completely digital world.

When the subscribers realised the monitors would require a complete reroute of their electrical systems, they started cancelling their subscriptions. Habbernack & Fairfield was then taken over by NWT in a cannibalistic move since it was all a part of MGT Corp anyway. NWT didn't want the Purgatory System and threatened to abandon it completely through company loopholes that voided the contract and any potential lawsuit.

What was left of the government was required to swoop in and pick at the bones. Most remaining staff left when the company kickbacks were gone. The stations fell into a temporal limbo. Billboards that advertised food and drinks, life experiences and houses - none of which exist anymore - still stand erect.

The government didn't see a positive return of the problems that the advertisements faced so they were left there. That and the only way the advertisements could be updated was if someone took the final plunge and changed it themselves – the second such major issue and nail in the coffin for Habbernack & Fairfield.

When the families of those once employed found out, they took Habbernack & Fairfield to court - winning 40% of the shares of a company that owned exactly $0 by the time the court case closed out. The families put on brave faces while fronting the media, claiming it was the justice for their own that drove them to court.

The Purgatory Offices always filled Jacob with dread – no small feat given his line of work. That dread was extended somewhat to Miles and his prophetic squat stature, the result of hungry shoulder blades and a weak neck. Miles looked up from the papers that seemed permanently attached to his hands and stared at Jacob. His bewildered look reminded Jacob of a turtle on the verge of understanding life's greatest punch line.

"You wanted to see me, remember?" Jacob said. There was a second chair in the office that had likely spent a past life as a coffin. Jacob declined to sit on it.

Miles appeared to look out an invisible window. "I suppose I did, take a seat."

"I can't stay long," a half-truth on account that Jacob's ailing mother was kept in a permanent state of netrostasis. It was the most passive palliative care since all he did was check the system once a day to ensure she wasn't dead. Then again, he figured he'd be the first to find out regardless given his line of work. The manifest is never wrong.

"That's what sets you apart from the rest, Jacob. You always seem like you've got somewhere to be, something to do," Miles said, half distracted by papers that tried to commit suicide by falling off the desk. "Take Hank for instances. He's going to be a lifer whether we as a collective like it or not."

"He hasn't called in, has he?" The door latched behind Jacob. It made him aware how confined the room was inhabited by two hefty frames. At least Jacob's height gave him the perceived ability to stretch out his weight.

"Asides from an apology I've heard a thousand times, no. Compared to you he's like a drunk man trying to lead a blind man to the next bar. Was he meant to tell me something else? Don't tell me the bleeding monitors are going, again?"

Jacob shrugged, "No it wasn't that, just something he had said, about connection with the souls." His nonchalance was a mask of uncaring. Perhaps Hank was a better employee. When Gabriella came back around, Hank would likely panic. Which Jacob felt was better than staring at her like some net-show creep.

If she came back around, he thought.

Miles blinked twice, a gesture Jacob took to mean that his job description didn't include existential intrigue. Jacob's mouth opened to tell his boss to forget it before Miles said, "Everyone who enters our stations is dead, Jacob. One way or another."

"I know th - wait. What do you mean one way or another?"

Miles produced two glasses, both unclean, both chipped in various places. His thick thumb held the inside of the glass he passed to Jacob. He then unscrewed the lid off some whiskey that was already two-thirds drained. Jacob wasn't a big drinker; playing O! Zone while drunk often resulted in a major drop in ranking, something he thought he should be doing instead of politely accepting the drink, which he did.

"Down the whole thing, mate," Miles said, before doing it himself.

Jacob took a sip, held back a grimace, and said, "I'll be okay."

Miles gave Jacob a look that bordered between parental and authoritarian. When Jacob didn't relent, Miles shrugged, then downed another double-shot while Jacob stood there staring at his feet. While Miles looked out the theoretical window, with his hypothetical tree and possible bird, Jacob took another sip only to regret it.

"Dead is dead, Jacob," Miles offered at last. When Jacob didn't respond, Miles breathed a long sigh, then said, "Did you ever stop to wonder why you can't see the centre of a mirror when placed in front of another mirror?"

"Because your head gets in the way?" Jacob said. Miles motioned for Jacob to come closer. Jacob complied and received a hit upside his head for his efforts.

"You daft boy. It's because that's where the other place lies. The underverse. We're not supposed to be a part of it, see?" Miles said. Jacob answered by smoothing down the flop of hair atop of his head. Miles leaned back in his chair. "I get where this is going."

"You do?" Jacob was fearful of asking for directions at this point, lest they point anywhere that wasn't directly out of the door behind him.

"Intrigue is getting the better of you and you've got the itch to learn what happens between the gates." Miles' eyebrows wiggled up and down. Miles sifted through his papers, somehow finding the one he needed. "The next level four exam is a little over a month away," he whistled, "yeah, I think you're ready. We can start prepping straight away. But like I said Jacob, dead is dead. One way or another they end up the same way. We all do."

"Got you," Jacob said, hoping he was convincing enough for at least one of the people in the room.

He opened the door, the fresh air enough to choke him, before Miles added, "How's your mother?"

Jacob stopped, turned and looked at Miles, an eyebrow raised in pure curiosity. "She's as fine as can be, why do you ask?"

Miles sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, "Jacob, it's natural for us in this role to want to know more. Hell, the sentiment is embedded within the entrance questions when applying for the job. But sometimes it's best just to understand the natural process of it all, you know? One of these days you'll likely see me in there."

"God, I hope not," Jacob said. Miles snorted, regarding Jacob with the smile of pleasant shock. Jacob was thankful his boss hadn't taken the statement for what it was: fear that Jacob would be stuck in the job for so long to see such an event.

"We should go out for a drink one time. Away from all this," he said with a motion that suggested more than the sea of papers. "Hell, we could even write it off as a work expense if it's prepping for the level four exams."

"Sounds nice," Jacob said, already building a list of excuses in his head for future use. He wanted to point out that he was beginning to accept that the job was saturated in solitude, but didn't have the heart to bring Miles down from the euphoria he seemed to be feeling from providing a public service to such a willing and upstanding young citizen.

Beyond the block that housed the small amount of remaining governmental bodies lay the greater part of Sector G's inner sanctum – levels 140 through to 175 spread themselves out past the eye's natural vantage. Rumour claimed that the natural curvature of the earth could be seen between the NXT Tower and Building 605. This, of course, was impossible. No matter the time of day the paths, staircases and travellators that lined the streets were packed with people. And even if the people were removed, you'd have the constant glow of commercials to contend with.

In stark contrast to the static advertisements Jacob saw daily, the real world consisted of a marketing frenzy like bait to sharks. Videogames with demos played for children while alcoholic samples were provided via neural implants to their parents. Ladies would be spritzed by perfume vendors as virtual men pawed over them. Guys would flex muscle implants in the hopes that the leaner body would impress the opposite sex.

Even now, as the scheduled shower continued to rain down, the laneways, bypasses and walkovers were littered with careless wanderers running from awning to awning. Despite the late hour, the light had a ginger tinge to it, given off by heat lamps designed to help any poor sapling or shrub with a reality complex. This was broken by the myriad of colours that beamed from billboards and moving posters.

It was ten minutes later that Jacob reached Zalia Hiromi's respectable-looking townhouse. Jacob knocked on the door, then stood waiting. A young lady in business attire caught out in the rain. Her suit was clear PVC, the seams decked in thick black lines, showed an intentionally small, old-fashioned button up shirt underneath. She took one look at Jacob's husky frame huddled under Zalia's awning and continued.

Above the door an eyepiece squirrelled its way to the outside world. A speaker embedded in the door's frame emitted a crackle before Zalia spoke. "You're late on your payment, Jacob. Now, what do you want?" Her voice was as dulcet as rust and bone.

"I've got payment for you - but, uh, there's something I need as well." Jacob said. There was no acknowledgement, just a hissing, clicking sound as the door opened. There was no latch; the hinges were just for show since the industrial thickness of the door was recognisable once you saw past the facade. Jacob stepped through the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the gloom as the door locked behind him.

The air was tropical despite the breeze that sucked around him. There was a constant hum that emanated from hidden air conditioners in the ceiling. Jacob knew not to trust his footing as cables ran this way and that. When he entered the cavernous room of Zalia's workshop, he was greeted with a string of low-spoken words that verged on a stream of consciousness. He raised a knuckle to knock on the door-frame, but before he could Zalia spoke up.

"Why didn't you just transfer the funds like normal?" Zalia asked. The room was filled with all manner of consoles, electrical appliances, and cables which resembled melting stalactites as they fell from recesses in the roof. Zalia sat immersed in a massive cocoon-like chair. In the blue hue of the room, it looked like she had been captured by a techno-spider.

Save for some modified underwear she was naked - the sheen of the overlaid body-mesh vibrating in the non-light. The immersion kit was costly but necessary for Zalia's line of work. She eyed him with a piercing gaze, accentuated by impossibly sharp cheekbones. Her full yet cracked lips were the only colour offered on her otherwise pallid features.

"Jesus, when was the last time you ate?" Jacob asked.

"The kit keeps me nourished," Zalia said, wiping away some sweat or drool that had run down the side of her mouth. From around her navel down to her crutch was a claw of a unit that looked uncomfortable and invasive. Following his gaze, Zalia said, "It looks after everything since I bought the upgrades," and gave a smile fit for a proud parent showing their child's first drawing.

Jacob was going to ask her about the bags under her eyes and how much sleep they were waiting to grab but thought he knew the answer. "I need a favour."

"And I need money. My last power bill was enough to draw attention. I just told MGT Electric I was an ailing cancer survivor and needed a hyperbolic chamber to keep me looking youthful." Jacob couldn't tell if she was joking or not. "I also had to reroute some of the power. Some up above - they won't miss it. But the deflection has to work both ways otherwise they'll look to whoever is lowest in the food chain."

"Those extortion costs must be a bitch."

Zalia stretched her arms, her mouth wide with a yawn as she said, "I have contacts everywhere. If one gets too expensive I can look elsewhere. Besides, who are they going to complain to? Sector security hasn't ventured below level 44 in over 18 months."

Jacob looked at the time, knowing Gabriella would likely be halfway around the circuit by now. He had been hoping distance and time would dull his silly infatuation, which it hadn't. "Can you dig up files on someone for me?"

Zalia furrowed her brow and pouted her mouth. It might have been a cute look had she kept better care of herself. "Who you stalk is up to you, mate. You're not the first fella down on his luck coming around here looking to tip the scales in his favour."

"It's not like that. She's one of my passengers, and there's something up with the system. It won't process her." The statement hung there on the wind currents of the air conditioners.

"You weird bastard," Zalia said with a half-cocked smile. "You realize she's dead, right? She's not coming back - not if she crossed your path, boogeyman."

"I'm only interested in it from a professional perspective. If it helps the search she might be marked as a vagrant. She had an aura of rouge about her."

Zalia's hands worked at a fever-like pace. "A soul caught between living and dead? So, she might not be fully gone after all."

"That's right," Jacob said, not before uttering an "ah" about three syllables long.

Zalia looked at Jacob as her hands moved at an erratic pace. "I need a name, age, place of birth, address, blood type, O! Zone average."

"Gabriella Moon – she was 24, I think. Blonde and trendy in a careless way. Wait, she played O! Zone?"

"You idiot, of course she didn't," Zalia laughed. "But I can't search for her based on looks. The name and age comes up with 17 matches across greater Mournium."

"Well, she was cycling through the system and I left work about an hour ago."

Zalia worked her way through the system, only for her monitors to show a security feed of Pod-Four. The video reversed, starting at Hank's sleeping mess before moving to when Hank arrived for work, then to Jacob sitting there, drawn to the screen's glare.

By synchronising the purgatory file dump with the time, Zalia was able to produce Gabriella's profile. "That's her," Jacob said, then felt stupid for opening his mouth.

Zalia let out a whistle. "You sure know how to pick them. She's being held in the MGT Memorial Medical Centre, floor 367. Current status is critical."

Zalia pressed a button that then the room with the sounds of an operating theatre. The screen showed laboured doctors while nurses wiped and sucked various fluids away. A monitor that hung from the ceiling showed the doctor's report. It seemed that Gabriella had been rushed to the hospital after her body had been discovered – a quick process since she had injured three people in a four-story fall. The diagnosis had been altered from DOA to critical. Zalia used the cursor to highlight the blood type.

"She's a numination. This just got a whole lot more interesting."

"Having some emporidium mutation stopped her from dying?" Jacob asked. He felt out of breath trying to catch up.

Zalia hummed to herself, "Says here her numi is based on electronic manipulation and coercion – she's a tech psychic. God what I would give to have that. She's flat-lined three times already but they resuscitate her each time. Why bother, right?" Zalia added rhetorically, then offered a consolatory cough when she looked at Jacob.

"Maybe it's better to do something while standing than sit by and be helpless," Jacob added. There was no malice in his tone.

Zalia reached out and touched his arm lightly. "Asides from the physical restrictions of getting to the other side, there seems to be a high level of code in the purgatory system. Code that abides by human law, confined by boundaries we create. Do you know what happens beyond your pod?"

"Not really, that's for those with higher security clearance. But something must happen between the code and the souls."

"We know that some code manipulates the real world – it's how neural implants work through advertising. It stands to reason that it would work both ways."

Zalia brought up a network image that showed a circular track with yellow pinpoints at regular intervals. "These are the purgatory pods, similar to yours." Next, blue points of interest appeared. There was an even number of them, but significantly fewer than the yellow points across the city.

One of the screens switched to a security feed of a pod, similar to Jacob's, but the lights were off, and the pod looked cleaner. The pod's monitors were focused on a large metallic ring that encompassed the entire track.

"Let's see what a normal day in this abandoned pod looks like, back when the system was working as it should have been. Got some popcorn?" Zalia asked before pressing play.

A carriage appeared from the right-hand side. Inside Jacob estimated there to be around 22 people, patiently enjoying their last ride. A blue light pulsed as the train approached the ring. The event looked innocuous: as the train moved right to leave the light intensified then dulled. The full carriage changed to empty in seconds and was as poetic as corrugated cardboard.

Jacob blinked away the flare from his eyes. It was then that he noticed the afterimage of contortion and fear. In that split second the bodies had become translucent. The moment between being a ghost and nothing more apparently excruciating. Jacob had believed souls could feel no pain given their lack of physical boundaries. A deeper sense of despair started to set in.

"There's a protocol for vagrants that are supposed to be triggered. I can't figure out why the portal hasn't been activated when she moves through it. Explains why she's on an all-expenses-paid trip around greater Mournium for the time being."

"You saw that, right? The way they... transition?"

"I saw a bright light. Something, then nothing." She rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other working in a distracted way. Her face changed to a sickly neon as the hue from another monitor spewed green text that read VAGRANT PROTOCOL and prompted the user to input a command key that corresponded to the soul's state.

It stated with 1: Soul Appears Calm, 2: Soul Appears Incomplete, 3: Soul is a Mismatch... then ran for two more pages with all types of possible descriptions. It included but was not exclusive to; appearing derelict, appearing artificial, being a duplicate and (Jacob's personal favourite), "Soul not of this earth."

"Could this be why they're keeping her alive – because the protocol hasn't been activated?"

"What might really bake your noodle is wondering whether she would still be running circles in the underverse if they never resuscitated her." When Jacob didn't answer, Zalia gave him a sidelong glance and said, "It stands to reason that if she's a powerful numi with the chance to extract her powers then they'd keep her as stable as possible until they figured out why the protocols stopped."

"Should we jack into the pod's mainframe and crash the system?" Jacob said, having no idea how any of this worked.

"Woah. Who said anything about 'we'? I don't need this kind of heat thanks to someone else's pubescent crush."

"Don't act like you're not enjoying this."

Zalia's response was to avoid Jacob's glare. She tried to sit up taller, but the slack in her unit wasn't enough.

"Compared with the weirdos who come sniffing around here looking for scraps, you have to admit that this one is far more interesting."

"Need I remind you that you are a customer, one with outstanding bills of your own," Zalia said, finally looking up at Jacob, with a smile that Jacob couldn't help reflecting back. "I need a hard line through the system via one of the pods. I could crack it externally, but there's no telling how long it would take."

"Right, so I go and kick out Hank and then what?"

"Slow down. You can't go to your pod, that'd raise too many eyebrows. However, this one," she highlighted the security feed with the clean pod, "could work without anyone ever knowing. Hell, you could leave clippings of that mop you call hair and they'd still likely scratch their asses in confusion. It's not too far – it's at the old Habbernack & Fairfield building, about a block – "

"I know the one you mean," Jacob cut in.

Zalia's hand, still on Jacob's arm, moved down towards his jack-import. He found it oddly comforting. Then a voice spoke between his ears.

"This thing on?"

Jacob instinctively reached for the sides of his head and ducked. "Jesus, yes. What the hell, Zalia?"

She gave off a laugh that eased the tension as the volume in his head dimmed. "Technically what I'm doing carries a higher penalty than murder. Its military name is personal trespassing – a military grade trespass module that attaches magnetically to your node. Probably a good thing not too many people have this, huh?" her voice echoed around in the middle of Jacob's head like they were his own thoughts.

"So, you can do this to anyone at any time?"

"If I had the abilities like your weirdo girlfriend stuck inside of purgatory then yes, but for us norms, no. It has to be imported manually. I used to run with a street crew down on 133 before I learned more money could be made from information trading. I'm just a little rusty at swiping people's imports," she said. Jacob spied a small trespass module, the smallest red light blinked if you caught it near your blind spot.

"I need it back."

"And as for payment for helping me?"

It took Zalia a moment before she returned her gaze to Jacob. "Consider field-testing the trespass import payment enough. Of course, it would be better if you had some iris implants, so I didn't have to rely on audio alone for this. The surveillance links will have to suffice."

Jacob smiled at the imbued trust Zalia had given him, "Stop looking so stupid, unless you want her processed like those other poor saps should they figure out how to get the transition ring up and running."

Zalia replaced her face-mask, leaving Jacob to look at her inert body that was reliant on synthetic immersion, and realized she wouldn't have seen the glint in his eye, nor felt the light kiss atop her helmet, that he left her with.

It was five minutes later that Jacob remembered how poor his cardio conditioning was. Between huffed breaths that left the air with mist while the rain subsided, he asked, "What happens when they turn off her life support?"

"You tell me, you're the station master to the dead. If what I've planned works, you might find out." Zalia said. Jacob wished there was more sarcasm in her voice.

"Wait, you mean go into the underverse?" he said, skipping a puddle and missing, his feet splashing soaking the cuffs of his pants.

"How else can you appear like a knight in shining armour?"

"How has no one done this before?"

"From what I can gather, the protocols act like a switch. Because they've been disrupted I've been able to tap into some of the code which builds a path. Without it she's likely trapped like those who are forced into physical stasis while their body deteriorates on the outside."

Jacob's mother flashed through his mind in a blur. "Which explains why other souls can transition. They don't need the protocol because they're not vagrants?"

"Precisely."

The conversation fell to silence as Jacob reached the rundown building of the Habbernack & Fairfield offices. He picked his way through the partly open, partly smashed doorway. It didn't take long to establish that inside wasn't just filled with advertising memorabilia. He gritted his teeth as he looked around at the degradation of hyper-capitalism.

"What is it?" Zalia asked.

"Just be glad that the sensory input doesn't include smell."

Inside was the glow of a small fire. Three people huddled around it, their clothes mottled together like societal dreadlocks. Jacob picked his way through the rubble, most of it wood or empty boxes. He kept his eyes on the urban goblins as they did the same to him.

The deeper he walked, the darker everything became. He stumbled more than once, at first looking to see what he had trodden on, eventually being too disturbed to see what had caught has footing. Zalia told him it was just up ahead and sure enough the outline of an ominous doorway appeared at the end of the long hallway.

"What the hell do you say to someone when you know they're moments away from death?" Jacob asked in hushed tones. He wasn't prepared to have an answer provided from anywhere but his internal ear sensors.

"I'm sure you can think of something, Romeo," Zalia said with what Jacob imagined to be the curves of a smile. The door's hatches unlocked and allowed Jacob access. "You're welcome," came the voice in his head.

It was weird to see an empty pod. His was always manned, since the dead don't discriminate against time. The pod was very similar, except perhaps for the CRT monitors. They seemed to perverse the intimacy further. He sat down to think and was met with a clichéd groan from the chair the security feed mostly showed the track, with two monitors in the middle fixed on alternating sides of the large metallic ring that glowed blue.

"This is what you do all day?" Zalia asked.

"At least I don't shit down a tube and get fed from a needle."

"Touché," she said back.

Jacob found nothing that could assist him further beyond what he already knew. "I was hoping there might be some kind of, I don't know... emergency stopping mechanism to halt the system."

"I don't think the dead are supposed to stop dying just because you caught feelings," Zalia said. Jacob couldn't determine if the statement was laced with spite.

"Short of jumping in front of the train, how am I supposed to grab her attention? At least you'd think there would be a microphone of sorts."

"What good would it be to allow people access to speak with the dead?" Zalia asked.

"She's not dead yet, Z."

"I don't think it'd be a pretty sight if she did happen to come back. But I'm intrigued. What would you say if you had a chance?"

All his time spent watching train after train depart from his station, he had never thought about what he would say if he could speak with the departed. Before he could provide Zalia with a viable answer, she interjected, "There's movement in the operating thea... shit. I just lost the feed."

Jacob instinctively wiggled his wrist jack harbouring her node import.

"Not your feed, stupid. The feed to the hospital."

"They're on to you?"

"No, they're not on to us. But they're closing in on your lady and why the protocol has been stopped. The code around the transition ring – that's what I'm calling it – has changed."

"Fuckers," Jacob said, not sure what else to say.

"I don't think we don't have much time. I've done my best to track her train based on what you told me. She should be entering your station in a few minutes. There's code moving back and forth between the ring and an internal node at MGT Memorial. It's referencing the protocols – like they're trying a workaround for the restrictions put in place. But I can't read the language... nothing can translate it."

While Zalia talked, Jacob found the port he would normally use to connect to O! Zone. He hesitated before saying, "Am I okay to plug in?"

"Why haven't you done that already. Yes, do it."

Jacob took a breath, then inserted the plug via his jack. Zalia's trespassing node fitting itself nicely around the import, allowing her to follow him into the underverse.

"Here goes nothing," Jacob said, more to himself than anything, before plunging into...

... darkness. That was, until a thin white line formed around what appeared to be a door. Jacob felt for a handle that wasn't there. "Z, I can't break through."

"...ng... n." Static popped in his ear. The door felt beyond smooth; the thin white line the only texture to an otherwise figurative cloud. Within seconds it shimmered, changing from obsidian to charcoal. "Tr... ow..." the static hissed.

Jacob ran his hands around the frame, finally connecting fingers with a hand-sized square. He turned it, expecting the door to swing one way or the other. Instead it dissolved, and beyond was the service tunnel for the purgatory train line.

The track dissipated into a bloodied fuzz that blurred everything more than a few yards away. His instincts told him to breathe through clenched teeth while reflexes waited for claws and tentacles to reach out of the abyss. This was despite interspersed lights and markers indicating the platforms.

To his left was the large ring that circled the track. From here it glowed purple, and appeared as if it were structurally inclined to uphold the tunnels rather than a device serving technological cremation.

"...ve .ot her.... ed...t," the static said before cutting off.

"I can't make out what you're saying. There's a load of interference."

There was a pop behind Jacob and he turned to see the doorway he had stepped through was replaced with a seamless tunnel.

"That better?" Zalia asked in full clarity.

Jacob swallowed hard. "Isn't her train going to hit me? What happens when you die in purgatory?"

"Some mysteries are best left unsolved. I overrode the train's control through the same process of jacking you in. The train's stalled at your station."

"But won't Hank see me on the other side of the security feed?" Jacob said as he begun to make his way down the tunnel.

"If I hadn't rerouted the feed so it looped on nothingness, yes. What's more pressing is whoever is looking into the protocols – my firewalls are being hit as we speak. Estimation is sixteen minutes before they fall, and my system becomes toast for this little romantic rendezvous."

"I'll just bring her back here and you can reopen the door, right?"

"Do you want her to go near the transition ring when it goes live? I'll have to create another door at the station."

"That's got me thinking – "

"Must be the noise I hear from your feed – those dusty cogs in that head of yours grinding away."

"Oh ha, very funny. But how can you manipulate some of the code down here? Isn't this place on a separate system – you said yourself, the code and language can't be translated."

"Your princess will be in another purgatory if you keep bringing up such conundrums, Romeo. Still, you raise a valid point. Fourteen minutes," she said. Jacob picked up his pace, his mind acting as both psychological and physiological conduits.

By the time he reached the station he felt out of breath, letting Zalia's narrative wash over him as he composed himself. "Something's off about the whole purgatory system – not necessarily its set up, but something's not right with those transition rings. Purgatory system has existed as long as the netrix – some even believe it's why the netrix was born in the first place. But those rings look like they were installed before the Habbernack & Fairfield trials. Nine minutes."

Between breaths Jacob asked, "Theoretically speaking, if she exits this place with me she should wake up, right?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear a pause between those two words," Jacob said as he looked around his station. He'd been staring at the advertisements for so many years that he was surprised it didn't feel weird.

"Excuse me? Do you know why the train has stopped?"

Jacob froze in place, then used what strength he had to pivot in slow motion. Zalia laughed in his ear while his throat bobbed up and down in search for a response.

"Uh, maintenance. There's a blockage down the line that they're trying to clear."

"Smooth," Zalia said in his ear.

"Shut up. Oh, not you, Miss. Security-comms in my ear. No one is supposed to be down here. Should probably look for a way to get you out, whaddya say?" He felt more out of depth than a pebble thrown into the ocean.

In his ear, Zalia said, "There's so much I could say right now, but I think you're in enough pain as it is. The door's been coded to your right."

A doorway, similar to the one he had stepped through, appeared. When he turned his attention back to Gabriella she was a few steps closer, her eyebrow raised, cocked and loaded. "You don't look like maintenance." After pointing out Jacob's pedestrian clothing, she folded her arms across her chest in a practised movement. "How do I know you're not here to mug me and finish the job while I lay unconscious?"

"Finish the... oh. Oh. No, no why the hell would I try that? Firstly, I think you'd be able to take me in a fight if anything..." he let the sentence trail off.

"Fuck me for some popcorn right now," Zalia said, with a small laugh. The sound eased Jacob's racing mind, that was until she said, "I don't think she's going to budge, Jacob. Eight minutes. Closer to seven."

"Miss Gabriella, we really should get you out of here," Jacob said.

Instead, she took a step back. "How do you know my name?" Jacob gave a laugh that was full of nerves. When he failed to provide a coherent sentence, Gabriella took another step backwards. "You're one of those bastards who has been after me, aren't you? What is this place?"

"I can explain," Jacob said.

Zalia replied with, "Below seven now. Better think of something quick."

"Well how do you propose to tell someone they're in purgatory?" Jacob said.

"Well, that'll do it," Zalia said.

When Jacob looked up, Gabriella had turned away. He wasn't sure if she had heard him until, after a moment, she turned back to him and said, "You finally did it."

"I didn't do anything except watch you from the security footage and become confused when you kept passing through my station," Jacob said.

"Then why are you here?"

"To get you out." Speaking in truths always gave Jacob confidence.

Gabriella's confident demeanour was lost, and Jacob felt responsible for every bit of it. "I tried reaching out for some tech to find out what was going on, but something broke away. It was like being stuck in a glitch – all repeating and full of spite."

"That explains why the protocols stopped," Zalia said. "She likely broke some of the code trying to find a way out."

"We, that is my friend and me –" he pointed to his ear in a pantomime that failed to deliver its intended explanation that he was not, despite popular opinion, crazy, "–think we can help you. I mean, you can get back on the train if you like, but it's best to tell you that the processing ring – "

"Transition ring," Zalia interrupted.

"– will likely be switched back on by the time you get to it. It's a dead end." Jacob punctuated the sentence with his trademark shrug. Somewhere outside of purgatory, Zalia groaned.

"I'm guessing then you have an alternative?"

Jacob pointed to where Zalia's exit stood. He smiled at Gabriella in an attempt to ease her worry. She didn't follow his gaze, instead spying the red node import embedded within his wrist.

"Three minutes, Jacob. And someone's phoned out from Pod-Four. That Hank dude has finally cottoned on that the feed's been looped."

"Can they trace you?" Jacob said. Gabriella seemed transfixed by Jacob's wrist. Had it always been that big and fat and repulsive? "Why do you keep staring at it?" he asked her while hiding it behind his back.

"They've sent a worm. I'll try and fend it off but time is – "

"– code, all of it in here is archaic. Like reading old English texts who spell old with an 'e' at the end," Gabriella said. She ran her hand down his arm and forced his wrist out from behind his bulky frame. Jacob felt weak – an action he thought should resonate from his knees as per the usual cliché. Instead it was a numbness along his arm, a feeling as though it had been misplaced during a heavy sleep.

Gabriella looked into Jacob's eyes and said, "Hello Zalia." Her lips never moved, the sound resonating inside Jacob's head.

"Holy fuck, how did you get into my system?" Zalia said in reply while occupying the same space inside his head and leaving Jacob to feel as if there was no room for him in there.

"It's nice to meet you, too," Gabriella said, her face before Jacob's lit up with a smile. Jacob then heard the familiar beeping of a heart monitor, trapped beneath the folds of his brain. Each beep softened Gabriella's smile until it was completely gone.

It was Zalia who spoke next: "You've uh... been like that for a few hours now." Despite Gabriella's proximity, Jacob couldn't help by sympathizing with a schizophrenic's insanity as two people conversed via his mind.

The gloom around the station grew darker. Gabriella's eyes flickered all while holding her palm over Jacob's import. He tried to move away but was fastened in place by Gabriella's strength. Zalia asked what was going on, only using a few more expletives along the way.

"Fucked if I know," was Jacob's response. There was more beeping. Jacob couldn't determine whether it was in purgatory or real life with Zalia. Gabriella's mouth moved, and under her breath Jacob heard sounds and syllables of verbal code.

The atmosphere around them bruised further. The lights that surrounded the platform dimming to cast shadows across everything. One of the eight lamps turned off completely while the others pulsed. Two more turned off. Then another. Soon enough the only light that remained emanated from Gabriella's vagrant aura. It was a rose that washed away the field of greys and browns that was Pod-Four's purgatory station. Tendrils of smoke drifted around her. When a wisp flicked at Jacob's face he noticed the intricate lacework of code burning inside it.

His wrist became warm, beyond the body heat that Gabriella gave off. Another tendril of black code split off like a tree branch, this time shooting out into the darkness. There was a screech echoing in the distance as a result, one Jacob tried to convince himself was pure metal and not some unseen demon.

"She's re-built the firewall. Wow, what the hell is she doing now?"

Before Jacob could answer with a question of his own he heard a cracking from the direction of the tunnel. The world was bumped aside like the homeless. Jacob threw his free hand out to steady himself. He felt faint, his world tilting on an axis he wasn't aware existed. His legs buckled, but the arm that Gabriella held stopped him from collapsing further.

The tendrils of code spat out in all directions, then sputtered before the electrical fire was finally put out. Gabriella's eyes went from a fluttering mess to completely closed. A moan escaped her mouth as she fell. Jacob was too late to catch her completely, but was able to stop her from falling all the way to the ground. Her body, pressed against his, was all he could think about.

"That'll hold them off for a while." Gabriella's voice was barely audible despite the silence that surrounded them again. "Zalia's protected, as well. But if it's all the same, I'd like to get out of here, now."

Jacob looked, expecting to see the exit, only to be panicked when it wasn't there.

"I had to shift the code sideways to stop them. Be a gentleman and help me up?"

Jacob nodded before picking her up in his arms, aiming to carry her out of the station. "Do you know who they are?"

"This isn't necessary," she said to Jacob, who promptly blushed before setting her down on her feet. She smiled before resting her arm on his shoulder for support. Jacob felt weakened again, this time permeating from his knees. "And to answer your question, no – I don't know who they are. Asides from keeping my body alive, anyway."

As he helped Gabriella down from the platform, he wondered how mentally detached she could be from her body. He wasn't sure how she was able to pass it off with such indifference, like a rental apartment was waiting for her on the other side as opposed to the only skin she's likely ever to know.

"Z, we're going to need an exit," Jacob said.

"The surge might have pushed her out as well, along with any code she left behind. No, we'll need to use the service tunnels," Gabriella said, still leaning on Jacob for support. Jacob noticed she no longer glowed crimson but wasn't prepared to ask more questions than his brain could keep track of.

They headed in the opposite direction to where Jacob entered. They meandered their way up the tunnel before coming to a stop before an innocuous-looking door, as ordinary as the billboards from his station. Up ahead was another transition ring that gave a faint hum. If a kitten's purr was instead its heartbeat, Jacob assumed it would sound like that. He is wondering before it was back to sucking the souls out of this post-existence. I don't want to be anywhere near it when it does, he thought, instead asking, "Why isn't this one blue?"

"I've deleted the Vagrant Protocol from the system," Gabriella said, reaching for the doorway and opening it. Beyond was a solid darkness that suggested it could go on forever, or for a few feet before you stumbled upon a flight of stairs. "They're back to their original state. I don't know how long it will take for them to realise they can't process vagrants, but I suspect they'll be looking for answers sooner than later."

"Okay, I have to ask – who are they?" He followed Gabriella into the darkness, which soon became illuminated by her soft red glow that seemed to be returning.

"That part I haven't worked out yet, not fully anyway. All code has an origin, and along with the extravagant coders who put watermarks on their programs, there's usually some trace of where the code was written. It's the company's way of copywriting what's written. But the Vagrant Protocol come from somewhere else. It's not of this world."

Jacob looked at it with wide fascination. "As in, Earth?"

"No, dummy," she said with a smile. "Of purgatory. Of the system. These were brought in by someone else. Someone engineered those rings and I intend to find out."

Jacob reached out a hand and rested it lightly on her shoulder in a movement that felt alien to him. "And we will. But right now, I think it's best we get out of this place as quickly as possible. Zalia will know how to patch us out, won't she?" Jacob's mind flashed to the idea of being stuck in purgatory while his body slowly withered away. He had a frightful second of trying to remember if he had closed the door to the pod. The thought of those huddled masses and how hungry they might be...

"I won't be coming with you, Jacob."

"Like hell you aren't. I didn't come all the way to purgatory just for you to decide it's cosy enough. What if they turn your life support off? Where will you go?"

A bitter smile crossed Gabriella's face, but she offered nothing further. Jacob looked down the corridor they were travelling down and asked, "How deep does this thing go?"

"As deep as I need it to be, so I can boot you out of the system safely. I owe you everything for coming here and stopping them from taking what is my essence. But I can't go back. Not to that. They'll keep me plugged up until they can find out how to re-program the protocol."

"Then I'll come and save you, take you away from them." Jacob was well aware of how desperate that sounded, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Gabriella's smile softened. "For someone who's so headstrong you sure are lucky to have someone like Zalia around to fill you in on the details. Then again, she's lucky to have someone like you, too. Look after her, Jacob – you're both going to need each other when you return."

The walls around him melted, the soft glow from Gabriella the only point of reference that surrounded him. Beyond was a nothingness that Jacob took to be eternity – that was, until he saw in the distance the smallest twinkle of what could have been a star. After his eyes adjusted he noticed how much more there were, surrounding them both on a three-dimensional plain that was disorientating.

"Am I dead?"

Gabriella barked out a laugh despite herself. "No, silly. This is the netrix' at its core. Those lights are the worlds that have been built. So long as there's code, I'll live. Come visit me again, yeah?"

Gabriella rested her hands on his chest and gave him a small kiss on his cheek. He had enough time to be acutely aware of how long it had been since he had shaved before she pushed Jacob harder than her perceived strength. It felt like he was falling upwards in slow motion. One particular star seemed to shine brighter, growing in size. As he floated towards it, he had enough time to look down.

Gabriella's face was a mixture of wonder and resolve. Within it he imagined the feeling of abandonment as well. With all his effort he reached out towards her. The light from the star began to engulf him, washing over his head and blinding him. His last vision of Gabriella was a smile and a curt wave before he lost virtual consciousness.

Jacob wasn't sure how long he spent on the floor of what would eventually be dubbed Pod-Four-B, but a sizable puddle had formed under his chin when he raised his head. As Jacob gathered his bearings he spied the monitors. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, save for the transition ring's discolouration. An incoming train with around 28 people convinced Jacob that both the system and the feeds had returned to normal.

He couldn't stand to watch the ring execute those on board, but managed to catch the train as it came out the other side. The train was now empty, all within the moment between a blink and a tear. He sat back in the seat, for the first time in his life wishing he had a cigarette or some other vice to occupy his thoughts.

The train moved off toward Pod-Five, presumably picking up more passengers in another set of mysteries his brain wasn't yet able to comprehend. He scrutinised over each of the monitors looking for signs of Gabriella and found exactly what he was expecting – nothing. There was a light cough from behind. Jacob swivelled, expecting flesh-hungry beings to be crowded at the door. He wasn't sure what to think when he saw that the door was closed.

"Sorry. I tried to be as subtle as possible without freaking you out," said Zalia's disembodied voice from inside his head. Composed, Jacob turned to the security node in the corner of the room and gave a curt wave. "They turned off Gabriella's life support about half an hour ago. She flatlined straight away and there was no attempt to bring her back," Zalia's solemn voice said in his ear.

"How long was I out for?"

"Sleeping soundly for about an hour so. Enough for me to double-check some things. Not that it was necessary. Your girlfriend knows her stuff."

"She's not my girlfriend, Z" was all Jacob could think to say.

With a heavy sigh, Zalia asked, "How does it feel to be the first recorded being to cross over to the realm of the dead and return?"

"It feels like something I should put on my resume," Jacob joked. "Something I should probably look at updating."

"I don't think you're going to be out of a job. Gabriella seemed to fry anything and everything to do with your little rendezvous, including what was captured on my servers. Were it not for the memories, we wouldn't have a clue what we just went through."

Jacob spent a moment thinking of the transition ring, of Gabriella and her abilities, and what it all meant. A world had opened up beyond a doorway he wasn't aware existed.

"I guess then I should use whatever access I have to get as much knowledge of what the Habbernack & Fairfield engineers were really up to. Are you certain they won't find out happened?"

"Our tracks are covered. Plus, I figured if it ever came down to it you can rely on me as a solid alibi. As far as anyone's concerned, you were with me all night."

"Thanks, Z." Jacob tried hard not to fidget at the last point she had made. There was silence. Jacob had collapsed into himself, enough to make his back hurt, so he straightened up, picking at his fingernails before getting the courage to say, "Hey Zalia?"

There was a pause long enough for Jacob to check and see if she was still connected. Before he had time to inspect if the import was damaged, she came back with a reply: "Yeah?" her voice seemed distant. Not distracted, but more like a caged animal cautious of who has come to remove the lock.

"Wanna grab a drink sometime? I could finally get you that bucket of popcorn."

"I'd love to. I could use an excuse to stretch my legs."

The Powder

Brad McNaughton

Australia

London, late afternoon, a gloomy Wednesday. I survey the surrounding city from my perch, the top of the Walkie Talkie building in The City. Well, not the actual top. The Sky Garden near the top, on my own on a bench near the back. I've been booking tickets every day for weeks now in case the rumour Beefy heard is true. In case she's really here. Tube Girl. I haven't seen her since... Since we saved the world.

I rub at my knee, feeling the scar tissue beneath my trousers, and scan the crowd of tourists, who don't give me a second glance. They have no idea who I am, who I was. The Nail.

I don't blame them. I don't look special. We were all regular blokes and gals. Tube Girl was the brains, Beefy the muscle. Little Ben the planner. Our driver, Duchess. And there'd been me, a dumb kid who'd just wanted to do something about chavs on mopeds.

Something about our synergy made us more. Next thing I knew we were a neighbourhood watch, sported our logo. One thing led to another and I was disarming bombs in Trafalgar Square, and recovering mystical Persian relics for the British Museum. All while still having the energy for a pint and a pash, and to make it into the office the next day.

Then there was a razor-edged leaf to the patella, a broken heart, and I crashed back to normality.

I wonder what Tube Girl must look like after ten years? Thicker, or frailer? Greyer? Still beautiful? I'm sure I'll recognise her. Will she recognise me?

My hour trickles by. According to the ticket I'm supposed to bugger off by four. I take the stairs slowly through the garden, towards the lifts, and I see her in the crowd below. She doesn't look a day older than 2008. Well, she does, maybe just a day, but I wouldn't tell her that.

Tube Girl sees me. I know she saw me, but she turns away, walks through the door to the balcony overlooking the river. She throws a single glance back over her shoulder, but when you've known someone a decade, when you've done all that we've done, in the tunnels, in the bedroom, I know what that glance means. Follow.

She stands by the rail, among throngs of tourists jostling for the best view of the mucky Thames. There's no garden here, where the breeze has teeth. That's good. If the Botanist is working out of the Walkie Talkie, the trees could have ears.

"He's, here isn't he?" I whisper. "Is he listening?"

"No," she nods.

So, this is his gaff. Typical. Smart. Building your own lair, with London prices, that's madness. Better to let developers finance it and froth over the council approvals, and then simply lease a floor out.

"You're still with him then?" I ask.

No answer means yes.

"How could you?" I stutter, the exact phrase I'd promised myself I wouldn't blurt. "He's a bad guy! You were one of the good guys."

"You don't... It's complicated."

"Not that complicated. He tried to kill us, turn the whole world into dribbling nutters. Seems pretty bad to me."

She shakes her head. "He had good intentions. There's no such thing as good and bad, just shades of grey."

I roll my eyes. London's my life, all I ever see are shades of grey.

"Look," I say. "Forget that. This isn't about that. I'm over that." I'm not over that. "Beefy. He told me about something a few weeks back. The..."

The Powder, I don't say, because The Botanist hopefully doesn't know his old, little experiment is still out there. Doesn't know that even though she dumped him, Tube Girl might have saved a dose for someone she could still have had some feelings for.

I risk a glance at a fern behind the glass, its fronds pointed in our direction. Her look, to my knee, then my face, shows she knows exactly what I mean.

"Did you destroy it?" I whisper.

"Yes," she shakes her head. "All of it."

My eyes bug.

She perks up. "Sorry I couldn't help you. You should get going," she says. "Let's take a picture."

She wraps an arm around my waist, I can smell her perfume, petals and pollen. Our backs press against the cold railing, the river almost two-hundred metres below us. She lifts her phone up, angling the screen so her smile and my sullen mug are both in frame. She tilts it further, so my face is gone, and she's lost half a cheek, and the rest of the image, blurry, shows a white dot centred in a blob of green pixels far away south-east of us.

Greenwich, I'm smart enough not to say out loud. I know exactly what she's showing me. The Greenwich Observatory once had a less-famous cousin. The Greenwich Conservatory, previously nestled among the buildings of the old naval college. Even less well known are the tunnels below. An old blitz shelter, forgotten since the war. The place where a bunch of what were later called superheroes planned their final move against the man who my ex-girlfriend was now shagging.

I look at her, the camera screen her, for a hint of collusion, but she's only smiling with fake photo-face eyes and, after the shutter sound plays, the white blob is gone.

"I need it," I say.

"You should go." She ignores my desperation. "Be safe."

It occurs to me that she's gone daft. Or worse. Maybe she's not taking pity on me at all. Maybe she's stalling me, setting me up for him.

This was a big mistake.

She turns to me, kisses me on my left cheek, above my sideburn, then my right cheek, below the sideburn, then on my chin.

"That's all the time I have for you, Nail."

"But--"

"You should go," she repeats.

A tiny hint of tension in her breath, most wouldn't notice. I do. For a second I think it's restrained pity, then I realise it, she's scared.

No more goodbyes then. No longing glances. I turn for the lifts, dragging my bum knee, dodging tourists filming the coffee shop with their iPads. There are five people already queueing for the next ride down and I line up behind them.

On the TV screen by security's desk I spot an access door to the gardener's area open somewhere nearby. A man walks out, heading for the lifts. For the first time in almost ten years, I see him.

Aleksander De Grooth, AKA the Botanist. Born in Rotterdam to a Portuguese mother and a South African father. Spent his high school years in Manaus with his mother's rainforest research expedition, before returning to Europe and earning his PhD in Molecular Biology at Dresden TU. Scientist, pharmacist, and ten years ago a strong believer in world peace, via the doping of the entire human race.

The Botanist today, white polo concealing a small gut, brown slacks. Moustache gone, hair greying a little, retired. His eyes are narrowed on my back, something's clutched in his hand. He's approaching me from behind, no clue the screen has given him away. Little good it does me, thirty-five floors in the air. Nowhere to run.

The lift bings.

"Out the way," I yell, pushing the queue aside and stepping into the lift before anyone has a chance to exit. I jab the close door button. Through the shutting doors I see The Botanist on approach. He sticks a hand through the gap, something clasped in his fingers. I shove his arm back. Dust flies from his palm, into my eyes, up my nose. I spin away from most of it. The cloud follows me. My indignant lift companions cough. The doors close, the lift rockets down.

The other passengers will not be pleased with me. Thank god for bullet lifts. Their eye-rubbing and hacking spare me from anything other than half a minute of awkward elevator music.

My nose is flowing. I remember another rumour from Beefy. The bract of a thistle, the zest from a rare jungle citrus, simmered in a paste of crushed seeds from a Djiboutian grass. A fantastic trip when taken in moderation. Happiness, euphoria, painlessness. Death in a raving heap if you ingest too much. Gobs of snot pour over my upper lip. I wonder how much of a whole sodding handful is too much. The lift feels like it's going up, sideways, looping the loop. The crowd around me have forgotten their incredulousness. One's cackling, some old codger is screaming, "Wheee."

I'm the one who's taken the brunt of the dust, somehow, I'm still standing.

The lift bings and I stumble into the foyer. Security is waiting for me, two big-chested bloke's intent on escorting me out. I don't give them a chance. My legs feel weightless, my heart pounds like a robin's. I dart between the two black suits and run for the door. I have to move fast. If the Botanist works out what I'm after, and concludes where Tube Girl has kept it hidden, I only have a lift ride's head start.

As I step into the open air the totality of my incapacitation becomes apparent. Buses' brakes screech visibly, black cabs idle, bike couriers zip between pedestrians. People are everywhere, The City is infested with squirming caterpillars of businessmen yammering into mobiles, the clacking castanet heels of women in pressed blouses, and professional assistants chatting and slurping coffees. It roars, like I'm in the mass of a beehive, and I feel like I'm going to deliver a fresh, steaming pavement pizza to 20 Fenchurch Street. On the plus side, my knee feels minter than it has in ten years. I jump down from the access ramp onto the footpath and there's no pain. A little, gleeful yip escapes me on landing, not one snob even glances in my direction. Incredible. What else could I get away with, I wonder? I consider yelling incoherently, proclaiming my secret love for Girls Aloud, or maybe revealing how close they all came to lights-out dreamland in 2008. I also ponder ripping my trousers off and wearing them on my head. Will these people notice me then? Or will they continue to ignore me the way branches grow around powerlines.

I shake my head. It's so hard to concentrate. The Botanist's dust has infiltrated every corner of my brain. I have to focus, get to Greenwich. This could be my only chance to fix my knee, fix my life. I grab onto an ear with each hand, yank on my head, force myself to read the road signs. I've wandered into Whitechapel. The 135 Bus is coming towards me. In fact, I'm lined up between its headlights. I look down. I'm on the road. Fortunately, the bus was already slowing and a shelter-worth of passengers are ignoring me, fighting that un-British urge to express their snide thoughts out loud.

The 135 goes to Canary Wharf, then the DLR runs straight into Greenwich. This is a sign. I jump back onto the curb and board. Twisting stairs take me to the top level. I can feel the clack of the indicator through my seat as the bus sets off. Can I? That could be the dust talking. My seat feels like a marshmallow. Smells like it too. Tastes like it. I jerk my head back. Jesus, I've got the whole floor of a Routemaster intensely interested in whatever's out the windows. If this dust does kill me, I feel like there's bollocks all chance of anyone performing CPR when I keel. I wrap my arms around the backrest in front and aim to keep it together. It's not yet 5 pm, but the sun is sinking behind us and the roads are packed with cars, their headlights phasing between piercing white and all the colours of the rainbow. Drizzle splatters on the front windows and the sidewalks explode with umbrellas popping up like stop-motion marshmallows growing, or should that be mushrooms? Not the mind-controlling fungus ones, the regular toadstool kind. A drop of drool runs down my chin. Is the Botanist chasing me? The roads are such a cluster-fuck that there's no way he'd catch me. Unless he took the tube from Bank. Christ, why didn't I take the tube from Bank? I'm a moron. Monron. Morning Ron! Norm, Mon. The rest of the bus is still acting as if I'm not mouthing syllables like a wee, blind baby seeking a tit.

"Nail," says Tube Girl. She's appeared beside me on the seat, looking just as gorgeous as the day she crumpled my heart. "You need to focus."

"How did you get here?" I paw at the air like a twat at their first 3D movie. "You're a hallucination?"

She shimmers. "Yes. I'm not real."

"Why did you leave me? What did he have, that I didn't?"

"You know that already."

"I don't know that already. If I did I wouldn't be asking your hallucination in front of all these strangers. Tell me."

Her mouth opens and closes. I remember the conservatory. A cabinet, Beefy's cleaver splitting the lock. Inside it lay pastes, powders, tubes. A spiral bound booklet of notes and dosages. Concoctions for strength, to alter the mind, to cure disease. An infused sap for the skin, to stimulate women's arousal. A herb, to be taken daily, provided eternal youth.

"He used those pheromones on you!"

"You know that's not the one I chose."

The memory of a greenhouse aflame. The smell of burning fungus. All his plants destroyed. I did know which one she chose.

"How could you?"

She smiles sadly, without a wrinkle. "Shades of grey. Or, a lack of them."

"That's so superficial," I scream. "You were supposed to be the smart one."

"We all made our choices that day."

"You chose him!"

"You need to focus, Nail."

"No, I will not be lectured to by a hallucination--"

"Focus!" she says.

My eyes snap open. Brightness surrounds me, pointillistic pixels rising into the black sky. The bus is pulling up to its stop in Canary Wharf. I launch from my seat and half tumble down the stairs and onto the street. The bus leaves. Office towers, in every direction, are lit up in the drizzle, glowing from within. My head feels like it's splitting apart. The streets are relatively empty, because who would work for a financial institution in London and leave work at a reasonable time, right? Not one passer-by has enough compassion to glance at me.

What I need to find is the DLR, which will take six stops to whisk me over the river to Greenwich. But I'm sure I've spun around at least twice, and I do not see any sign of it. There's a dull prick in my bad knee which I'm guessing isn't a good thing, but maybe not a bad thing either. It could mean the dust is wearing off.

I spot the DLR station logo above the entrance to a glassy shopping centre and I'm about to head that way when a black cab cuts across my path and The Botanist steps out, his eyes scanning the street.

I press myself into the stonework of some international bank's steel monument to phallus and pray he overlooks me. Questions in my head pop like pink bubble gum. How did he find me? Was Tube Girl ever truly in love with me? Why am I so thirsty? How am I going to get over the river if the Botanist is guarding the DLR station?

My two pals in black suits unfold themselves from the cab. The one with the vine tattoo creeping out of his collar eyeballs me, and suddenly they're in flanking position like the DLR entrance is Prince Harry necking some Newcastle bird, and I'm a Daily Mail photographer in the bushes with my telephoto half screwed on. I'm proper fucked. Nowhere to run, isolated on a silty peninsula in a city with too much history for my sorry life to stick in anyone's mind. The two thugs creep steadily towards me, owning each side of the street. The Botanist grins with white, straight teeth. Tube Girl isn't with him at least, real or imagined, she won't witness my pathetic demise.

Then, over the patter of drizzle, and the steady foot clops, and the buzz of capitalism, I hear a fuzzy whine that conjures a glimmer of hope that I won't be going down without a fight. I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and step up to the curb. I stare intently at the QHD display as it loads my Twitter feed. The whine changes, amplifying as it moves in my direction. 50cc of horsepower banking right and zipping towards me. Zipping towards The Nail. The Spike who caused a dip in crime. A puncture, waiting for a tyre.

The second that the moped rider's outreached fingers touch the edge of my phone the old instincts kick in. My free hand clamps onto his forearm and I wrench him in the opposite direction of his ride. He falls into the gutter, dragging me with him. I release the phone, roll with the momentum and kick up again.

The Botanist's goons are running now, pushing aside the few strangers on the footpaths to move in my direction. I'm back on my feet quicker than an England batting collapse. I hoist the downed moped upright and kick it into gear. Oily smoke farts out the exhaust and a rip of pain electrocute my bad knee. 50cc isn't much power, but it's enough to outpace The Botanist and his goons, despite the lack of wind in my hair. I split lanes out of Canary Wharf, leaving the business district for the flatter suburbs between me and the river. The DLR is out, but thanks to Her Majesty's Highway Code, the Greenwich foot tunnel is always open.

The sign at the entrance to the tunnel reads that cyclists must dismount. I channel my inner American, and ignore all written warnings. I've missed the lift going down and I don't have minutes to wait for it to resurface, so I point my scooter at the spiral staircase and the jolts through the chassis shake me as I go around and around and around until finally I'm beneath the Thames and an eerie calm hits. Obviously, I'm not allowed to have a scooter here, but I'm moving too fast to hear the tuts of the pedestrians and cyclists that I'm overtaking. This is life or death, probably death. And I'm incapacitated by chemicals, right? Good excuses.

The breeze through the tunnel slaps at my body. It's a straight line, I'm at max speed, there's nothing to do but do. Then I reach the south lift and there's a sign saying, 'Out of order', and I'm screaming, "Bollocks".

On the south stairs a pair of cyclists is carrying their ultra-lightweight carbon-fibre bikes on their shoulders. I love the concept, but I can't get the scooter on my back no matter what plant extracts are in me. I optimistically point the front tyre of the moped at the stairs and warn them with a squeak of its gutless horn. No reaction, not even a middle finger. I rip the throttle. The moped bursts forward, crashes into the base of the first step and topples. I leap clear just in time to save my good knee from being squished.

No other choice left, I have to use my legs.

I'm going two steps at a time. I've overtaken the cyclists. My knee truly smarts now, and I gasp for clean air. Both my hands are on the rail, pulling my body with me, up and up. I reach the top of the stairs and step outside into the cold night which embraces my flaming cheeks with sharp relief. The Cutty Sark is lit up and glowing gaudy. The rain has passed, and the roads and buildings are slick with wet that glimmers under the shine of the lights of the chain restaurants and food trucks. I limp into Greenwich, toward the row of pubs and chippies along the main street, heading for the college. I don't see The Botanist around. He could be anywhere. There are tourists all over the place rugged up in North Face jackets with EPL scarves, packs of Nandos clutched in their Notting Hill Market mittens. I turn down the side street looking for the old cobblers. In the back room there's a metal trapdoor to an access shaft that will lead me into the tunnels. I'm expecting to see dark windows, and old, neglected woodwork. What I see when I reach the right address is a fecking Tesco Express.

The cobbler's facade has been cut out and replaced with a big, glass window. The rest of the building around it is the same. I remember it well, that night in the fog, running my hand along the bannister to check that I was still connected to the world, after Tube Girl told me what she'd decided.

There wasn't time to dwell. The Botanist clearly knew where I was going, he was coming. He'd probably suspected this whole time that Tube Girl hadn't destroyed the powder. His powder. I can't run forever, unless I get it first. Then I'll be free.

I step through the automatic door and into the warm air. A Punjabi fellow is serving an old man who has put his racist urges on hold to ask for cigs. I slip into the aisles unnoticed, passing shelves of crisps and breakfast biscuits 'til I reach the fridges at the back. I spot the door I'd been hoping still existed. Now it says, 'Tesco Employees Only', and leads to the storage at the back of the shop.

I slide the door just wide enough to slip through. No Tesco employees await, only pallets of stock and piles of flattened cardboard packaging. I shove a bale of cardboard away from the wall and find the trapdoor. I use a piece of shelving to lever it. The steel plate lifts as I push, releasing a musty odour. The shaft opening is only half a metre wide. When the door is removed the lights of the back store are bright enough to illuminate the first five or so rungs of the metal ladder. Below that is black as pitch.

I lower myself into the shaft, and settle the cover back into position as best I can. As I search for the groove to seal the trapdoor I hear the staff door opening and the raised voice of an irate shelf stacker.

"You can't go back there, sir," he pleads.

"You will not stop me, if you understand what is good for you," The Botanist replies in his unmistakable Dutch timbre.

Shades of grey, arse. He might claim his spores would've fostered a new form of tolerance, but this is a bad guy.

I don't stick around for the rest. The trapdoor fits into place and there's only darkness and the smell of old, still water with the faint whiff of mulch. I descend the ladder until my feet touch another grate which resists my initial lifting, but eventually it yields, and I drop into the old tunnel.

It's tall enough to stand up, and still dark. I know that going left will lead me to a dead end, where long carked engineers failed to sneak under the river. I walk right, keeping one finger on the wall, trailing it over the old, cold bricks like I'm looking for the light switch in a one-night stand's bathroom. It's a straight line to the blitz shelter, a quarter mile. I count each brick as my finger slips over the grout. Slow and steady I go, lifting my feet high with each step-in case there's anything laying there. My knee is shooting agony into my guts with each step. A light would speed things up. I wish that bandit hadn't got my phone in exchange for his moped.

Other than my heartbeat it's dead silent. I must be under the college by now. I reach the door into the shelter, at the same time as I hear the grate grind off the wall a quarter mile away. Three sets of shoes hit the floor of the tunnel.

I pull the handle of the shelter door and shut it behind me once I'm inside. I'm directly below the conservatory. A faint glow fills the room, all four walls lit up with strands of luminescent creepers. They emerge through the cracks in the ceiling and grip like webbing onto the walls, and the eighty-year-old furniture, and the ten-year-old lager cans.

The chamber is rectangular, a recreation room for riding out bombings. Trestle tables run in two rows parallel to the long walls. A simple kitchen is close to the door. Fingers of vine curl around table legs and tangle themselves between the overturned chairs that nervous Londoners once sat on patiently while the ground above shook and shuddered. This is a place forgotten by a city.

A few ribbons of creeper stretch and tear as I drag a table along the floor to blockade the door.

If the Botanist, or any other person has stepped into this room since that night they haven't touched a thing. But Tube Girl must have been in, slipped away while we were celebrating to hide a sample of the powder she'd sworn was all destroyed. Where would she have hidden it? I kick over a shelf full of yellowing board game boxes, pry open an empty, rusting biscuit tin. I lift the lid of a pre-war teapot full of cobwebs, and check on and beneath every table. The green tinges everything. There's no powder.

I hear footsteps from the tunnel. I turn, looking frantically for anywhere something small and lifesaving might be hiding. Old canvas bed frames are stacked along a wall. I pull them apart like a dog digging up dirt, tearing strips of creeper off the wall as I fling the beds behind me. Nothing beneath them, just grimy bricks. I'm running out of room to search. The table I dragged in front of the entrance blocks the opening door with a thunk.

"I know you're in there, Pip," says the Botanist.

Then, to someone with presumably larger muscles, he says, "Make this door open."

The table bangs again. I have no idea where to look next.

"Why did you set me up?" I ask Tube Girl's shimmering form.

"Nail, I didn't." The door bangs. "I told you, it was safe."

"No," I whisper, realising what she'd been telling me.

By the entrance, right where the table is grinding away from the Botanist's goon, is a metal lockbox. A standard fixture in most bomb shelters, Beefy told me once. Supposed to contain a radio, whistle, and a pistol for the shelter commanders. In case anyone felt a bit rapey while the bombs fell.

It had been ajar, empty, when we'd made this our base. Now it looks conspicuously shut. A four-digit combination lock in the centre reflects the green of the creepers.

The door bangs hard, and the metal table scrapes across the floor a full inch. A thick-fingered hand emerges through the crack to try and get a grip on the tabletop and lift. I run, begging my knees pardon, and butt the table back against the door. The screech of pain is both muffled and stomach curdling.

I lay prone on the tabletop, catching my breath. The banging on the door resumes, twin punches of power vibrate through the table and into my bones. Even with me on top the table won't hold.

I reach over and pull on the lockbox handle. It doesn't give. The numbers on the front read 8 8 8 8. Nine-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine combinations to go.

"What's the combination?" I ask her.

She's silent. The table slides another inch. I try 2 0 0 8. Nothing. I try 1 2 3 4, the tiny wheels of the combination clicking and grinding on their axles. The same result.

The table moves again, and I can see the angry, red and green face glaring in the gap. He's clever enough not to stick his hand in again, but the look which makes it through gives me the urge to hide under the stack of cots and wait for death. The banging resumes, but there's only so much banging left to do. It's a matter of time before they'll have me.

"The time, I have for you," she says.

I touch my face, grotty, sweaty, placing the tip of my index finger beside my left eye. I touch my thumb to the next place she kissed me, my right cheek. A four on the clock face. Then my chin, the six.

1 0 4 6.

The lockbox spring releases and it opens. A tiny ziplock baggie of brown something lies alone in a thin layer of dust. Invincibility awaits. I can't help laughing. Now, what was the dosage supposed to be?

The table grinds half a foot and throws me back. I land on my arse, staring up at the reinforced ceiling. A leather shoe comes down on the inside of the doorway. I yank open the ziplock.

The brown moves funny inside the plastic. Instantly the smell from a decade returns to me. It's not powder, it's mushrooms.

I look at Tube Girl, she looks back, green glow visible through her perfect face.

She shrugs. "You couldn't handle what I chose," she says. "So that's what you chose."

It occurs to me I have no idea what I've been doing for the last ten years.

The table topples as The Botanist's goons finally flip it out of their way. The three of them stride in through the doorway.

"Ah. The Nail," he says in his lilt. "Still thinking you're a superhero?".

I climb to my feet. Shoulders back, knees rigid. There's no more pain or tiredness, only energy.

"De Nail ist back," I mock him.

I can't keep my fingers still. Every nerve is lightning.

"Oh. Bugger," says The Botanist.

His goons turn and run.

Tube Girl blows me a kiss and smiles.

I drop the emptied baggie onto the floor.

The Acolyte

Ben Julien

USA

William sat in the darkness, feeling it breathe. The long draw inward, the soft expulsion, a silent wind rising and falling, a tide of leaves and branches swaying and scratching at the tiled roof. There were screams, too, horrible sounds outside the walls, but William could almost ignore them.

His knees were cold, but legs didn't cramp anymore when he kneeled. Old Master Jerema had been right. _Time and resignation teach the mind and the body all things_ , he had said when William first took vows. At the time, such a mantra of desperation seemed only an old man's words.

The pillared hall was empty in these few hours before dawn. He was afraid to sleep. When he did, he awoke in the mornings with scraped knuckles and broken fingernails and someone else's blood on his robes. He had been awake for three days now, but he liked the solitude of the earliest hours, the rare feeling of emptiness within looming walls. The other acolytes were in their cells, faces pressed to the floor, trying to escape the terrible outside cries.

He leaned against one of the carved pillars and pressed his own forehead into the pictographs that ascended widdershins in a spiral about the stone. It was milkstone, mined generations ago and floated down the river from Donrie to make this hall, the sleeping cells, the smithy and the granary, the collapsed cloisters and the bell tower. Although milkstone darkened in sunlight, the pillars in the hall were still as pale as when they were first hewn. The stone bruised where cut and carved, indelible scars that gave the pillars texture and life. The masters spoke of milkstone memories but William didn't know if they spoke of the stone itself or their carvings. Resting his head against the column, he thought of the monastery's history and the countless acolytes who had knelt beneath the forest of stone pillars, praying, whispering of their little fears and smaller hopes.

That was Before. Now the prayers were to hide their fears and ignore the night with its unearthly sounds.

William didn't pray. He didn't sleep. He listened and waited. Time stopped. There was nothing else but the stone and echoing space beneath the beaten iron ceiling and kiln-fired tiles of the pitched roof.

He was lost in between, within the moment, and he felt free. Free to not think. He could float between his beating heart and the whispers and rasps and dull screams of the sleeplessness outside. He could be separate from it all, like the bruising around the pictographs, affected but unmoved.

Time re-emerged when the darkness dissolved to grey. The hall took a ghostly aspect and already the first echoing shuffles and coughs and mutterings of the other acolytes disturbed his peace. Only twenty-five remained.

"This everyone?"

Breathless whispers, yawns and red-rimmed eyes.

"Did you hear? Rof was taken."

William held his breath at the name of his friend.

"The bell tower. Master Jerema saw him there."

"Doesn't mean he was taken. He might still be there."

"We were at the doorway. Master Neggs wouldn't let us look."

William strained to listen for more information, desperate to know anything else, willing it to not be true. Rof, at the bell tower last night? But the acolytes hushed as Master Neggs entered with a swish of his hessian robes and a cluck of the tongue for silence.

They settled to prayer, heads bowed and bodies hunched on the floor. William felt neither the cold of the stone creeping into his knees, nor the ice-like gloom in his tendons. The tension at the back of his shaved skull was like the rusted metal vice from the smithy digging into his temples. He could think only of Rof: his friend might be outside with the daemons and spirits, or whatever the voices were, whatever had manifested to test them all or drive everyone insane.

William murmurred the Prayers of Redemption by rote and when Master Neggs wasn't looking, he ran his shaking hand over his stubbled skull as though he could rub his own sanity back in.

Rof was taken, the others had said. Taken. Possessed. Killed. If he was, then he was the seventy-ninth. Rof had buck-teeth and hands like plates, an ungainly acolyte but fully one of them after arriving two years ago from the village, given up to prayer because he couldn't manage his father's loom with such clumsy hands. Rof would pray aloud in a rumbling voice, unable to stop sniffing or coughing, always bringing the Master's displeasure down on him, and on those nearby. When the daemons first came, he had asked what they were all thinking but daren't speak of: "Are we being punished? I spake the prayers. I always do!"

After the Prayers of Redemption came the Prayers of Hope when the names of the Sainted were chanted.

Rof had been in the bell-tower. He'd talked of it only yesterday. Said he'd seen someone or some _thing_ up there. They were all seeing things. Half the monastery was abandoned. Their stock of candles was being carefully rationed, giving rise to rumours of only five days' supply left. Or only two. And rumours of insanity, riding furtive glances, each carefully studying the other while fearful of being studied in turn.

After the Prayers of Hope, the Prayers for Dying. Prayers intended to commit the acolyte's spirit to the next life and a greater cause. Prayers of terror-filled denial.

Then the rhythmic whispers stilled and the acolytes were up and shuffling out behind Neggs, to chant the names of recently lost acolytes and masters, all daemon-taken and spirit-sundered.

William didn't want to pray. He couldn't stay, to listen and mouth the names of the seventy-eight, waiting to hear if Master Neggs added Rof's. So he fell behind, restless, grieving for his friend and angry at him for likely being dead. Likely – but there was doubt as to whether he'd been taken. Had Master Jerema really seen him? Perhaps he hadn't been taken and was merely in his cell, asleep? On impulse William turned away from the others, his steps scraping on old granite, robes rustling around his legs. The cells were just openings along the corridor, a series of them like black teeth or portals into the night. No light was permitted here and only the dimmest rays of the rising sun reached along the corridor. These had been the Cells of Penance, where acolytes needing time to consider their own failings were sent to pray in darkness and isolation, but were now where the acolytes and masters felt the safest. Their old cells faced the Viridian Cloisters, beautiful milkstone arches in a colonnade that hugged the outer walls of the monastery. The spaces within the arches were installed with viridia that depicted different scenes in the monastery's history, picked out in rich blues and reds and greens that glowed in a rising or setting sun.

No one would stay there now. The viridia was intact, but by night the daemons pressed themselves against the transparent surface as though to warm or to cool themselves on its smooth, hard surfaces; boney arms and warped legs, each a sickly white and luminous in the inky night; faces, as small as a dog's, as large as a troll's, scowling and screaming and pleading, noseless cheeks pushed into the viridian engravings of holy scenes.

William walked slowly past the cells, listening for Rof's breathing – a whistling series of deep pants like the sighing of the wind through an oak tree – but heard nothing. He peered into each black maw but the cells were bare. He stepped into the last where Rof and he each slept in his own bundle of old straw and rags but it too was empty and the air heavy with granite cold.

Master Jerema had seen his friend. Jerema, the oldest of them, a wrinkled old wisp who shuffled in a leaning gait with one arm pushing at his back to hold himself up. Jerema who rarely opened his toothless mouth, working his jaw back and forth during prayer time to gum the spoken Prayer. When he did speak, it was an old man's ramblings, talk of times past. He lectured in riddles, berating them for no longer being _acolytes of grit and smoke, of cold mist and heat-haze, of dawn and dust_.

Jerema, one eye milky with cataracts, had _seen_ Rof.

William stopped at the spiral staircase and listened for the wind faintly whistling from beneath the iron-banded door that opened to the bell tower and the elements and the sky and the vista of the deep valley that curled around the monastery. Master Neggs would say the valley held them in its embrace. William thought that with daemons and spirits both within their minds and without their walls, the valley was their jailer, forcing too long a journey to the next habitation, and no chance at surviving the night to escape their milkstone prison.

He ascended. He stopped at the door that led outside. He placed a hand on the latch and twisted. The iron slug lifted with a heavy click and the door creaked open to bright sunshine and white clouds scudding by on high winds.

He hesitated, then stepped out, eyes wincing at the light. The valley was beautiful. A distant beauty, like another world. It _was_ another world to go down there, to leave the monastery and bed down with daemons and foul spirits. Down there somewhere along the watery road of the river was the village of Donrie, its name a corruption of the simple nomer of _down-river_ , not much more than a day's travel but too far for the villagers who had once brought food and prayer-requests. There had been no contact for fifteen nights. Four acolytes and one master who had gone for help had not been seen again.

His friend was from Donrie. Had Rof come up to the tower for a view of the valley he had grown up in?

The monastery sprawled below. Stone walls of sharp angles and solid build and conical roofs that created an incongruous mix which Rof had once described as a _milkstone mushroom patch_. But some of the mushrooms had collapsed in the past two weeks, soft milkstone insides gaping and discolouring in the sunlight. The collapses were each a mystery and the surviving monks had abandoned the outer buildings to retreat into the prayer hall and its cells of darkness within the darkness.

William peered up at the bell-tower, but could see no movement, nothing but the motionless bronze bell itself.

He climbed up it, but inside the small space around the bell, nothing and no one.

William climbed down and returned inside and down the stairs, despair setting in. It was one thing to see their numbers dwindle by the day as acolytes went mad, fought each other or simply wandered off, and more at night when they all heard screams for help and God and their mothers... and then emerged the next morning to find bloody finger marks at doorways or window holes shuttered and barred. It was another to lose his only friend.

"Acolyte William," came a voice stern and as unpleasant as the blade that scraped the hair from his tonsured scalp. The tone carried an expectation that the acolyte would follow the master.

Master Neggs. Half dead and buried already, the acolytes used to joke of his gloomy temperament. They didn't joke anymore. The current circumstances made him seem prophetic.

William mouthed a greeting and followed in Neggs' measured steps when he returned along the corridor. The acolytes were there, in three lines of bobbing backs that rocked and murmured in soporific despair. Before they would have been chanting in unison, throwing their combined voices around in a cloak of echoes but fear had them reduced to an indistinct hubbub.

Master Neggs returned to the front of the small room and stood between the other two surviving masters, Jerema and Gert, each with hands clasped and heads bowed, though with Jerema, it was his back that was bowed, in fact bent, rather than his head.

William sank to his knees, pressed his forehead into the floor, and cried silently.

He returned from his prayer-daze after a while. The others were rising to stiff legs, some dusting their robes but most not bothering, walking away listlessly to sleep in their cells and await the long night. The Masters had already left

A strange noise thrust itself among them: voices, some sort of commotion. The voices of monks, yes, but another. Louder, thinner. William wondered who it could be. Then he realised what was unusual about it. The voice was female.

"Please. You have to come," he heard the voice pleading, soft and high and soothing, even in its distress. It was the sound of the time before the daemons, before even his arrival at the monastery.

"You can't be here." A monk's voice: stern and unforgiving, as though the newcomer had a choice. The voice was Pichler's, almost a master himself. He was lecturing her, talking of sacred grounds and inviolate walls.

But then, surprisingly, he was interrupted: "Enough. Of course we will come," Master Neggs said. "But calm yourself. You are safe now. We are here."

William walked down the hall quickly, following the general curiosity, wanting to see her and hear her speak, a beautiful alto that made the monastery more vivid just with its sound. She was in the western atrium, by the iron door that led onto the dirt quadrangle, a door that was barred day and night... except now. She was slight, smaller even than Danel, the smallest monk, and had hair yellow like straw, and uneven. It didn't fall, but stuck down at her shoulders and out past her ears. Her eyes were wells of tears that fell on Neggs' sleeve as he put his arm around her and gathered her sobs to his chest.

"No one would open," she was crying as she spoke with beautiful anguish. "We hammered on the walls out there. We screamed and screamed! Why didn't you answer?"

Neggs was hushing her in a soft voice. William had never seen him be so considerate.

"And," she continued, "he said we would be safe among the glass, but it was horrible. The faces were there. All night, just there watching us. Please. My friend, and your monk, they're out there still."

Neggs was asking her questions, of where she was from, what her name was, but William wasn't listening anymore. He pushed through the robed gaggle of onlookers and hurried down the long hall, past the cells and down to the crypts. He knew another way to the quadrangle and then onto the cloisters. Outside the sun had lost intensity and was hanging slyly beside the bell tower, already promising night. Somehow the days had shortened, unseasonally, as though the night were gaining ascendance in this war in the heavens.

William scuffed through the dirt to the colonnade of perfect arches that curved the circumference of the walls. The viridia was lit up and the red and green frieze glowed with sunlight as though alive. Through it he could see two bodies slumped against the outer wall and when he recognised the body on the left, and saw it move, a sense of profound relief swept through him.

"William!" Rof said immediately as William stepped through a doorway set into one of the arches. "No, stay away. I was out there, with them. With the whispers. They called me _by my name_. Stay back, or they'll know you, too!"

William stepped in, closing the door behind him. He didn't care. His friend was alive.

"Rof, they said over and over. Rof, we know you. We hear you. Rof, Rof, Rof. They kept saying my name, and in my own voice, until I don't recognise it no more," he said staring at his feet, but then looked up at William and some of the wildness in his eyes drained away. "What are you grinning about? Did you see the girl? Her name's Miri. She's pretty, isn't she?"

William nodded. He had no other friend, no one else who would talk to him. And Rof was one who spoke his mind, perhaps too much, jumping topics abruptly or talking liturgy or chanting catechisms with his mouth full, always enthusiastic and careless. Qualities William wished he too possessed; something better than his own intense fear of being studied and weighed and dismissed as irrelevant or unimportant.

Rof had his knees up to his chin, his hands rubbing at his legs, gazing through the archways at the sinking sun. The man beside hadn't moved and William might have wondered if he were alive, except for the infinitesimal rise and fall of his chest. He was dressed in hemp and leather, worn thin at the knees and elbows and stomach from hauling and hefting heavy loads.

"I spied 'em both together, Miri and him, from up in the bell tower," Rof said. "They was lost in the switchbacks, in plain sight of the monastery, but couldn't find the way up. It was almost daemon-time, but I so wanted another look at the sunset. You know before I came here, I used to look up from Donrie and dream of a life of peace and quiet? Now I look down instead and wish the same.

"Anyway. There they was. Did you know the gate is locked? Why is it locked? I slipped over the tower section of the wall and didn't realise I couldn't get back in. We almost got taken, I swear it. When they started calling my name..." Rof rubbed at his eyes, then looked up at William and started crying. "I'm going down there with them, to the red spirit world, William. They know me now. They named me. But I got these two safe here and I ain't going back in the halls and saying the prayers. I can't do it anymore. In there's worse than out here. It's like giving up already."

William sat down and put his arm around his friend's shoulder. Rof leaned into him, shaking and muttering fearfully, letting the sunlight sink its orange warmth into him and weigh his eyelids down with its brightness.

William came back from a doze with a start to realise the sun was setting. Rof was asleep and the other man was thrashing about on his back as though caught in the midst of a nightmare. His left arm was thudding against the viridia.

He shook Rof but he wouldn't wake. One look at his exhausted friend and the nightmare-riddled labourer lying beside him and William knew he needed help to move them both before full dark. He jumped up and raced through the doored archway and across the quadrangle directly to the iron door of the western atrium.

It was closed, so he pounded on it for long minutes but there was no response. Desperate, he scrambled across the darkening yard to the crypt's trapdoor, heavy and difficult to open from above, finally sliding aching fingers beneath to haul it open and shove himself down into the monastery proper. The trapdoor thudded closed above.

He immediately noticed the quiet. There were no prayers, no whispered conversations to drift down the corridors, no scuffing of restless wanderings before the night's onset.

Then a scream. The girl's.

He rushed past the cells, but they were empty, then back to the main hallway to find the acolytes standing around in little groups like statues of themselves, silent and staring and unwilling to meet his gaze. William saw the three oldest acolytes, Pichler among them, leaning against the wall beside Master Neggs' cell door. They met his look and stared him down, grinning horribly.

She was in Neggs' cell.

But Rof and the labourer from Donrie were still outside.

He grabbed at the nearest acolytes - Danel, the short runaway from Casterton, and Anders, a cooper's son born with a crippled hand - but they pulled away from him, shame and anger on their faces.

He had no time to make them understand and no time to think it through. He rushed back to the western atrium, flung the bar off the door and rushed out, barely remembering to close it behind him.

It was dark when he closed the cloister door and sat panting beside a sleeping Rof. The labourer was still, whatever nightmare he had been having, passed by.

William had always loved the cloisters, the play of colour and distortion of the images across the stone floor and walls. Loved the feeling of walking _through_ the stories they portrayed, as though he were a part of narrative and could influence events. Only during the day did the viridian friezes come alive, or on the rare moon-night when silver splashed over the glass and picked out tiny imperfections to make the archways sparkle and dazzle.

That was Before.

William's heart jumped about in his chest as he realised what was coming, that he was stuck out here in the cloisters for the full night with only the transparent wall of smith-forged viridia between him and the sleepless spirits. Horrors _just there_ , faces peering in and wanting to eat him, be him, lie with him and split his soul down the middle. _It's the knowing how close they is that gets me,_ Rof used to say, teeth chattering with more than just cold. _Will it hurt? Will I even know I was me, after?_

Imaginings of the poor girl being beaten, raped or killed by Neggs distracted him with a different type of nausea. Neggs was capable of it. Acolytes disappeared sometimes when they went to him for disciplining. Was being outside in the night any worse for the girl? William's thoughts felt thin, as though they might break with any more tension. He struggled to find the solitude he'd had this morning in the hall, but it was days since he'd slept and his dry, gritty eyes gazed out, not wanting to see the daemons, but dread-fascinated anyway.

Then an idea slipped into his mind sideways, past his fears: Neggs' room was just below the bell tower. Its conical roof was slated and had a shallow pitch. Perhaps accessible from the bell tower walkway?

He turned the idea over some more until, despite himself, he slipped into the warm blanket of sleep kept too long at bay.

#

Dream-drifting on a reluctant night wind. Below him, movement, two silhouettes in the darkness – he focused on them and knew one was Master Jerema, the other further down, was the girl, scrambling out of a hole in a shingled roof to stand on shaky legs.

#

Jerema stared at him, into him. Compelling. Chains weighed his limbs, brought him closer and closer. The bell tower emerged from the darkness. The old man cut his own arm, squeezed his fist as he held his sinewy, frail arm out over open space, letting heavy, drops of blood – impossibly red in the darkness – fall to the splash on the roof tiles below.

#

The girl hurled tiles, wailing, shrieking, each tile splashed with a little of Jerema's blood, feathered into the tile's cracks to form pictographs that twisted and writhed. Below her, a man screamed his agony and his ending.

#

When William woke, there was blood on his robes. He felt something tacky as he pulled his clothing back from where they had bunched up, and sniffed at the round patch of dark red the size of man's head.

Confused, he yawned and sat up and was suddenly awake when he remembered where he was and that he could see a pre-dawn sky.

"I never saw those patterns before."

William started. Rof was sitting up and staring at the minor patterns in the viridia: little swirls and whorls that decorated the edges of the viridian panes. They resembled the patterns etched into the milkstone pillars in the hall. The other man was still asleep.

"Pictographs, Master Jerema called them once," Rof continued. "That acolyte who went crazy a few months back and attacked Neggs - what was his name? - he had something like that snake-curl cut into his forehead as a bleeding tattoo, just before he went wild with the knife. Remember him?"

William stretched, flexing fingers that ached strangely, cracking his thumbs and looked at his right hand. The skin was scratched on his knuckles and more blood was flecked across the back of his hand and his wrist.

He felt fine, considering where he had slept, and suddenly remembered his last thoughts of the previous night. Neggs' cell. Dream-memories stirred. Flashes of tiles being hurled, dropping into darkness. Screaming.

He stepped past where Rof was drawing the snake-curl pictograph in the dirt of the floor and found himself outside in dawning light.

The iron door opened; nobody had barred it after he left the previous night. Inside, William found the prayer hall utterly silent. Further along, the cells of the acolytes were filled with their sleeping bodies, some tossing restlessly back and forth, muttering heavily. Beyond the cells, Master Neggs' door, dark and forbidding.

Daemons without, and daemons within, Master Jerema oft muttered.

William stepped up to the door, the silence pounding in his ears, cold shivers down his spine. He pressed his hand against it slightly, feeling for any give, then harder and harder until the door moved a fraction to stop against its inside bar.

He returned back along the prayer hall to the little staircase up to the roof and the iron door and the little bridge to the bell tower.

Jerema was there. Sitting on a three-legged stool, back curved and his robed left arm resting on his walking stick. For the first time, William noticed the carvings on the stick, intricately following the grain of the wood, hiding within it but distorting it into whorls and sinuous slitherings that reminded him of the viridian pictographs.

"Sunrise, and one acolyte is awake, while the rest sleep," the old man said, without turning his gaze from the rising sun. "While at night all are awake and the screaming never stops. Do you think it matters if the daemons take us or not? Acolytes of dust and smoke we are."

William stepped past and onto the bridge. He stopped, shocked, at the sight of blood pooling by the old master's feet.

"I must confess, young William, that it was I who took your voice. Years ago. In your sleep I ripped it out, made a hole in your spirit to let me in. I've used you, but I don't apologise. It is who we must be. You must do what I couldn't. Be a single, dutiful monk amid the daemon-spawn." He chuckled, coughed, and his posture sank a little lower, a little more weight resting on his walking stick. William made to see what his wounds were, but Jerema suddenly arched up, waving his etched stick about like a weapon. William noticed the end of it was coated in red. "Get you gone. She needs you. I don't. Use my rope and get!"

William hesitated a moment longer, then turned from the orange sunrise painting his face, reflecting in his eyes.

A few steps more and the roof of Negg's barred room was just below the bell-tower end of the bridge, but still a difficult drop to smooth, sharp tiles. There was a rope there, knots tied into it like huge prayer beads, secured into the rain slot at the base of the walkway. More blood flecked it as though to signify its importance and paint a trail of red for him to follow.

He took to the climbing easily enough. Felt the coarse rope bite and burn at the pads of his hands. The muscles of his shoulders and arms ached immediately, not from a lack of use, but from overuse.

He stepped down onto the tiles, took a few steadying steps, disquietened not by his task but by the sense of repetition \- had he dreamed being here? Nothing felt new. Two steps, four, and he was around the conical roof to a man-size hole in the tiles, already made. There was more blood here, big drops of dark red on the middle of the slate or dribbling between the edges.

His hands shook. He wasn't being quiet. His hesitant steps scraped and slid.

He peered inside the hole - made by himself? By Jerema? - and into the stygian black of Neggs' room, waiting and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the nuances of grey within. His heart was thudding against his ribs, seeming to push up his dry throat. He could smell something sick. Or rotting. That smell of meat left in the sun. The slow reveal of a body, robe shredded, insides gaping.

"Hnngh."

He almost fell into the hole. The voice was no more than half a whisper, half a croak. And it came from behind him. Not inside the room. He scrambled over to the edge of the roof, to where tiles had broken off, and peered over carefully, feeling the pull and promise of vertigo. There Miri was, lying atop a bed of broken tiles in the shadow thrown by the rising sun.

He looked around but saw no way down, other than back up the rope. He wasn't sure he'd manage a return climb. Instead he let himself hang by torn hands from the exposed rafters and dropped down, wind rushing about for long moments of dreadful anticipation - like the long nights he had spent in vigil in the Hall listening to the wails and screams pounding against the monastery walls - to land in a flailing heap of legs and arms and robes. He tried to roll but managed only to twist his left ankle beneath him.

She moaned again and William saw that she wasn't quite awake, but was lying on the ground semi-naked in a torn shift that exposed weals, newly red and angry, across her arms, wrists and hips. There was blood too: a multitude of cuts across her legs and back where she was lying on tile shards.

He shook her, then patted at her cheek to wake her, but she didn't. So he bent his knees and picked her up, all his weight on his right leg to spare his twisted ankle. She was heavy enough to make it difficult to walk after a few metres, but he made his way around to the western atrium and then across the quadrangle to the cloisters. Rof had gone, but the labourer was there, finally awake and staring through the viridia without acknowledging their arrival.

William set her down and put his fingers to her throat - a strong pulse - and then rested his hand on her forehead. Her arms and legs were cold but her head was warm and he stared at her hair, and the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breasts. His hand was still on her forehead and without conscious thought, he was tracing the pattern of the milkstone and the outer edges of the viridia. The same whorls and sinuous curling that Rof had been drawing in the dirt. A symbol on the edge of his understanding, taunting and teasing.

Her mutterings gradually ceased. Her eyes opened. Green with flecks of brown and wide with confusion.

"Where am I?" she whispered. She wasn't distressed and made no move to leave his care. She just stared up at him and William felt the rush of vertigo again, as though he had simply fallen from the edge of the tiled roof straight down into her eyes. "William. You are William. They told me about you. I don't know, I..." She glanced around and saw the archways. "The monastery. We made it here. We thought it would be safe here, that you would know why this is all happening. And how to stop them. Make it safe again. And help us in Donrie. Help us with the sleeping sickness." She reached up and touched his cheek. Then her fingertips moved up to his forehead and traced lightly at something there. "But you can't, can you? You have it, too. You have them, too. The daemons have everyone."

His hand reached up to replace hers and he found a rough pattern of scarring cuts, scabbing over with semi-congealed blood. The same pattern he had just traced faintly on her.

"William! Where did you go?" Rof stood in the archway, eyes widening at the sight of the girl. "Miri. You alive? I went to see Jerema but they said the old man was taken. They turned white at the sight of me, thought I was a day-daemon or something. William? What have you — " Rof crouched down and stared at his forehead "— done to yourself? That pictograph. You know they are saying that Neggs is dead, and Miri killed him? They're all hysterical, those who are awake. Half are asleep, and having bloody nightmares by the sound of them. Told you I won't go back, well I ain't going in there again. Just a few minutes was enough to feel like I was in death's own domain."

"Who is Neggs?" Miri said quietly. William looked down and realised she was rocking back and forth very gently. "I want to leave here. Please." She looked over at the labourer, who hadn't stopped staring out. "Aven. Aven! Are you all right?"

"He hasn't said a word or even looked at me since waking," Rof said.

"The sleeping sickness," she replied. "He's got it. He's my cousin. We were the only ones without it."

"I want to leave, too," Rof said suddenly, standing up. "Now, while the day is new. I don't care if we don't make it, I just have to try." He pointed through the virida, across the quadrangle to the atrium. "Look."

They were coming, acolytes led by Pichler. Searching.

William scrambled to his feet painfully, limping. Rof was right. Being out here, anywhere outside the pillared halls, was better than being shut inside with the fear. Better to be amongst it all. Better to be away from the likes of Pichler and Neggs, and those who just looked away and waited for death in shame, like Danel and Anders.

Rof helped Aven to his feet and the labourer seemed to take Rof's guidance, passive and accepting. Miri got to her feet slowly, hands on her right hip and left ribs, wincing with the movement. They moved along the cloisters stepping through the pictographs and imagery lit up in the morning sunlight. William trailed his fingers along the engravings in the viridia, feeling again and again the snake-curl pattern that was cut into his forehead. Now that he was aware of it, he realised the pictograph was repeated on every pane and in the holy scenes of ancient monks praying stoically atop stone pillars or deep within dark caves. He traced them with both hands as they tattooed him in sunlight. He felt the itching pain of the pattern healing and scarring on his forehead.

There was a shout. Then three more.

"Run!" Rof yelled, and they staggered through a break in the virida-filled archways, out into the yard to the north gate in the outer walls.

The gate's heavy bar was lying discarded on the ground and the gate stood half a body width open. They squeezed through and out of the monastery's grasp.

William glanced back through the slither of vision of the gate's opening to see Pichler and the others slow and stop, unwilling to step beyond the threshold.

Above them loomed the bell tower, and he could see Jerema still sitting there, limned in an orange dawn light, his head slumped on his chest. Above him the snake-curl pictograph had been drawn large on monastery stone and even from this distance, William could see that it had been drawn in blood. His hand went involuntarily to the stain on his robes.

"Come, we can't stop," Miri called back without turning around. She was leading Aven, walking swiftly and surely down twin paths of wagon wheel ruts. "Donrie is reachable before dark, but only if we don't stop even once until we get there."

This was news. William had always heard that two days were needed. "We cut straight down," she said as though to answer him.

William struggled to keep up. His ankle was on fire; the twinge of clumsy pain became a slice, then a stab with each step. And he kept stepping on it the wrong way when he stared around at terrain he hadn't seen in years: trees gnarled and dry and leaning on others, covered in a layer of white dust; thorny bushes that grew up the trunks and out along the branches to hang down and catch at his hair and scrape at his forehead. The twinkling of the river in the valley below and the curves and lines of distant hills and ridges and mountains. Places much more than a day's journey that may as well have been in the next life or as far as the clouds above.

Miri wouldn't slow and soon she and Aven were far ahead. Rof walked with William, urging him to go faster, finding him a walking stick to support the weight of his left side but he was visibly agitated at William's inability to go faster. They could all feel the sun's power waning. It had already reached its zenith and night seemed just beyond the next bend. Donrie was becoming an impossible goal.

Rof had disappeared ahead to talk to Miri, and returned now, his exhausted face alight with hope.

"We're nearly there, she said. She won't slow for you - says she can get help if anyone is left. But we just have to keep going until the last moment, until full dark, straight to the river, then down the bank to the ford. I mean I know where Donrie is, but they've moved, they're closer now, in the Windmill Caves. Must be where they've hidden from the daemons."

William could only nod and keep plodding, one foot, then the stick with the other numb foot. Over and over, grunting each time the uneven ground messed up his rhythm.

He couldn't go faster. He had to stop. Just for a moment. His left leg couldn't take his weight anymore.

"What are you doing," Rof cried out. "Redemption take you, Acolyte William! You'll kill us both."

William shook his head and flicked his stick up, motioning down the path for Rof to go on.

"Please, William, please, please. Get up. Please."

William moaned, forcing his mouth to the sounds, struggling to get the breath up his constricted throat. "Gooo," he managed, hating his own mute half-sounds.

"Please, just a little further."

William lay back, feeling the exquisite relief of being off his feet for the first time in hours. Rof was swearing and crying, fear-ridden and unable to stay still.

"Daemons-take you, William. I'll get help. I will. Keep going to the river ford and wait there. We'll carry you across before night."

William watched him leave, sad for his friend's distress but warm that he could engender such loyalty. It made him feel just a little less lonely in his own mute prison.

Night came quickly down here among the trees at the base of the valley. William was afraid, but it was a fear that seemed to coat the surface only. Ultimately, he was calm. Grounded. His mind could stop wandering, could stop trying to block out the sounds beating at the monastery walls at night. There was nothing between him and the night.

He didn't feel as though death was approaching. All the terrors of not knowing what had happened to the acolytes who disappeared were far away from this reality. All the prayers he'd chanted these past months were forgotten. His back was resting against the bark of a tree, his ankle was throbbing but it was pure pleasure just to keep weight off it. He could smell the eucalypts and hear the cricks and buzzes and coo-ees of all the creatures in the night. He thought he could hear a distant flowing of water.

The daemons took a long while to appear. It was as though they had to find him by his tracks, follow his dragging footsteps down from the monastery. He heard them first - wailing and whooping and screaming in high pain, an awful parody of the birds and insects and frogs which fell silent at the daemons' approach - and then he smelled them - an old rot of a ten-day carcass with the cold of stone and running water - and he shivered involuntarily, his skin pimpling with a horrible frisson up his spine and into his neck and the back of his head to reignite the tension he hadn't felt since leaving the cloisters. His forehead was burning and something wet ran down his right cheek and dripped into his lap.

Finally he glimpsed them, quick highlights in the dim moonlight, flickerings of twisted limbs, bony hands with fingers that resembled the dry bracken.

He realised that silence had fallen, and his calm was splintering. His teeth had started to chatter with an unholy cold and he had to clench his jaw painfully to stop it. But he couldn't stop the scream that was building in his chest and throat, choking him and adding to his rising panic.

Then he saw the eyes - reds and greys, all wide and mournful, confused - and his fear frayed, interspersed by a sadness that filled him and he struggled to breathe, weighed down and pushed into the ground by emotion pouring from these spirits.

They embraced him and he realised that emotion was the daemons, that they were a maelstrom of hurt and a striving for identity. He heard his name spoken over and over in an imitation of what his voice may have been – _but wasn't_ – and his fear was gone. They weren't him. He couldn't speak. Hearing _William_ over and over again meant nothing.

He looked directly into their eyes, seeing them, and slowly they stilled and fell silent, only whispering and muttering and pulling away from him to give him a wide circle.

He glanced down to see that he had drawn the pictograph in the dirt at his feet with his walking stick. It glowed silver with moonlight and, surrounded by the night-daemons, it had new meaning: it was the twining of fear and hope, of this world and another, of identity and confusion. Of love and despair. A twisting dance that was life, and temporary.

When he looked up again, they were gone, leaving him a sense of desperate loneliness and failure like a bitter after-taste.

Sleep-exhaustion took him.

He awoke with the dawn sunlight and it was to a world reborn. Orange light lit the leaves and branches in a new intensity that overwhelmed.

Stiff and sore, he stood and hobbled slowly down the road toward the sound of running water until the river appeared, its ford a shelf of old rock just beneath the surface.

"William!" A shout and a whoop of joy and Rof was splashing through the water toward him, his face split with a grin. "Are you... _you_? You look pretty good for a day-daemon!"

William stopped, leaning heavily on his stick already, and smiled, letting Rof duck under his left arm and take his weight as they forded the river.

"Just up here, the Windmill Caves. Have you been there before? I couldn't stand the place as a lad, full of a whistling howl that always set my teeth on edge - but you don't notice it so much underground." Rof fell silent for a moment, then spoke again, in a much quieter voice. "They spoke to me again, William. Last night, in my sleep, even in the caves. They kept calling me, in my own voice. Or I was calling myself. I can't tell."

The Caves huddled under a series of gorges, an immense dribbling of milkstone eroded by wind and rain and ancient rivers. The locals had explored them years ago, digging into the earth beneath for more milkstone in vain, leaving behind the caves that Rof led him into now. The entrance to the caves was a big trapdoor. It was open and a smell of damp and unwashed bodies drifted up.

"In here. There used to be a guard, but they all fell asleep. There's a few of them left, but they just sit there, not talking." The idea of sitting, standing, doing anything without talking was anathema to Rof.

There were steps down into darkness and William felt an intense reluctance to go any further. He had newly discovered the day and going down felt like he was returning in some way back into the monastery.

There were rooms carved out of the rock, walls uneven with chisel and hammer marks, and slabs of rock left protruding to form tables with lower ones for chairs.

A dozen men and women of Donrie sprawled about in silence and listlessness. They were dressed in filth-covered clothing, lying on earth cold and damp. There was more than the smell of despair; more than fear hanging around them all like a smothering cloud. He could see something shifting, something furtive and frightened, behind each person. Something not quite there but trying to be. A shiver ran up his spine as he realised he had seen this all before at the monastery, seen it in the acolytes curled up in their cells and in their whispered prayers, seen it and not recognised it.

The daemons were here. In each of these villagers. The sleeping sickness was just the name for it.

William turned to Rof, clutching at his arm. "Wah— " he mouthed, trying to force the word he could say in his mind out up and out of his throat with a tongue that wouldn't obey. "Mee— "

"William?" Rof looked at him in alarm.

"Mee-Ree," he forced out. He was gagging on the words.

"Miri? She's with her father - in the back. Come on."

Rof led him through to more rooms all interconnected in no apparent pattern to a little alcove where an old man lay on his side facing the wall. A single shaft of sunlight from a drill-hole in the cave roof hit the wall just in front of his face. Miri sat with him, pushing the hair back from his face as he reached his hand to the light with a shaking hand. She looked up at them with a face devoid of emotion. She barely seemed to recognise either of them. Her gaze came to rest on William's forehead and she reached her own hand up to touch him there, her fingers coming away red.

"William, your scar," Rof said, but fell silent as Miri bent to her father and traced the pictograph on her father's forehead.

Nothing happened at first but the palpable sense of sadness gradually lessened. Miri's father closed his eyes and fell asleep, his chest rising and falling in long, deeper and deeper breaths.

She closed her own eyes and slid back against the wall.

"Thank you," she murmurred and slipped into her own sleep.

He looked at her, seeing her face lose its worry in restful sleep, the pain of her abused body forgotten. He could see nothing else about her, no unnatural sense of loss or confusion. William returned to the other villagers and stood still for a time, watching without staring, looking into the space near them and waiting for that space between his own beating heart and the fears of the world around him to show itself. In his own mind he was back in the monastery hall, hands caressing the milkstone for the intricate carvings and whorls of skilled artisans, old messages in stone that he understood now, but that the monks had forgotten. Milkstone memories of previous daemon risings lost in meaningless prayers. Stories of past purges and daemon-sunderings written in smith-forged viridia, decorated with pictographs and snake sigils of redemption and hope. The snake finding its tail and remembering itself. The world turning on itself and within itself.

William remembered, and found that space between where he could see the daemons, even in the day time, in the darkness beneath the earth of the Windmill Caves. They hid at the edge of the villagers' thoughts, calling to them stupidly, afraid and desperate. Spirits of those who had come before but who lingered and congregated and built their numbers in confusion until they found others.

William stood at the closest villager, a woman with long, dull black hair and sallow cheeks who stared straight through him. He painted the pictograph on her forehead and kissed her mouth lightly, and she sighed as the tension left her body. The daemon writhed, fading, dissipating like mist in sunshine.

He stood over the next villager. And the next, until they all had his mark.

#

"You won't come with us?" Rof said.

Miri shook her head. "They need me here. They're better, but still slow, like they can't quite wake just yet."

Rof nodded once, then embraced her, a tear in his eye.

"Take care of him, won't you?" she said, speaking to Rof, but looking at William. William thought he could look into her eyes forever.

"He'll take care of me," Rof said. "He always has. We'll go up-river, and help where we can. I'll be his voice."

"He doesn't need one," she said. "Come back soon. Please?"

William nodded, tears in his eyes. He stepped up to her and held her, arms tight, his face turned into her hair, and then let her go.

"Good-bye," she said.

Good-bye, he mouthed and walked through the sunshine toward the river and all the other worlds within worlds.

Repertoire

Kate Morgan

USA

"Te Deum laudamus:

te Dominum confitemur."

Maggie stared up at the stained-glass window as a dozen nuns practised a Gregorian chant in the second mode. A gaggle of Vatican tourists passed through the archway on her right, cameras clicking. The nuns' smooth voices resonated in the small chapel at the end of the hallway.

Despite years of research, Maggie had never understood that music's endurance. Monotonous. Repetitive. Archaic. In her head, she sang counterpoint to the chant.

"Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,

Dominus Deus Sabaoth."

It didn't help.

The afternoon sun touched the panes of roses and thorns and the top of the window, spangling her arms with red. In the centre, the crucified Christ looked down at the Blessed Virgin Mary. Tears dripped down both their cheeks. Their sunken eyes mirrored each others.

Maggie had detoured from her day in the Vatican library specifically to study this window. She'd discovered it last year in a humongous book about Vatican art. The window seemed made to illustrate her favourite thirteenth-century song.

"Stond wel, Moder, under rode..."

She sang the lyrics under her breath. Two people veered around her, talking quietly in Italian. The taller man carried an armful of books and papers, his blond hair obscuring his eyes. As the blond spoke, the shorter, older man nodded as though he were receiving instructions. Neither looked like a priest, although even here in Rome sometimes Maggie couldn't tell. Nuns were different. Unlike nuns in the States, all of them in Rome seemed to wear their traditional habits.

When the hallway cleared, Maggie stepped back. At this angle, the sun gave Christ's head a halo of light to match the halo of glass. She continued the song:

"Sune, quu may blithe stonden?

Hi se thin feet, hi se thin honden—"

A deep voice sang in her ear, "Nayled to the harde tre."

Maggie whipped around, her messenger bag knocking everything out of the blond's arms.

"Hey!" She saw the mess and switched to her limited Italian. "Oh, I vostri libri! Mi... uh... mi dispiace tanto."

"Non è un problema." The young man knelt next to her on the diamond-patterned floor. "I speak some English. Do not worry. These are only my notes. No rare books were harmed."

He smiled at her as she handed him a spiral-bound notebook labeled 'Finestre dell'anima.'

Now that she saw him up close, she definitely hoped he wasn't a priest. His hair just brushed his shoulders. His hazel eyes had a gold ring around the iris and his teeth gleamed against his tanned face. His wide hands and long fingers made her hope he was a fellow musician.

"I am Pietro." He grasped her hand. "And you?" His fingers caressed hers ever so slightly.

"Maggie." She flushed.

His eyebrows met. "Non lo so... I mean, I do not know that name. Is it English?"

She kept her hand in his. "American. Short for Margaret."

His face cleared. "Ah. Margherita. My English is not as perfect as I would like. I am pleased to meet you, Margherita. Are you here to study the windows?"

"No, I'm researching early music. Hildegard von Bingen to the Renaissance. It's for my PhD."

He turned her hand over. "You do not play stringed instruments."

"No, I play harpsichord and crumhorn mostly."

"You share my love for the ancient sounds, then." He released her hand to hold up his own. Thick calluses distorted his fingertips.

"Lute?"

His smile broadened. "Yes, also mandolin and hurdy-gurdy."

"I hereby decide to fall in love with you." She pretended to curtsy. "You're a baritone."

"Sì. And you are a mezzo."

She grinned. "We were meant to be together."

He bowed in the ancient courtly style. "La mia signorina, I am happy to agree." He took her arm. "Come. I have many privileges here. You and I shall go to a private music room together."

Maggie hesitated. He seemed perfect, from his expressive lips to his unusual eyes. Perfect enough for her to fantasise about a romantic Italian evening of music and wine and perhaps other things. She knew better, though. Women who went off alone with handsome strangers didn't always return. She was doubly alone here: Her family was in America, her friends in Florence.

"I was only taking a break from the reading room. They were bringing some books from the stacks for me."

He nodded. "You are right to hesitate. Let us return to the reading room for now. There are still many people in it at this time of day."

"Good. I have to clean up the table I've been using anyway." She led him down the wide halls to the library where she had spent the morning. They passed several people on the way: nuns, priests, students in uniform, bearded professors in academic robes. Crowds equalled safety.

Maggie and Pietro entered the cavernous reading room with its soaring ceiling, walls lined with books, and rows of tables. The scents of furniture polish and hand sanitizer couldn't mask the heavenly aroma of thousands of ancient manuscripts. Maggie paused on the threshold and inhaled before she turned left to follow Pietro. He held open the wooden door for her that led into the private section at the front of the room. The nearest librarian looked up, the request to leave plain on his face. That changed when he recognised the man.

"Pietro! Buongiorno!"

"Good afternoon, Giuseppe. I wish to take this young lady into my private rooms to discuss music, but she wishes to be certain I am a safe companion. Will you help me?"

The librarian's face wrinkled like a walnut when he smiled. "Sì, sì, is good to be prudente." He beckoned one of the nuns entering book details into a computer terminal. "Suor Giulia, per favore?"

The nun rose smoothly from the wooden chair. Maggie perspired in sympathy at her elaborate clothes. Yards of heavy black serge gathered at the waist with a twisted woollen belt, multiple pleats on the bodice, a wide white bib to match the white wimple and stiff veil under a black serge. Horrible. She wondered how the woman managed not to faint during the summer.

The nun looked at the two men, then at Maggie. Her eyes were the palest things Maggie had ever seen—paler than the mushrooms she used to harvest from under the pine straw back home. They were empty of all expression, too. Maggie shivered. How many years of silence and obedience had it taken to leach every bit of humanity out of the sister like that?

Giuseppe spoke rapidly in Italian to the nun. Maggie only caught a word here and there.

"You do not be afraid," the nun said, her mushroom eyes looking toward, but not meeting, Maggie's own. "The signore Pietro is good servitore to the Holy Father."

Maggie stared at Pietro. "You know the Pope?"

He chuckled. "Indeed. He often requests my music in the evenings."

"How can I distrust a friend of the Pope himself? Lead on, maestro." Maggie grinned at him, at Giuseppe, at the nun. A private room in the Vatican library with a fellow early music lover who knew the Pope. What a streak of luck. She made a mental note to buy a SuperEnalotto ticket right after their music session.

"Grazie, Suor Giulia," Giuseppe said.

"Let us go," Pietro said to Maggie. "I am sorry you miss your day with the books."

"No, no, don't apologise. I'm here till Saturday. There's plenty of time for books."

"Good. We will sing 'Verbum Patris' even though it is not Christmas, yes?"

Maggie laughed. "I'll bend my 'no Christmas music before December' rule just for you." She walked over to the table she'd been using. In a few moments she'd closed the open books, stacked them under the shaded lamp, and stuffed her notes into her messenger bag. Pietro waited by the door, watching her. The nun stood in the same spot, hands tucked into her wide sleeves, eyes cast down.

"All set," Maggie said in a low voice when she returned to him.

"Good. Let us go. Suor Giulia will accompany us."

"Um, why?"

"What is the French word... ah. Chaperone." Pietro laid a hand over his heart. "So, all know that nothing improper goes on."

"You have a point." She looked down at the top of the nun's head. Her veil reached Maggie's chin. "Buongiorno. I'm Maggie."

The nun didn't raise her eyes. Maggie was grateful. The woman exuded a chill even in the air-conditioned library.

Pietro led them back into the main hall, past more school groups and people in business suits talking on cell phones. Their little group stopped at one of the pillars. "This is David playing the lyre. Osservare, per favore, the position of his fingers..."

When the hall emptied, they cut left between the fifth and sixth pillars into a six-foot-high wall niche. "Shh," he said. "No one must see this."

Maggie looked around, heart beating a little faster at the secrets she was about to learn. "All clear."

"No follow," the little nun whispered.

"What? Oh, it's okay." She pinched a layer of Maria's voluminous skirts. "I'll help you on the stairs. Andiamo."

Pietro turned a carved angel clockwise. The right side of the niche opened. He pushed it just far enough to let them squeeze through, closing it behind them with a soft click.

Maggie sneezed. Dust motes sparkled in shafts of sunlight. The sides and floor of this between-walls passage were solid cedar. She recognised its dark honey colour even though its scent had long since vanished. Only the Vatican would have money to line their access corridors with such expensive wood. She craned her neck to see the source of the light.

"There are many small skylights in the roof." Pietro lowered his voice. "After dark, we bring lights with us. The stairs are solid, but of great age." He took her hand again. "We must walk down several flights to reach my rooms. Come."

Maggie followed, the light growing progressively dimmer as they turned at each narrow landing. She held out her other hand to Suor Giulia, but the nun's shoes descended the wooden steps with silent skill. So much for Maggie's interpretation of Giulia's broken English.

Pietro said nothing more until they reached the bottom. Maggie blinked a few times to get used to the near-darkness, but it didn't work.

"Can we reach the music room without light?" she whispered.

"There is no need." He released her hand. She heard a rustle, then a clunk from something hard, then whirr-whirr-whirr. A minute later, bright LED illumination shone from a flashlight in Pietro's hand.

"It is unwise to trust batteries. I spend many days each summer camping with the seminarians. The lights that power themselves are a marvellous invention. Come."

He took her hand again. For all that she liked his touch she was feeling a little uneasy at his constant contact. When she tried to pull away, he hooked her arm through his.

"It is better that you stay close to me. I know the best path."

It was nothing. Besides, she had her nightmarish chaperone. She left her arm where it was, not reassured by his silent, dark silhouette. She was able to take care of herself, just in case. But that was silly. A man who willingly brought a chaperone was not about to try something inappropriate.

He shone the light on the stone floor about three feet in front of them. Chill air emanating from the stones raised Goosebumps on her arms in their short summer sleeves. She squinted at the walls: More stone, with carved niches at regular intervals. She didn't want to ask Pietro to stop so she could explore. Maybe on their way back.

The hallway was even more silent than the between-walls passage. She'd calculated a four-story descent at the least on those claustrophobic stairs. The longer they walked in this near-darkness, the more the large stone blocks of the floor and walls oppressed her. It was silly, but she felt the weight of millennia forcing her down, down into the pores of the bedrock, making her a part of the edifice itself.

Pietro shone his modern flashlight on an oak door as old as the stones around it. Carvings on its three panels illustrated Bible scenes. Maggie recognized the Descent of the Holy Spirit, the crucifixion of Peter, and possibly the Resurrection of the Dead. Pietro swung the light over to a marble holy water font. He pressed the centre of the Rose of Sharon attached to its base and the entire font swung outward, revealing a recess holding an ornate key.

"Come, cross yourself." He pushed the font back into place and dipped three fingers in the water, then touched the dripping tips to his forehead, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder.

Maggie did the same, shuddering as the ice-cold water touched her skin. She forced herself to recall the beautiful, hot July sun shining a mere eighty feet above her. Pietro unlocked the door and entered first, flicking a switch as he did so.

"Oh, thank God. Light." Maggie stopped a few steps inside the only room of average proportions she'd yet seen in the Vatican. The walls and floor might have been constructed of the same huge blocks of stone, but everything was disguised. An oriental rug covered the floor edge to edge. Tapestries covered three walls—tapestries of the kind that she'd only seen in books about art restoration. Bright colours leapt out at her. Women in blue, purple, red, green gowns. Knights in shimmering silver armour on gold and red caparisoned horses, horses with rippling chestnut or grey or black coats. Peasants working fields of gold grain, plucking violet grapes, pressing deep red wine in vats. Forests of oak, pine, birch, maple with deer and boar in the underbrush.

A double bed covered with a crimson brocade spread took up most of the far wall. Velvet drapes covered the narrower wall to her right. At first, they looked black, but as her eyes adjusted to the light they became deep purple, the colour of emperors.

Suor Giulia stood to one side of the door. Above her veil the tapestry depicted the Resurrected Christ releasing souls from Hell.

Maggie dragged her gaze away from the walls to admire the furniture. A roll-top desk. A roundtable with an embroidered tablecloth. Chairs with brocade seats. A vase on the table filled with white lilies and red geraniums. The sweet, rich scent of the lilies filled the small room.

"Fresh flowers down here? They're beautiful." The weight lifted from her shoulders. This small touch humanised the adventure, relieving her overwhelmed senses.

"It is more of a home with the flowers, no?" Pietro plucked the smallest lily and snapped off most of its stem. "This would look well in your hair. Black for sin, white for holiness. He glanced at Suor Giulia.

The nun glided away from the wall. Maggie stood her ground. She was not afraid, just repulsed. Giulia walked like a human. She was not a ghost. The Vatican must have its share of ghosts, but—

The nun took Maggie's hands and turned the palms up. Right. Ghosts wouldn't be this arctic. They couldn't touch humans, only pass through them like mist.

Giulia's veiled head bent over Maggie's hands. One thumb traced Maggie's lifeline. Maggie's skin shrank from the nun's dank breath as it crawled into the whorls and creases of her fingerprints. A long moment later, Giulia raised her head.

"Infine. You are pura." She placed Maggie's palms together in the traditional prayer position. "The signore Pietro chose wisely."

Giulia's back was to Pietro and her mushroom eyes gazed at Maggie's, then at the door behind her. A moment later Maggie was staring at the nun's back as she returned to her spot against the wall. Pietro stepped between them, the lily in his outstretched hand. He tucked it behind Maggie's right ear.

"I was correct. White and black are, how you say, your colours. Like the good Sisters wear."

"Thanks, but I'm into reds and blues and yellows. Black and white are too much like a Gregorian chant for my tastes." She touched the lily, releasing more of its scent. "Um, what was all that about? Giulia breathing on my hands and such."

Pietro smiled.

Maggie waited. Pietro stayed silent, one corner of his lips curving into a smile.

Maggie crossed her arms. "You're not claiming she read my moral state in my fingertips? Look, not that it's any of your business, but I've never done it. Haven't found the right guy yet."

Suor Giulia said, "You are unusual for this century. The signore Pietro has not brought anyone down here for molti anni. He chooses only those who are different. Those who are special."

Pietro took Maggie's hands. "I also wished to be certain that you did not like my looks more than my music."

"I'm glad you brought a chaperone, then." Maggie let her hands stay in his. "I'm also unusual in my love for early music. Since my morals meet with your approval, where are these instruments you promised me?"

He led the way to the velvet drapes, pushed one aside with his right hand and opened the door behind them with his left. The scent of roses tickled Maggie's nose this time. Pietro flicked another switch.

"Ohh..." She walked into a huge room, toward a harpsichord whose ebony keys gleamed in the light. A quick glance upward revealed two chandeliers with hundreds of crystals blazing in counterfeit daylight.

"I've never seen so many ancient instruments in one place." She played an arpeggio. "In perfect tune."

She turned in a circle, trying to take it all in. The room was so large even both chandeliers didn't reach into the corners. She counted two viols da gamba, a clavichord, three different styles of lute, and a complete set of recorders, each carved from a different wood. Chairs arranged in small groups for comfortable conversation were scattered about. No telling what treasures the far end of the room held.

At some point in her gawping Pietro must have closed the door. Now he went to the fireplace on the adjacent wall and put a match to the prepared wood and newspaper in the grate. They flared then settled into a slow burn. Small flames licked the edges of the wood. Maggie and Suor Giulia joined him.

"I could happily stay here for the rest of my life." She held out her hands to the growing flames. "As long as I could get lasagne and gelato deliveries, that is."

He smiled. "I am glad the room pleases you. Come. Let us see how well we perform together."

Suor Giulia stayed by the fireplace, hands in sleeves, eyes on the hearthrug.

Pietro lifted a lute from its stand and checked the tuning. Maggie returned to the harpsichord and sat on its square bench, helping him tune by playing g, d, a, f and on through the rest of his strings.

"Bene. Thank you." He looked over at her, challenge in his face. "I would be disappointed if I must find for you the music."

She stuck the tip of her tongue out at him. "I'll match you in any pre-fourteenth century song you care to name."

He raised his eyebrows. "I accept your challenge. 'Verbum Patris' to start, yes? One-two-three, one-two-three—"

They played and sang that, he takes the low part, she the high. They moved onto 'De la très Douce Marie' where she played the crumhorn and he the viol.

"That was wicked hard—but awesome." She collapsed onto the embroidered cushion of one of the armless chairs. "I need a drink. Could you tell me where there's a water fountain down here?"

"Rest yourself. We will have refreshments before I challenge you further."

"Bring it on." When he looked puzzled again, she waved it away. "It just means that I'm ready for you."

He nodded. "You are teaching me much modern American slang. This is good." He beckoned to Giulia and closed the door behind them.

Maggie stood a moment later to try out the clavichord. She'd only touched one once, back when she was an undergrad. This one too had the soft, sweet sound she'd loved so. She tried it out with the first verse of 'Bryd one Brere.'

"Molto bella," Pietro breathed from behind her.

She started and looked over her shoulder. "Don't do that!"

He chuckled. "My apologies. I did not wish to overpower the music." Giulia set a tray on a narrow table next to the fireplace. "Come. I have fruit and spring water and wine from our cellars."

"Thanks." Maggie accepted a goblet of water and emptied it in one long swallow. "The poor nun who has to clean this silver filigree has my sympathy."

He poured ruby-red wine into smaller goblets for both of them. "The Sisters are happy to serve the household of the Holy Father."

"That is truth," Giulia said in the same toneless voice.

Maggie sipped the wine. "This tastes incredible. Thank you. I'm sure the Sisters are happy, but I used to clean my grandmother's silver. That's why the sympathy."

He stared into his glass. "You never felt the call to the religious life?"

"Actually, I thought I did once. Years of Catholic school indoctrination will do that to you. College cured me." She drank half the wine in her glass. "I'd better eat something, or this will make me loopy."

"Loopy." Pietro tested the word. "This means the wine will affect your concentration, yes?"

"Yes." She chose a bunch of red grapes from a bowl that matched the tray. "Knocking your books to the floor was the best accident of my life." She ate a grape. "These are perfect. I mean, that this is the kind of chance every early musician would die for."

He took a bite from a peach. "One must die to self to achieve great talent in God's service, yes." He took another bite and wiped his chin with a linen napkin. "But I disagree. One would prefer to live per sempre—for always—to play these instruments as they deserve."

"See," she said, swallowing another grape, "that's the one problem people like me have. If I'd gone into the convent like the nuns wanted me to, I wouldn't have to worry about paying for school or getting a job. The Church would support me, and I could spend my life with this music and these instruments." She ate another grape. "But then again, I'd have to spend way too much time with the Gregorian chant."

He refilled her wineglass. "You dislike the music that il Papa made the crown of worship?"

She caught the note of disappointment in his voice. "Look at it in comparison with 'Stond Wel, Moder.' The latter piece has emotion and life. Chant is the same modes over and over. Even a drone choir has more drama."

Pietro gave a minute shrug. "Our lives are long and filled with duties and distractions. Chant frees the mind so that the soul may commune with its Maker."

She sipped the wine, relieved that he agreed to disagree with her on chant. She wanted her time with him and the music to last as long as possible.

A measured knock sounded from the opposite wall. Pietro smiled. "Excuse me." He crossed the room and opened the door to the tapestry room, bowing as if he were a butler.

An old priest entered. His belted white cassock with attached capelet matched the white skullcap atop his silver hair. An ornate gold cross hung from a gold chain attached to the fourth button of his cassock. His face had good wrinkles—laugh lines from smiling and crows' feet from reading. At least that's how Maggie interpreted them.

He looked familiar, like she'd seen him in a different setting or with fancy clothes. A second later her brain connected. "Oh."

"Santità, buonasera." Pietro escorted the old priest to the only chair with arms, on the opposite side of the fireplace. The priest shook back his long sleeves and held out his hands to the fire. A large gold ring with an image of a man glinted on his right hand.

Maggie started to stand, then wondered if that was the correct protocol, then hovered in that awkward position, thighs cramping.

"Holiness, allow me to introduce Margherita, a singer and musician from America." Pietro beckoned to Maggie and her body responded. "Margherita, I am honoured to present you to His Holiness."

As Maggie came level with Pietro, she whispered, "What do I do?"

The Pope chuckled. "We do not bite, musician from America." He held out his hand and Maggie shook it. Wait—should she have kissed his ring? Too late now. Where was a nun to whack her fingers with a ruler when she needed one?

"Holiness, I sent the messenger to you because I am certain you will enjoy listening to us tonight."

"Um, what?" Maggie gulped. "I beg your pardon."

"We look forward to hearing you sing, signorina."

"I—um—thank you, father—um, Your Holiness."

"Come." Pietro touched her elbow. "His Holiness has expressed a desire to hear 'Stond Wel, Moder' as is should be sung, by a man and woman together."

Maggie escaped to the harpsichord. Pietro chose the viol and Maggie let the routine task of helping him tune the viol calm her down. She was about to give a command performance for the Pope. No one would believe this unless without picture. She hopes that was allowed if she promised not to put it on Facebook.

Pietro played an opening measure. Maggie shook her head. "Up a third." She matched the new key and nodded. Together they played two introductory measures and Pietro began the first verse.

She lost herself in the haunting song. The part of her not overwhelmed with it all wondered if they could continue working together, now that they'd established boundaries.

She reached the verse she considered to be the heart of the piece:

"Sune, y wyle withe funden.

Y deye ywis of thine wnden."

She didn't have to put false drama into her voice. Her mind and her soul sang the words as if she stood at the foot of the Cross.

Enthusiastic applause followed their final notes.

"Bravo, brava," the Pope said. "Signorina, you move us to tears. What a jewel you would have been in my choir."

Maggie smiled politely. "Thank you, Your Holiness. But my life has taken a different path."

"That is unfortunate. Holy Mother Church needs enthusiastic servants in addition to Her docile ones."

Pietro set his viol in its stand. "I am glad you approve, Holiness."

"Your choices have always enriched Our history."

Maggie looked from one to the other. "What's going on? Is this some underhanded convent recruitment test?"

"We have seen an alarming decline in the number of especially talented women willing to give themselves to Mother Church," the Pope said.

Maggie pushed the harpsichord stool back under the keyboard. So, Pietro was only on the lookout for another Vatican worker bee. At least she hadn't deluded herself for too long. "Sorry. Not me. I'm getting my Doctorate in Early Music and will lead the revival of songs like this in the Church's repertoire."

The Pope beckoned Maggie. "Come here, signorina."

Maggie glanced at Pietro, who gave her an encouraging smile. She walked the few feet to the chair by the fireplace. Pietro helped the old man up. Maggie figured he was going to give her a blessing.

"Holy Mother Church is in need."

His eyes locked onto hers. Hazel with a gold ring around the iris, just like Pietro's. He began a familiar Gregorian chant in the first mode.

"Virgo Dei Genitrix, quem totus non capit orbis..."

"Um, Your Holiness? What..." Maggie's tongue stopped. Her mouth stopped. She couldn't hear the crackling fire. She couldn't hear her own breathing. His eyes... they wanted something... they wanted...

The Pope's voice continued the repetitive melody.

"In tua se clausit viscera factus homo..."

Maggie couldn't feel her fingertips... her toes... her feet... her hands... Her heart thumped, hard. Slower. Slower.

Her voice wouldn't obey her. She wrenched her gaze free of the old man's and turned it in a terrified plea toward Pietro's gold-ringed eyes. His eyes looked from her toward the Pope, and hers followed, caught.

The old priest's eyes changed. Blue swirls appeared within the hazel. Her colour blue. They tugged at her, invisible strings hooking into her pupils, pulling her. But she hadn't moved. She could feel hands touching her arms, but just barely. Giulia. Those were Giulia's hands pinning Maggie's arms behind her back. Trapping her.

Ending B starts here:

She smelled smoke and burning flesh. Who was burning? What was burning?

Pain in her wrists, actual, real, here-and-now pain screamed up her arms. She jerked away from it, breaking the eyeball strings. Her self-defence training took charge. She elbowed the nun in the gut and shoved the Pope onto the floor. Pietro reached for his master and in that second of distraction she landed a right hook to his jaw.

She ran. The floor swayed beneath her. The knights and ladies and monsters in the tapestries clutched at her with embroidered hands. She stumbled on the rug in Pietro's bedroom but caught her balance and found the staircase. The twisting steps defeated her until she resorted to clutching the treads with her hands as well as her feet. Music notes spun before her eyes; monotone chant distorted her hearing. Her head bumped into the secret door. Too freaked to check first, she stepped into the main hall. Tourists and students passed back and forth. She was never so happy to see a gaggle of total strangers in her entire scholarly life.

Her bag. Her research It was down in Pietro's rooms.

At the edge of her still-distorted hearing, Maggie thought she heard steps on the hidden stairs. Without another thought for her doctorate, she ran down the hall and into the street. The press of tourists and cries of street vendors and cacophony of traffic assaulted her senses. She stumbled into a shaded alley.

The walls held her upright. She must look drunk or high. She wondered if Pietro could find her with his magic. Her throbbing wrists distracted her from the adrenaline rush of terror. When she tried to assess the burns, the colours of her skin and the street fluctuated between bright and washed out. She closed her eyes, but darkness gave strength to the thread of chant in her head.

Terror wiped out the pain. She grasped at the hundreds of pieces of music she knew by heart. She sang a line from Allegre. A chorus form Tallis. A bawdy madrigal. The last verse of "Stond Wel, Moder." They slipped away from her clutch.

Maggie walked to the opposite end of the alley. Faces turned toward her. People muttered. A child looked up at her and laughed. Another screamed a tiny scream. She dragged herself to the nearest hotel. In its empty public restroom, she forced herself to look into the mirror.

Her eyes swirled blue and mushroom-white. Her face stretched and bent. The fresh burns pulsed on her blanched skin: Red for blood, white for purity. No black. That was wrong. She should have black.

Her swirling, spinning eyes drew her into them, into the mirror. The strings reappeared. She climbed onto the vanity shelf as they dragged her into herself.

An hour later, hotel security followed the screams of two old women into the bathroom. His first act was to add his vomit next to the old women on the marble floor. His next was to call the police to report the dead American huddled on the vanity shelf. When he looked down at the American's gouged eyeballs rolling on the floor, he vomited again.

The Ariadne Singularity

Mike Jansen

Netherlands

As always, he approached the snow-covered village from the North. The entrance was on that side and the people kept the forest at a distance here. On the other sides, it had almost crept up to the high, rusted fences.

Harrald de Groot shook his head. A decade ago the terrain around the village was kept meticulously free to prohibit potential threats from sneaking up. He was very young then, not even a teenager.

Some of the eldest remembered the roving bands that moved through the area, killing and plundering. Or the infected, living and dead, that spread their affliction to the villagers, whether on purpose or not.

Indolence, he thought, will be the death of us. Deep inside he understood his fellow humans who no longer saw use or purpose. A whole generation was raised on nothing but stories of parents and grand-parents and the moralistic messages of the preservation of humanity. That oldest generation was nearly gone. Harrald sighed. He was the last teenager in the village. In the current situation, there wouldn't be anymore. The number of villagers had only dwindled.

The view of the tower of the old Meru-convent always gave him hope. He missed the armed lookout, although the cold of the past few weeks may have been a better guard than an old man or woman with an automatic rifle.

He was about to step out of the forest, onto the white plain that led towards the gate, when he realised his mistake. Carefully he pulled back his foot. The joyous news he carried, and its implications made him reckless. The Dead Hole was somewhere under the snow and although it had not seen any additions for almost twenty years, he did not want to be the one to wake the long sleeping bodies of bandits or infected with his heavy, hasty footsteps.

He reached the gate well before sundown. Just a few yards removed, it opened before him.

"You are late," Maria Martens said, a stern look in her clear blue eyes.

Harrald smiled. "It was quite a journey, mother. How did you know I was coming? I saw no lookout."

"Mothers know these things," she said. She stepped forward and put her arms around him.

He looked back nervously. "Do you mind closing the gate, at least?"

Maria let go and shrugged. "We haven't seen anyone for twenty years." She closed the gate behind him. "Your father and I believe few if any threats remain out there. That time is long gone."

"I'm not so sure," Harrald said.

"Did you encounter something?" his mother asked.

He shook his head. "Not really. There were times I thought I felt something or someone staring at me."

Maria sighed. "Your father and I have had that same feeling when we were foraging in dead villages."

"As long as it's staring, I'm ok with it." Harold shrugged. "It hasn't stopped me from continuing my search for Eindhoven."

"You've been away for two weeks; how far did you go?"

"I crossed the Meuse wetlands and the Peel swamps. The old maps are next to useless now, everything has changed. But I got through and I found a clue." He opened his backpack and took out a battered, bruised sheet of polycarbonate. The characters "Eindh" were still on it.

"Eindhoven?" Maria asked.

"Yes, legendary Eindhoven." Harrald smiled broadly. "I think I've found the edge of the city."

"That is good news," Maria concurred. "Shall we go inside? Jacob found a stash of tea in a hidden cellar in Wasberg, two-hundred-year-old Darjeeling, vacuum sealed. And Gerard missed you."

"Good, I would like something warm. I missed you and dad too." They walked toward the old convent where a few oil lamps had just been lit. Just before they entered, he took his mother's elbow. "I also think I've seen the sea."

Maria looked at him, surprised. "I think you have lots to tell."

After a meal of hot rabbit stew and a large cup of strong tea, Harrald displayed his finds on the dining table. The polycarbonate sheet, an old glass beer jug, a few slightly rusted steak knives with plastic handles, a weathered car mirror and a stack of yellowed "Cars Weekly" magazines.

Gerard carefully picked up one of the magazines and carefully opened the leaves one by one. The photos had paled, but they still showed luxury automobiles in a world before the great crisis.

"A good find, son," he said. "This has been stored dry and dark. No rodent or insect activity visible."

Harrald felt pleased. His father rarely complimented anyone. "Thanks, dad. I did not have a lot of time; I'd been away for too long already."

"We were worried somewhat," Gerard said. Maria put her hand on her husband's.

"That I understand," Harrald said. "But I'm nineteen. And I'm sure our future lies in Eindhoven. You've read the archives: top scientists in reproductive and incubator technologies worked there."

Gerard and Maria looked at each other. "That was ten years ago," Gerard said. "Those archives tell of something that happened two hundred years ago. It took us years to find the way back to Eindhoven. How long to search and enter buildings?" His argument was clear: Eindhoven was big, too big for one boy to dig through.

He closed his eyes. During his trip, back through the wetlands, he had considered this many times. He thought he had a solution. "I think I can minimise my searching."

"How?" his mother asked.

"By looking only on the premises of the Science Park. That's where all the scientists gathered to invent and design. At least, so say the books."

"But where's the Park?" his mother asked. "I thought it would be inside the Philips temple, right?"

Harrald shook his head. "I think not, mother. I think they used it only for ceremonial games, soccer and other sports for the greater glory of The Philips. Armena thought so too." The look in his parent's eyes caused a cold lump in his stomach. "Is something wrong? Armena? Or did the power fail again?"

"There was power. Radio contact has ceased, just after you left. We must assume something happened to them. Armena used to be able to fix the radio in hours, but it has remained silent for almost two weeks now. We tried a few times every day."

Harrald felt his eyes burn. Armena lived with her parents and several family members in a village near the Italian-Swiss border. The location was unimportant now with the disappearance of countries and the slow demise of the last of the human settlements. She was about his age and he had once considered travelling to her. "That means we are most likely the last humans on Earth."

"We don't know that," Gerard said. "The radio has a limited reach. Beyond that humans might still be alive."

"Your father remains optimistic," Maria said. "According to the stories and diaries of the last few decades, we lost villages every year. The radio does have a limited reach."

"But we can't just assume," he said. He took a deep breath. "So now it's only us." The mood in the room turned gloomy. Everyone was silent until Maria said: "Just tell us what you've seen. You said something about the sea?"

He had experienced many disappointments in his young life. There would be more. He would just have to cope, like he always did. "Yes, I could see it from the highest hill I climbed. Far away still, but I saw seagulls and I could smell the salt in the air."

"That means the levees of Holland are now breached," his father said.

"Seems like it. That hill was also the spot where I found the entrance, after some searching. It used to be an apartment building, I think, but it was partially collapsed and overgrown. If I hadn't found the sign, I would not have known I was in Eindhoven."

"If you travelled northwest, you should have reached the southeast of the city," Gerard said. "I assume there will be hills. Did you see those?"

"I think so," Harrald said. "There was a marked difference between flat, swamp covered land and row upon row of hills. There seemed to be patterns."

Gerard placed a yellowed map on the table. "That means you should travel along the south side. According to this map, the Science Park is here." He placed his finger on the exact spot.

"I have to try," he said. "If the incubators are still there..."

"The odds of them still being operational after all these years..." Gerard shook his head. "In all likelihood, there's no power and if water got in, all is lost."

"But I must," Harrald said. "I do not want to be the last."

"Neither do we, sweet one," Maria said, "but the plagues, the wars and the ensuing chaos... Too few people survived. And we all go, at some point."

Unusually pessimistic, Gerard said: "Perhaps it's for the better. Humanity has proven itself unworthy."

In silence Harrald finished his cup. "I'm leaving in three days."

On the morning of the third day Harrald said goodbye to Gerard and Maria, but also to Lotte. He had spent the last few nights with her. She was a few years older than his parents, a widow, with a preference for young lovers. And he was in his prime years. Had Lotte been fertile, he would have loved to have children with her and raise them, despite their age difference of more than twenty years.

"Be careful, son," Gerard said. "Did you bring the proper tools?"

"I think so, dad. This is all I can carry. Are you sure you won't need the tablet? It's the last one that works, after all."

"We have transcribed most of the knowledge in it, son," Maria said. "It's better you carry the library with you, just in case."

Lotte said nothing. She just hugged him, and he felt a tear drop along his neck. Then she turned around and walked inside without looking back.

The snow melted for the most part, except for icy patches in those places the wind caused mounds of the stuff to accumulate. It also meant the ground was muddy and difficult to walk on.

He followed the path he used before, through the woods and afterwards through the swamps of sunken Roermond. At night, he camped on the banks of the river Meuse, near the raft of tied tree trunks he used last time he was here. It was still where he pulled it high on the banks. The sky was unusually clear and Harrald saw star clusters and nebulas with his naked eyes.

Once again, he felt small and insignificant. He understood his mother's words. We all go at some point. People, animals, trees, the Earth itself, galaxies and star clusters. Deep within him however, was a fire, a need to continue his existence. If I ever have children, they will learn to respect the Earth. He saw the destruction and chaos on the old newsreels. Enough material was preserved in the archive about the wars and plagues of the twenty-first century that took humanity to the edge of extinction and the total collapse of civilisation.

Before he went to sleep, he set up lines with little alarm buzzers around his tent that would warn of any intruders getting too close.

The next morning, he crossed the Meuse, although the border between river and fens was hard to determine, so that he paddled as far in as he could. By the time he reached solid ground his pants and sleeves were drenched, and cold and his hands seemed like icicles. Even wearing his thick wool mittens, it took his fingers almost an hour to regain any sensation.

That day he traversed the Meuse fens, going from sandbar to sandbar until, after searching for a long time, he found the trail into an entirely different landscape where a thick layer of plants on spongy soil formed a near uniform landscape of dark green and purple hues. Occasionally interspersed with small lakes flanked by withered reeds. He recognised more landmarks and managed to travel a sizeable distance through the Peel Swamps. No gadflies or other pests this early in the season, so he expected to reach Eindhoven the next day, provided the weather would remain favourable.

He camped on a small hillock that sported a few trees. When he pushed the herrings into the ground, he hit something hard. He dug up the loose earth and found a small, metal frying pan. People had been here before him. He dug further and found several rusted and weathered objects, nearly unrecognisable, but also a worn, plastic Barbie with long blonde hair. He wiped off the mud and placed the doll upright against one of the trees.

In the flickering light of his camp fire it almost seemed like he had company. What I wouldn't give if she were real, he thought. He had been outside often the past few months to reconnoitre the land and he often fantasized about someone his age, preferably female, to live with and to build a future together. With children, hopefully. He often thought of Armena, even if he had never seen her. That hope, too, seemed gone.

Before he slept, he checked his alarms and listened carefully with his ear to the ground for sounds of digging from below. It wouldn't be the first time a plague victim awoke and rose because he had disturbed it.

The hills that covered Eindhoven stretched all the way to the horizon. From the hill he climbed last time, he could see the faraway blue line of the sea that was close enough to hit the city during a high tide or a storm. If anything remains below the Science Park, this might well be the final chance to get at it. Somehow it felt like fate that right now he was here to look for the labs of The Philips to see if the supposed, valuable equipment could be salvaged. His mind told him the odds were not in his favour, the possibility of nothing working anymore high, yet his heart, hoping for a miracle, spoke louder.

He found the freeway that ran like a long, straight and slightly less overgrown path along the hills. They were in fact buildings, high rises, partially collapsed and covered in plants, fine sand and loose earth; remains of a rich past, now reclaimed by nature. Small hills on the road contained the rusted carcasses of vehicles that were left behind, and he noticed pieces of windows and door sills. A single, pale skull stared back at him from a dark hole.

Snowdrops were visible in the grass and the ferns that covered the ground. The thaw of the past days heralded spring. Harrald reached the Science Park terrain at the end of the morning, an open plain with occasional monolithic hills. A small lake was dead in the middle of them. His target, the Philips buildings, was behind it. Although he did not know which building precisely, he just knew that this location of all places in Eindhoven, was the most likely for the experimental breeding chambers of The Philips.

He walked around the first hill. Ferns, vines and stiletto thorn were thick, making progress difficult. If this continued he could be here weeks, if not months, trying to find an entrance that might or might not be the proper one.

He almost despaired until he considered winter could be of assistance. If there's any working equipment below ground here, it will create heat. That will need to be dispersed somewhere. He climbed up the highest hill until he reached the top. Rusty bars protruded from the concrete that just surfaced through the compost layer. He searched the surrounding area, trying to find a greener, leafier patch of plants that had not been frozen, or snow-covered during the winter. He walked around the top and looked in all directions until he found the spot, well hidden in a copse of small trees.

Filled with hope he descended the hill and went straight to the spot he had seen from high up. With a few kicks he removed layers of grass and earth until he reached a steel grating. The scent of decay wafted up, mixed with something metallic and machine oil.

This must be it, he thought. He pinched his dyno torch a few times, and then pointed a beam of light through the grating. Below was a large hole. The bottom was covered in mud and the remnants of plants, overgrown by a weird kind of mushrooms that seemed azure in the light he shone on them. On the north side of the hole was another grating. He saw strands of pale grass move gently in a continuous stream of air that passed through it.

He looked up, right at another hill. So that should be the one, he thought. With a shovel in his hand he climbed up the slope, looking for a place he could easily dig his way in. He found a series of openings that once were concrete balconies and he used his shovel to enlarge them. When he was inside, he came upon a rusted steel door that he opened with a few well-placed kicks.

A nasty vapour escaped and made Harrald heave. He recognised the smell of decay and old corpses. Carefully he stepped inside, into a stairwell, his dyno torch in one hand, his shovel in his other hand like a weapon. Moisture had penetrated the wall and fungus and slime covered every available inch. He shone his light beam up, then down into the darkness. The sound of the mechanism inside his dyno torch mixed with the echoes of continuous dripping.

A few stairs down he saw bones on the stairs and further down was a pale skull. Eindhoven fell victim to a bioweapon early in the twenty-first century, a terrifying example that viruses cared not for race, conviction or beliefs. By then it was too late, the city was doomed. The empty shell that remained was no longer a threat and did not fall victim to other, more direct weapons.

The stairs took him to the basement of the building. Flooding had left half a yard of water. In the old days, it was some parking garage. He shone his light beam from the stairs onto the water. Two dozen cars were rusting away slowly. The water was icy cold on his legs. Harrald moved his feet slowly and very carefully. This was not the moment to get injured on hidden, rusted iron.

He played the light from the torch over the cars. On several windshields, he noticed laminated stickers with lettering: Philips Medical. A weird sensation started in his lower abdomen and he sensed a glimmer of hope rising inside. If they parked their cars here, then perhaps they also worked here. He looked around. Where would I position the entrance then?

In the middle of the parking garage was a closed off concrete block with windowless walls. He moved to it and when he walked around he saw a plateau that remained just above the water and a steel door next to a metal plate with a single red light above the stylized engraving of a human hand. He hurried up the stairs, and then investigated the door and the plate. 'Authorized personnel only' it read, underneath a 'beware!' Sign with a jet-black biohazard logo. No visible locks or hinges.

Harrald placed his hand on the metal panel. Beneath his fingertips he noticed rough areas that seemed to push against his skin. A short buzzer rang and a red light in the shape of a biohazard logo blinked three times. Security systems that are still operational, after hundreds of years. There is hope, he thought, and a challenge.

Using his knife, he pried the edge of the plate until it came loose and revealed a printed circuit board with numerous wires. Harrald recognised several of the circuits and chips, but the majority he was unfamiliar with. He took the tablet and started his search engine.

Thirty possible designs, find the differences. Diligently he followed the wires and lanes, occasionally distracted by the fading light of the dyno torch that forced him to squeeze it again. In the end, there were just two choices left. One of those carried a Philips logo. He grinned and identified the wires that gave the door the 'open' signal. Seconds later the green light appeared accompanied by a dull clicking sound.

Using his left foot, he pushed against the metal door that swung inward on softly creaking hinges.

Lights on the wall came on and he saw a stairwell with metal grating stairs leading down. The air was dry and tasted like a machine, with just a whiff of old death. He stepped inside and walked down the stairs. The bottom was several dozen yards below him. Two stairs down he more felt than heard a soft thud. Looking up he noticed the door had closed again. I'll deal with that later, he thought. At this moment, his curiosity was too great.

The doors below opened automatically when he approached. Two centuries worth of dust covered the floor. He left a trail of footsteps in it while he walked into a room with a single desk. A plaque on the wall read 'Reception' and the desk was empty. The door to his right had a forced lock. He pushed. It opened without a sound and revealed a concrete plateau with a railing and darkness beyond. He stepped through and pinched his dyno torch. The light beams disappeared into the darkness, but he saw occasional reflections from glasslike surfaces.

He found a light switch next to the door by the light of his torch. When he pulled it, several dozen lamps came on illuminating a cavernous hall. Thick concrete pillars supported a high roof and between them dozens of offices were created surrounding a central glass dome. Everywhere he looked, the Philips logo appeared. This must be it, can't be anything else.

Excited he descended the stairs to the offices. Where he walked the lights shone brighter and the glow from the lamps seemed warmer. Harrald suspected automated systems. They were much better than the candles and torches in the old convent.

He jumped when he encountered his first skeleton. Remnants of desiccated flesh and skin were still stretched taut over bones that lay prostrate on a couch in one of the offices. The body was clothed in an old laboratory coat, many worn jeans and a light grey shirt. Harrald tapped the skeleton's right arm with his machete several times until he was convinced it was harmless.

While walking through the corridors past glass office walls he imagined the people living and working here for so many years. The two dozen cars upstairs told him he would find more bodies here. In a far-off side room, he found human-sized black plastic bags, more than twenty, all neatly in a row, all filled. He ignored them and moved on to his real goal, the glass dome he had seen previously.

A glass tube with an airlock gave access. Again, he saw signs of forced entry. The central space consisted of a raised floor with rows of desks with monitors mounted above them. Around the raised floor were dozens of transparent, egg-shaped constructions, like capsules, which were connected to the floor via tubes and conduits. They reminded him of the incubators he had once seen on an old episode of the Discovery Channel in the archives. As far as he could tell they were empty. He walked to the nearest. The lid was upright and on the inside, was some blue sludge residue that had long ago dried up. He walked through the dome, counting exactly fifty of the egg-shaped capsules. All empty. He tapped a few of the plastic tubes that broke off immediately. Porous crap, not suitable for anything.

Harrald walked back to the desks with the screens and behind a set of mounted monitors found another raised floor with a large chair on it. He walked up the stairs and pulled the chair towards him. The skeleton that was seated on it, collapsed into a heap of clothes and bones. He jumped back and as he came down he pulled out his machete, keeping it before him in a defensive posture. Only when he was certain the skeleton did not move, did his breathing return to normal. He must have been one of the last. Died working. A pile of papers was on the desk, an ancient ballpoint and a plastic chip card labelled 'Ariadne'. He lifted the remains from the chair and placed them at the bottom of the stairs.

The sheets of paper contained dense writing. After so many years the ink had bleached to a vague brown orange, hardly legible. Harrald sat in the chair and read a diary of the last days of one Arnold Janssens who felt his end approach and all alone put his thoughts on paper. He read about a group of researchers and engineers, locked inside the research centre while the outside sensors kept showing level four biothreats. He remembered the biohazard light on the sensor plate. Now he understood why the door remained locked. He felt alright, so either the sensor was broken, or he was immune to whatever threat was out there. Apparently, it scared them enough to voluntarily stay inside.

He read about contact with several military centres that disappeared from the ether one by one and the frantic research by the team members to realise their most important projects. In the end only two of those remained, the incubators and something called 'Project Ariadne'. Arnold Janssens wrote he and his colleagues finally had concluded that the incubators were useless as long as the level four bio threat wasn't neutralised. Therefore, they had devoted all their thought and effort to 'Project Ariadne'.

"But what," he said aloud, "is 'Project Ariadne'?"

The last sentences in the letter were directed at 'someone who finds these letters.'...Ariadne is perfect. As soon as she has matured, she will become the perfect mother for a trans-human race. She contains the latest AI developments the Defence Department sent us, and she fits perfectly in agenda 2045. Besides that, she holds a selection of the best eggs and sperm from the institute's DNA banks such that she could repopulate our damaged planet with new, human life, even after the last human is gone.

Harrald read the last sentence again and thought: So, I won't have to be the last. Butterflies fluttered around his stomach. "You're making me curious, Arnold Janssens." He looked down at the grinning skull of the old researcher. "What you're not telling me is how long Ariadne needed to mature. And more important: where is she?" For a moment, he hesitated. What if Ariadne had grown old in the meantime? What if she had died? It lasted only a few seconds. Ariadne was obviously not human, so he couldn't just assign human values to her. He took the chip card and inspected it. There were obvious wear marks on it, so it had been used. "Where, oh where?"

He walked past banks of monitors, neatly organised desks and dozens of keyboards. Between the desks he saw the incubators and the cables running from them into the ground. He thought long and hard. Wait, where does that power originate? A generator? One that lasts centuries? It can only be nuclear. And that means there's a reactor. He looked at the ground beneath his feet. It feeds power through the cables in the ground, so the reactor is down here, or there's a substation that is powered by that reactor.

He stepped down from the dais and walked around it, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Finally, he found a slot at the side of the stairs leading up to the platform. He took the card and turned it around in his hands a couple of times. Is this the answer? He thought. If she can help put children on the world, humanity still has a chance. He placed the card in the slot. It can't just end. A new beginning, with values and standards that will unite humanity.

Part of the platform slid down and sideways, revealing a broad spiral stair down. He descended and wherever he walked a warm, diffuse glow emanated from panels in the walls. He walked further down and entered a large cellar that contained a laboratory beside a large construction of tubes and valves that filled almost a third of the available space. It sported the bright yellow logo that indicated nuclear energy. The reactor, Harrald thought. That's why the light's still on, that's how the air is purified. A panel with green lights indicated that the device operated within normal parameters. What if the sea enters here? He wondered, until he read 'thorium percentage' on one of the dials. He sighed with relief. A thorium reactor, minimal danger. Dozens of cables left the construction and ran across the ceiling toward the incubators and the outside. Another thick bundle ran into the laboratory. He followed it.

A metal tank was in the centre of the room. Countless tubes on one end of the hulk were tied to unfathomable machinery that looked improvised, amateurish even, causing him to remember some of the words Arnold Janssens wrote. A bundle of fibre optics ran to a dark rack in the corner that contained two dozen computer servers that sported many fast blinking LED lights. Harrald wondered what these computers could be so busy with.

He walked to the tank and opened a hatch on a viewport on top. The light falling in touched a set of light blue eyes whose pupils quickly shrunk to pinpoints. He took a sharp breath and tried to look further inside. Her head was mostly submerged in a milky fluid and tubes and cables covered her body, as far as he could observe through the small viewport. "Ariadne," he said, reverently.

Next to the tank was a list of instructions, yellowed with age, but readable. The steps were simple and ten minutes later he started the awakening procedure for 'project Ariadne.' Then he took it easy and ate some old, hard bread and dry sausage his parents gave him. He read more pages in the document and on the last page found clothing instructions and the place her clothes were stored. Outside the laboratory he took those out of the cupboard and prepared heavy trousers and a tunic for her. While he waited, he went through several rooms to find items he deemed useful, which he placed in his backpack.

After an hour, the locks on the tank started to turn and he counted twelve dull clicks in a row while the locks and seals opened. He got up and stood next to the tank holding a towel. The lid split in two and one part slid upward, the other downward. The fluid that contained Ariadne had mostly been drained and her body seemed washed clean. One by one the tubes released from her body and her skin rapidly closed. As soon as the last tube was released, she slowly arose. He blue eyes blinked, as if she saw her environment for the first time.

Harrald stared at the naked woman in the tank before him. As far as he could observe she was complete, no electric or electronic components were visible, and she could very well be an ordinary human. For a moment, he had trouble breathing and he thought Ariadne a very beautiful woman. She was also the only woman of his age he knew, the others were all well past forty, usually by a wide margin.

Ariadne lifted her hands and looked at them. Then she reached up to her head and wrung out her long, blonde hair. She looked at him inquisitively.

He admired the way her breasts were pulled up by her actions. He felt lust and shame at the same time. He stretched out his hand while holding up the towel in his other hand, so she would know what he meant. Can she even talk? He wondered. "Hi, my name is Harrald,' he said. Geez, how lame can you be? "Ehm, I mean, I think you could use a towel?"

Ariadne took his hand and stood up gracefully. Her grip was tight. He swallowed. Carefully she stepped out of the tank and accepted the towel. She dried her skin with slow, deliberate movement as if she was examining her own body for the first time. She dressed in the clothes he handed her. The trousers and the tunic fit perfectly, like they were made for her. And they probably were, he thought. Damn, she looks fine.

Her voice was sweet and melodious with a slightly mechanical tone. Almost like what she wanted to say and what her throat produced did not quite match up. "Harrald, where are the others?"

"Ehm, what do you mean? People from my village or the researchers here?"

Ariadne considered for a moment. "The researchers, I think."

"They're all dead. Two hundred years, maybe more." He noticed her staring at a point somewhere behind him, as if she witnessed something at a distance that he could not even begin to surmise, until she blinked and looked at him again.

"I did not have that information yet. What is the situation outside?"

He shrugged. "Well, there was snow a few days back, but it seems like spring has finally arrived."

"Radiation levels, biothreats, mutation degrees, safe houses, climate change, migration patterns, geologic shifts, birth and death rates?" Ariadne asked. Her face remained unmoved while she recited the list.

Harrald nodded. "Ah, that's what you meant. I do not have all the answers, but I can tell you there have been wars and bioterrorism." His smile disappeared. "Humanity is largely extinct. I live with my family in a village several days from here. I think we're the last humans on earth."

"Please explain, last humans."

He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. "There's maybe two hundred of us left in the village. We grow our food and search for preserved goods in abandoned buildings in the surrounding area. We especially like seeds and dried, vacuum sealed goods."

"Demographic spread?" Ariadne asked.

She's like a robot, Harrald thought. Then again, she is one. Advanced, purpose-built and looking for information. AI, the letter said, Artificial Intelligence. "I'm the youngest in the village. Over half are past their fiftieth year."

"Where are the children?"

"None were born after me," he said. "Young, fertile women had accidents, got sick or infertile or died giving birth to their first child."

Ariadne blinked several times. "You've gone past the pivot," she said. "No way back after that."

"Thirty years ago, we communicated with a few dozen families all over the continent. Our radio reached all the way to what used to be Southern Spain." Armena "The last contact we had was over two weeks ago. It has been quiet since."

"Is that why you woke me?"

"I read articles about experiments involving incubators and artificial pregnancies and I hoped they could solve our problem with births. I've looked for this place for several years."

"You found it." Ariadne stood and stretched her arms. "I'm capable of producing four to eight children in a year. I need a secure location for that. That's why I need to know what the outside is like."

Harrald nodded his understanding. "Yeah, I get that, yes. Anyway, you can't stay here. The sea levels have been rising and it's approaching the suburbs of Eindhoven. I don't think this cellar will remain watertight for very long once sea water enters the ventilation systems."

Ariadne walked over to the computers in the corner of the laboratory and touched one of the servers with her hand. "Radiation levels acceptable. Biothreat level four. The outside air contains harmful agents." She looked at him. "You don't seem bothered by it. Why not?"

"Most cities in the world are dead, humanity's all but extinct. Our ancestors apparently had immunity." Harrald gave a wry smile. "Too bad there are so few of us."

Ariadne remained silent for several seconds and her eyes seemed empty, her mind absent. When life returned to her eyes, she said: "It seems we need each other for now. Shall we leave?"

"Do we need anything from this place?"

"I don't," Ariadne said.

He walked behind her up the stairs. Her first steps were uncertain, but soon became fluid and powerful. As he watched her move he thought: I found you, that's all that I need.

They walked through the hills of Eindhoven when the sun set. Harrald found a dry, secluded spot and pitched his tent. By the light of a small fire he ate some of his rations. He offered Ariadne some bread, which she refused.

"Can't you eat? Or won't you eat?" He asked her, curious. "Do you have an internal power source?"

She shook her head, slowly. "I'm just not hungry. I will be. This body knows how to conserve energy."

"Do you sleep?" Harrald asked. "If we lie close together we would both fit inside the tent."

"I rarely sleep; however, I do have a repair function that switches off my body for several hours to devote all energy to repairs. You might call it sleep, kind of." Again, she shook her head. "So, no, I don't have to lie together with you in your tent."

"That's clear," Harrald said. "But if you don't mind, I could use a couple of hours of sleep. We humans still need it."

"Yes, you still do," Ariadne said.

He looked at her, but when she remained quiet he stretched lines all around the camp and put little alarm buzzers on them.

"Do you expect predators?"

"No, infected. Rare these days, but occasionally one wakes up, usually caused by raucous humans. If I'm in a place where humans once obviously lived, I often put my ear to the ground. You hear them digging." She bowed and put her ear to the ground.

"Nothing. Does that mean we're safe?"

"Probably. That's what the buzzers are for." He crawled into his tent. "I'm going to get some sleep. Call me if you need me."

"Wake up!" Nerve grating buzzing accompanied the words. He was immediately wide awake, though still disoriented. The first thing he grabbed was his machete, before he rolled out of his tent. The fire was a pile of dying embers and in the red light he noticed Ariadne on her knees next to the tent.

"What is it?" he whispered.

Ariadne pointed.

He saw a pale figure shamble slowly closer. Inside the light circle of the fire he saw long, dark hair framing a desiccated face. It was female once, but now had no eyes and holes through which yellowed teeth were visible, her clothes were unidentifiable rags. Pieces of sod dropped off the infected at every step. "Watch this," he said and stood before Ariadne with his machete. The infected changed course when she heard his voice. As soon as she was close enough he stepped past her reaching hands and buried the machete in her head with a sickening crunch, hard enough to sever the spinal cord. She collapsed without noise.

He turned to Ariadne. "Did she touch you, scratch you or bite you?"

Ariadne shook her head. "I was examining the wreck of a vehicle, close by. She was underneath a pile of dirt and leaves and suddenly began to move."

He leaned on the machete and suddenly felt very tired. His sleep had been interrupted and he was not well rested. "They can lie rotting for years and you are certain they're dead. And then, out of nowhere, they rise. Or they dig themselves out of their graves."

"How can this be?" Ariadne said.

"I have no clue. It resembles an infection, but no one ever found out what caused it. And some people were vulnerable while others were not." He walked around the tent and reset his alarms. The fire blazed to life with the new wood he threw on.

"Are you just going to leave her there?" Ariadne asked.

He nodded. "She's not going anywhere. Kill the brain and they drop dead."

Ariadne walked around the fire and sat next to the body. Before Harrald could say or do anything she pushed her right index finger into the fresh wound he just made. With a fluent move, she licked the tip of her finger.

"Are you insane?" he said, shocked. "You don't touch the infected. Before you know it, you'll be like them!"

"Humans maybe," Ariadne said. "I'm not human. Now let me analyse this sample."

"Whatever you feel like, just be careful. I'm gonna sleep some more." He went back to his tent. Did I do right... waking it? She's quite... different. His eyes scanned her face and he caught himself staring at her breasts for longer than necessary. She's very pretty. I wonder what she feels like. He fell asleep after that.

A pale sun rose just above the horizon, casting its rays over the vast swamps of the Peel. Harrald woke up and looked from his tent at the orange light that played across the low brush on the hills. Small trees threw endless shadows over pools filled with duckweed and reeds.

He was lying on his side and he felt her body. His hand rested on her hip and she lay with her back to him. Her blonde hair was a fluffy mound in his face and he felt an involuntary hardness develop that reached out and through his trousers touched her behind. Very carefully he pushed himself up on his left elbow so that he could study her. Apparently, she had joined him somewhere during the night. He scraped his throat.

Ariadne rolled onto her stomach and looked at him. "It got kind of cold. I still have to get used to this flesh."

"Surely you walked around before?" Harrald said. "I mean, you seem quite balanced."

She shook her head, an almost human gesture. "I lived in virtual worlds, until you woke me. My only practice was the muscle stimulation inside the tank to keep up my strength."

"So, this is your first time outside the tank?" Harrald asked. "I mean, in two hundred years?"

"Something like that, yes. But it was over in the blink of an eye. The real world is just more 'real', so I need to adjust and get used to it." She zipped the tent open en crawled outside.

Harrald gazed at her admiringly before he followed. She stood very straight, her face toward the horizon while a soft breeze played with her blonde hair.

"I have seen sunrises in my virtual world. They are nothing compared to this," Ariadne said.

"And you surprise me," Harrald said.

"How so?"

"Yesterday you spoke, how shall I put it, mechanical. Now I hear sentences that flow from your mouth and there's a definite feel of emotion in your words." He placed his hands on her shoulders and felt her hidden strength. "Who are you, Ariadne? And what are you?"

She turned and smiled. "I'm tasked with saving humanity. My builders had very clear thoughts on that. And they provided me with many resources to accomplish my task."

"Like samples from the DNA banks?" Harrald asked. "That's what Arnold Janssen's letters told me."

Ariadne nodded slowly. "I carry enough to produce more than one hundred perfect children."

"Too bad they won't survive in this world."

"That conclusion seems accurate," Ariadne said. "Too many lethal viruses in the air."

"There's still a few days before we reach the village," he said. "Time enough to consider solutions."

When he picked up the buzzers and the wires, he noticed the body of the woman he put down the evening before. It was carved up in dozens of pieces and all parts were laid out in neat rows and had been dissected. He looked at Ariadne and called: "Is this your doing?"

She came over and stood next to him. "I could not find viruses or bacteria that would explain anything. I did find parasites. The nails and teeth are filled with eggs and I suspect mosquitoes assist in the spread."

He shivered. "How can they rise then?" Ariadne shrugged. Another very human gesture, he thought.

"I don't know yet," she said. "Shall we go?"

Carefully he packed up his gear and with the sun well above the horizon he found his way back along the ponds and peat bogs of the Peel. He told about the different kinds of reeds, plants and animals that lived here and she listened closely.

"You know what's special?" he said when they reached the camp site he had used previously.

"Special? Is something special or do you think it's special?" Ariadne asked.

"I apologize, I need to be clearer." He pointed at the low hill. "Yesterday night I found an old Barbie doll and when I first saw you, I was reminded of that doll."

"I don't see the connection," Ariadne said with a cool voice.

He grinned sheepishly. "I hoped to find a woman who looked like that Barbie doll."

"And I resemble that doll. Therefore, you see in me the woman you were looking for."

His cheeks burned. "Eh, if you say it like that..."

Ariadne put her hand on his arm. "It's alright. This is a normal physiological reaction." She squeezed her eyes. "I think I feel 'flattered'."

For the following kilometres he remained silent. His head was busy. Ariadne's astuteness surprised him. At the same time, he sensed in her ways a mechanical quality that made him doubt her humanity somewhat. Then he looked at her supple movements and admired her body. That sufficed to trivialize the differences and to make up excuses. She lived only in the virtual world, without real people, no contact whatsoever. She's like a wolf child.

His raft of tree trunks was still where he left it. It could not carry two people. Ariadne solved their problem by walking behind the raft and pushing it. She sometimes walked up to her neck in the cold water.

"Isn't that too cold for you?" Harrald asked.

"Not really," Ariadne said. "My metabolism adjusts fast."

"It's too heavy!"

Ariadne demonstrated him wrong by lifting the raft with him on it half a yard from the water.

"Alright, alright, I believe you."

"Good. I want to see your village, so we can start making plans."

"Plans?"

"Yes. Plans. My purpose is to save mankind, remember?" Ariadne said. "I want to know if your village is a safe place for children. Lots of children. Are there sufficient resources? Freshwater, electricity, food..."

They crossed the Meuse and spent the night high on the banks. This time Ariadne did join him in the tent. She was cold and he pulled her against him, wrapping his sleeping bag around the both of them.

"Can you get sick?"

"My flesh and insides are synthetic. Based on organic chemistry," Ariadne answered. "So, unlikely, although there's always a chance."

"This part of the world remained relatively unscathed," Harrald explained. "The powers in those days used nuclear fire. I heard on the radio about bizarre mutations in the Russian forests, gruesome at times, effective sometimes. We never heard from the Americas anymore."

"Then this shall be the new Eden," Ariadne said.

He considered her use of this reference. When he wanted to ask about his role, he heard her snore softly. With a smile, he pulled the sleeping bag tighter around her body.

They reached the north side of the village. The open field was in bloom, crocuses, daffodils and bright blue pole dance grass that twisted in the slightest breeze. The Dead Hole was nearly bare. Like every other year almost nothing grew on it, except some hardy thistles.

"The old convent," he said

Ariadne nodded approvingly. "And sturdy fences surround the complex. How many people are there now?"

"Over two hundred, but almost all of them are well past fifty. More than half would be considered senior citizens a few hundred years ago."

"What about supplies? Equipment?" Ariadne asked.

"We grow our food, we have cows, chickens and sheep and there's enough game in the area. Deer, swine, rabbit, sometimes even a bear."

"So, the viruses and parasites only target humans? Animals are less susceptible or completely immune?"

He thought for a moment. "If you put it like that, it sure seems that way."

"I assume you have weapons to shoot that game?" Ariadne asked.

"Of course. Compound hunting bows, but also hunting rifles, pistols and fully automatic weapons." He thought of the care people still gave these weapons. It did not matter that brush grew up to the fences, it was an acceptable risk. Weapons that did not work or jammed, weren't.

Ariadne looked up and seemed to listen for a moment. "Good. Let's go inside then. Tomorrow I have a shopping list for you."

"What do you mean?"

Ariadne smiled. "Are you going to introduce me to your parents?"

Harrald felt his cheeks heat up and he coughed. "Yes, yes, of course."

Like a few days ago, his mother waited for him. Harrald recognised the emotions on her face when he introduced Ariadne to her, a mixture of relief, happiness and curiosity.

"Come inside quickly, kids. It's still cold outside and the sun will set soon." Maria pushed him and Ariadne inside and closed the gate behind them. "Gerard will be so pleased to see you."

He never thought he would see tears in his father's eyes, but on this occasion, they flowed in abundance and he was given more hugs than he had had in ages. He looked sideways at Ariadne who seemed amused, although he could not read her expressions as well as he wanted, insofar she displayed those,

"Well, sit down," Gerard said. He pointed at the chairs around the table, then opened one of the cupboards and took out glasses, a bottle of wine, cheese and dry sausage. "So, what are your plans, kids?"

Harrald felt flushed again. "I believe Ariadne has some specific ideas on that."

Ariadne smiled. "My mission, my task in life, is to save the human race. For that I have been equipped with all the necessities."

Gerard smiled and took Maria's hand in his. "Good news, I think." He looked sideways. "What do you think, dear?"

"I think they make a lovely couple," Maria said. Her eyes shone with pride, every time she looked at her son.

Ariadne was single-minded. "My assignment requires that I produce some eight children in a year." After those words, it became very quiet.

"What are you talking about?" Maria asked.

Harrald raised his hand. "Ho, wait, let me explain something. I went looking for the incubators in Eindhoven, like we discussed. But they weren't operational and could not be fixed. I found clues about another project of The Philips, by the name of Ariadne." He nodded at the woman sitting next to him. "This is Ariadne. The greatest medical scientists back then designed her and constructed her. Ariadne is not human."

Gerard snorted. "She seems real enough to me."

"I was modelled after thousands of women who were considered attractive in those days." Ariadne plucked her hair. "Blonde to indicate heightened fertility, wide hips, an hourglass figure with ample breasts to indicate I will produce sufficient milk. The ideal woman to have children with.

"So, if you're not human, what are you?" Maria asked timidly.

"I think the word you could use is an android. Another option could be a hybrid."

Gerard coughed. "Robot, right?"

"Correct," Ariadne said in a monotone.

"But you can have kids?" he continued.

Ariadne nodded. "Eight every year. More if there are twins or triplets.

"But will they be human?" Maria asked. "How do you feed them?"

"I'm an incubator, I use human DNA to grow a child, but I also raise them. Using the proper hormone treatments speeds up development so that gestation is limited to about two months. I can transform any food directly into milk." To emphasise her words, she took a piece of bread and nibbled from it.

"Everything is covered," Gerard concluded.

"The teams that created me were the top in their field, every one of them. They took twenty-five years and after that I needed to remain another fifty years in the tank to become fully grown.

"That sounds like a long time to create a robot," Gerard said.

Ariadne laughed, showing very white teeth. "I am much more than just a robot, Gerard. Almost all my parts are organic and can do autonomous repairs."

Maria scraped her throat. "You're obviously more than human. What stops you from creating more of your kind?"

"Mom, you shouldn't ask that." Harrald folded his arms. "Ariadne is here to help us."

Maria held up her hand. "Don't get me wrong, please. It's just a question I have." She gazed into her son's brown eyes. "You are my only child, is it so bad that I worry?"

"Let me alleviate your worries, Maria," Ariadne said. "I was built and programmed to put humans on this world and to raise them up to a point. As far as I know I am and will remain unique."

"You said something about a shopping list." Harrald sensed an animosity with his parents that he understood on a rational level, but he was convinced Ariadne held the key to their problem.

Ariadne kept watching his parents with her light blue eyes while she answered his question. "A few kilometres north of here is an old RAF air force base. I will provide you coordinates of a warehouse filled with medical supplies that I will need in the coming year."

"Is that right?" Harrald asked. "I've been there before, but I only saw trees."

Gerard nodded. "It was abandoned even before the start of the first wars. Unless you know what to look for, you won't find anything."

"And what would I be looking for?" He looked at Ariadne again.

"Sterile needles, bandages, saline solutions, medications, antibiotics and lots more. Bring several large backpacks. This stuff isn't heavy, but it's voluminous." Ariadne smiled at him and he again felt a blush. "Meanwhile I can inspect the buildings and find the perfect spot."

"I can make that in a day. If I leave early in the morning, I'll be back home tomorrow night."

They talked for almost an hour about setting up a maternity ward, medical facilities and enlisting the help of the people in the village for raising the children.

When Harrald yawned, Ariadne put her hand on his. "Perhaps you should go to sleep early. I can use some sleep myself. Is there a building where I can stay the night?"

"Of course," Gerard said. "And you're absolutely right. You both need to be well rested considering all those plans."

"I'll show you," Harrald said. He pulled Ariadne up and took her to one of the small houses on the terrain. With a shrinking population, many of the houses were empty, but they were being maintained for emergencies. He showed her around and made her bed.

"If there is anything," he said from the door, "come to the great hall. Someone's bound to be awake there."

Ariadne stood very close to him and put her left arm around his neck. She softly pulled him against her and he felt her soft breasts and the gyration of her hips against his mid-section. Her right arm slid up along his thigh. Her hand between his legs pinched him softly. She whispered in his ear: "When you return, tomorrow, we should see to your DNA."

Harrald placed his right hand on her back, bent a little forward and pressed his lips against her lips. She reacted and played with his lips and tongue. Involuntarily he compared her to Lotte, his only frame of reference. He was pleasantly surprised.

Ariadne then put her hand on his chest and pushed him away, with a naughty smile. "Tomorrow evening, Harrald."

He grinned. "I'll be there. Good night."

"You too." She closed the door.

Singing softly, he turned in for the night, but he couldn't sleep. In the darkness of his room he realised he had kissed a robot, an artificial human. What worried him was that he liked it. Her body against his excited him more than Lotte had ever done and his interest in the other woman had completely disappeared.

The sky was pink and orange when Harrald stepped through the gate and pulled it closed. The air was chill. Hoar frost lay like a glistening white blanket over the field and the wisps of fog lit up like mysterious veils in the first rays of the sun. He sniffed the morning air that carried the scent of the forest and started to walk. Ariadne's instructions were clear. He only worried about the dirt he would have to scoop away to reach the entrance of the bunker she described.

While he walked his mind was occupied with Ariadne's promise, not because of what she told him she wanted from him that night, but the possibility of soon seeing a child or even children. Eight or more in a year. He envisioned kicking a ball across a field and having a gaggle of toddlers run after it. He knew these images from the archives only, but he had always remembered them fondly.

Because he was distracted he nearly walked headfirst into a cluster of gall spiders. Only in the last instant did he notice the bright green dots on their fat abdomens. Very gently he stepped back, careful about tripwires and holes in the ground. Gall spiders were hive creatures that formed large communities. They hunted as a collective and often caught prey no individual spider could hold on to. He'd once found a young buck, dead and stiff, completely covered with the critters. He searched for a different route, keeping a respectful distance from the nest.

Around noon he found the remains of the old clubhouse that overlooked the golf greens that were once located here. It was an excellent spot for him to get his bearings. He walked across hills and through ditches purposefully, aware that below him should be an ancient runway with buildings and bunkers. Everything was overgrown or had disappeared beneath a thick, rotting layer of mulch. The contours of buildings and constructions remained visible, straight lines and regular shapes as he witnessed in Eindhoven.

He wasted almost two hours finding the proper spot to start digging. At half a yard, deep he kept finding thick concrete, but it was not clear where the entrance might be. To find at least the edge of the building, he dug shallow trenches.

When he finally found the place where the door should be, the sun was up high in the sky. Harrald was sweating profusely. He drank tepid water from his bottle and a few honey cakes his mother packed for him.

Using his shovel, he dug away just enough earth to make sure the door he was looking for was here in this exact spot, after which he started shovelling out earth, sand and dirt in a monotonous rhythm. It took him three hours to move several dozen cubic feet. The door he uncovered contained rust and the rubber that surrounded it was porous, but the seal of the room behind it was intact. His crowbar remedied that.

Inside he found a large basement, filled with row upon row of racks. In the light that entered from the outside he saw that the racks contained shelves full of sealed vacuum supplies, most labelled with the sign of the Red Cross or the Red Crescent.

Harrald took his first backpack and walked along the racks. The labels on the shelves were dried out and crumbled at a touch. He filled each of his three backpacks until he could barely carry them. He had a feeling he would have to take several more stops to rest, but he did not care. The supplies would last for a while, but he could always return at some later time to replenish their stocks.

Outside the sky had turned grey and he felt the fresh wind from the west that promised rain. Ariadne was on his mind. He grinned and started the long trek back to the village. While walking he hummed songs from a distant past, all somehow involving love. At the derelict club house, he rested for the first time. He looked around at the remains of walls and the weathered fabric and wood of the furniture and wondered what it would be like to live in a world where people walked around without care, even a world with just more people in it.

Energy replenished he loaded up the backpacks and started the next leg of his walk back, this time giving the gall spiders a wide berth. He was so tired that he occasionally tripped on the uneven forest floor. After the third fall, he decided to take it a little slower. He recognized his haste, knew his desire, for a certain woman who waited at home for him, caused it. The evening is still young, gest to get there a little late, and in one piece. Better than having a broken leg; or worse.

The sun had dipped well below the horizon and the last light fell on the ponderous dark clouds that dripped water and were becoming more threatening by the minute.

He was happy to see the lights next to the gate of the convent before him. The rain soaked him. He considered himself lucky to have taken the watertight backpacks. When he reached the gate, it swung open. He expected his mother, but it was Ariadne. She was dressed in a slinky black dress that enhanced her figure and left little to the imagination. He thought it might be an heirloom from an era when people still clung to material display.

"You made good time," she said.

He smiled. "I had something to look forward too." He glanced past her and asked: "Where are Maria and Gerard? They usually wait up for me."

"They're just working on something. I saw you approach and did not want to disturb them." She took two of his backpacks. "Coming?" She walked towards the small house he left her in yesterday evening.

Harrald took a deep breath and followed her, endlessly fascinated by the soft sway of her hips. She opened the door for him and stepped inside. She stood in the door opening, laughed at him and gestured him to come closer with a crooked index finger.

"What are you up to?" he asked. He could not suppress his feelings.

Ariadne arched one of her delicate eyebrows. "Need you ask?"

When he stood before her, she hooked her finger behind his belt and pulled him after her into the house. He put his backpack with the others, and then caught her in his arms. He kissed her, soft at first, hungry soon. His hands slid across her back and buttocks and he kneaded her supple flesh. All thoughts of 'artificial' or 'robot' vanished and Harrald lost himself in the moment.

Ariadne pulled his sweater over his head. Next his shirt. She caressed his chest and belly and her fingers, and the fresh air caused goose bumps. She stared into his eyes while she unbuckled his belt and loosened the buttons of his pants. He slid his hands down from her neck to her full breasts, cupping them gently.

Kissing and caressing they walked into the bedroom. Harrald pulled her dress over her head and admired her naked body. His body responded immediately, and he sighed with relief when Ariadne pulled his pants and underwear down.

They lay next to each other and Harrald ran his left hand along her shoulder, her breasts and further down to her hips. Ariadne pushed up against him and put her leg around his middle while she kissed him deep and guided his hand. A minute or an eternity later she fell back on the bed and pulled him on top of her. The sex was intense and fast. When he couldn't go any longer he collapsed exhausted and pleased.

Ariadne pushed him from her gently. "That was a generous donation. That will last me several years."

Harrald grinned and rolled onto his side. "Glad to hear it. However, I do hope it won't be just this one time."

Ariadne got up and put her dress back on. "Maybe." She took his clothes and threw them at him. "Come."

"Are we in a hurry?" he asked. When he got off the bed, he felt a stinging sensation in his lower back. His hand came back with a smear of red. "Those are mean nails, lady." He smirked. "Nice, I say." A sudden shiver ran down his back. He felt cold and quickly put on his clothes.

He followed Ariadne from the house and together they walked the path leading to the convent. Just before the entrance his legs faltered and had Ariadne not caught him, he would have fallen.

"Thanks, not sure what's going on, but my legs are a bit shaky."

Ariadne pushed the door open and helped him inside. "That's the poison," she said.

Harrald grabbed the hand that supported him and looked at her. "What's that?"

A hint of a smile was on Ariadne's lips when she raised her free hand and curled it into a claw. "The poison in my nails that I injected into your back, when you ejaculated. That poison."

With lips numb, he said: "I don't get it."

Ariadne opened the doors to the great hall and Harrald froze when he saw the carnage that had taken place there. The scent of blood, vomit, faeces and above all fear was heavy in the air. Close by, on a table, where the bodies of his parents, neatly cut up into pieces, with a razor-sharp knife, their heads next to each other. His stomach turned, and he vomited until only bile remained. Everywhere he looked he saw bodies, most with a strange bend in their necks, but also several with heads bashed in, chests pulled open to reveal the cavity and on the reading table was a mountain of naked women whose abdomens had been sliced open, so their intestines bulged out.

"What happened here?"

"Preparations to produce the first series, of course," Ariadne said.

"But, they're all dead. Why?" his voice was hoarse, and he had to force his breath past his vocal cords. Breathing became hard.

"The old ones were only using up precious energy and food resources. Unacceptable. The younger men were dangerous. They were not just strong, but also predisposed to patriarchal standards. That clashed with the philosophy put forth by my builders regarding the raising of children. I had an issue to resolve. The women I needed to provide additional eggs with your specific genetic resistance to the airborne viruses all around us. The harvesting process is suboptimal in these circumstances, so they did not survive. Fortunately, there were sufficient viable eggs." Ariadne gave him a short smile. "The semen I needed you gave me. You are no longer of use, just the final obstacle. Looking at you I think my work is almost done." She placed a short kiss on his forehead, and then let his limp body slide to the floor.

Epilogue

Ariadne walked through the deserted corridors of the convent to the maternity ward she had set up. She had taken all the villagers to the great hall and killed them there. In the next days, she would bury all the bodies. Now she made an inventory of the requirements to start raising, teaching and training the first children according to the guidelines provided to her. A new start for humanity, filled with science, suitable activities, perfectionism and intelligence, a peaceful gathering of like-minded people.

When she walked past the radio room, she heard the device crackle. "Hello, Harrald? Hello? Armena here." Ariadne walked into the room. "The radio was broken," the voice continued, "but I managed to fix it. How have you been? Spring has started over here."

Ariadne remained silent and pondered her situation. She switched off the radio and thought: Maybe we'll also need some soldiers...

The Support Pages

Find other works by these authors.

Floris Kleijne \- www.floriskleijne.com

James Van Pelt -www.jamesvanpelt.com

Robert N Stephenson – robertnstephenson.com

Stephen S Power – stephenspower.com/writing/short-fiction-2/

Joanna Maciejewska - www.goodreads.com/author/show/7033632.Joanna_Maciejewska

Jacob Drud \- http://www.jakobdrud.com

Liam Hogan - digitalfictionpub.com/tag/liam-hogan/

Mike Jansen – www.meznir.info – meznir@meznir.com

For FREE e-copies of all anthologies and access

to other works by the editor, go to:

www.smashwords.com/profile/view/altair2012

For print copies, simply search amazon. They are sold at amazon minimum price to allow for easier access to print materials at lower costs. Search for Robert N Stephenson on other book sites
