

# Fiction Vortex

A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

August 2013

Volume 1, Issue 4

Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

Copyright 2013 Fiction Vortex

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image by David Revoy / Blender Foundation

Cover design by Dan Hope

Website: FictionVortex.com

Twitter: @FictionVortex

Facebook: FictionVortex

# Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

Whispers in the Flame — by Steve Cotterill (1st Place)

Any Ending — by Alexandra Grunberg (3nd Place)

Kastner's Job — by Bojan Ratković

Phylactery — by Joseph Sale

The Hatchlings — by Darius Jones

Masked Desire — by Christel Bodenbender

Night Shift — by Dyane Silvester

Memory Book — by Sean Monaghan (2nd Place)

A Murder in Cyrene — by Alex Doiron

About Fiction Vortex

#  Letter from the Editor

August. Really, I think August is more a month of beginnings and endings than December and January combined. A few reasons come to mind, mainly school. August marks not only the end of summer (even if September technically is the end of summer, I never counted it as such — I live in Idaho, summer ends in August) and the beginning of school. Of course for those who went to all-year school this reason doesn't hold much relevance for you, and my sympathies go out to you.

Another beginning I can think of in August is me. I was born in August. In my younger years I always looked forward to and also dreaded August. I waited all summer for that special day that was my day only to have the death of summer lurking a few days after. It bothered me, probably more than I should have let it.

This particular August marked a symbolic ending for me. Thirty. The big three-oh. The death of my childhood. At least that is what I always thought. 'When I turn thirty, that means I am really an adult.' That's right, this month the Angel of Death was supposed to descend upon me and take away any remaining vestiges of my adolescence and introduce me to the dreary world of 9-to-5, baldness, and expanding waistlines.

Well, when that nasty ol' angel came around I stood up and said 'Take away my hair, put a few new notches in my belt, make me breathe recirculated corporate air, but dreary my life will not be!' For I do have an exciting life. My family gives me all kinds of energy, my job provides a multitude of inspiration (in really unexpected ways), and my growing gut is a sign of my wife's love delivered in the form of baked goods. And then there is this: I am the co-founder and editor of a speculative fiction magazine. I had a lot of goals that I didn't realize in my thirty years, but Fiction Vortex is something I can check off of my list.

So, read these nine stories and remember that you are helping to make this middle-aged dork's dreams come true.

Thanks,

Mike Cluff

Editor-in-Chief, and the Other Managing Editor

Fiction Vortex

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#  Whispers in the Flame

by Steve Cotterill; published August 2, 2013

First Place Award, August 2013 Fiction Contest

Nathan lay on his bed in the dark, flicking his battered lighter, bringing the flame to life, and letting it die again. Outside in the lounge, the telly thundered as his family watched some worthless program, letting their brains die piece by rotten piece. It was Tuesday so Mum was getting her medical fix. The television's volume was turned up so loud that conversation was impossible, while Dad tried to read the paper and Sam pretended to do homework, itching to get it all over and done with and play a game. Nathan didn't care; his eyes were consumed entirely by the flame, and his ears by the seductive crackling voice that only he could hear.

 He had first heard it a few months ago, around Guy Fawkes Night. It had been his season then, running with boxes of fireworks, setting them off over the weeks leading up to November and for the entire month afterwards. Awe and envy filled him as the rockets rushed into the sky, exploding, sending sparks pirouetting through the night sky. He had played with matches and his Granddad's old lighter of course, he always did, but that time had been special. He'd let the world fall away as he burned little things, losing time in the fire's light and sound.

He could not remember the first time he heard her voice. He told himself that the voice belonged to a woman, although he had no proof. She had just been there, quite suddenly, watching as he set light to an old abandoned sofa on the heath. As the flames spat and licked like greedy little tongues, warmth growing inside and out. A presence had suddenly been beside him, a kindred spirit that Nathan welcomed.

Nathan was a gangly ghost boy, tagging along behind the other children, picked last for everything, no good for anything except for his own secret plans and projects. He was ignored, forgotten by all the others, a shadow that only got attention when other, bigger boys wanted to flex their muscles. At which point their eyes invariably found him, with their fists and feet following quickly afterwards. The idea of girls talking to him, voluntarily at least, was utterly unthinkable. The closest Nathan had come to a kiss was when Jade, the spottiest girl at school, had confessed that she'd heard he fancied her. Later it transpired that one of the year's most popular girls had spread the rumor to embarrass both of them, and Nathan had retreated even further into his own private world.

After the night on the heath, the presence became a constant companion, joining him when he left the house, fading away when he got home, as if she loitered nervously on the tower block's walkway waiting for him to invite her in to meet his family. She was there through school and bus journeys and at the shops where he hung around at weekends looking lost and alone, playing with his lighter, locked away in his own little world. There, as he made genies and did other tricks, her voice was always in his ear pushing him to go further and make bigger, better, more ingenious fires. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but it was only after the incident involving a dog and a couple of leftover rockets that she opened up and started to tell Nathan who she really was.

He flicked the lighter, held the flame for as long as he could. He brushed it with his fingertips. He listened. Her voice, sweet and smoky, filled his ears to the exclusion of all else. She spoke of glory days, when the city was just wood, straw, wattle, and daub, before it was truly a city at all. Straw rooftops would ignite with single breath, and she would carouse her way through the carnage the fire caused, whirling like a gypsy, her skirt flame spreading the fire wherever her feet touched.

Before Rome came the people of the proto-Londinium had worshipped her, spilling blood and flames in her honor; burning animals to give her nourishment. She had grown fat on sacrifices. Nathan's nostrils seemed to fill with a sickly sweet scent, and he coughed a little as she whispered on, telling him how the Christians had come and she had fled to the shadows. Her worshippers had been driven underground. Hunts had ranged through the fledgling metropolis, seeking those who gave honor to the fire goddess, whose name had been lost to time even then (and those that learned it refused to reveal). No matter how many sermons were preached, hammered home even, about the wickedness of the old ways, the city's fragility had kept her close to mortal memories and minds. Even after the Normans conquered England, men and women still sought her out in the city's darker corners, seeking to appease her wrath and stay her hand.

In the shadows that the lighter's flame cast across the wall, Nathan could see the things she spoke of, secret temples in people's cellars where they burned spices from Arabia, and even further away, in her honor. He saw the gallows where her followers scrawled charcoal sigils on the frame to send the souls of criminals straight to her greedy, gaping maw, rather than to any form of rest. She showed him fleets of little fiery boats floating down the five little rivers that fed into the Thames on nights when the moon was at its darkest. The city had hosted a secret cult that had prospered through the centuries from kings, wars, plagues, and famines; even surviving into the Commonwealth. He could hear her laugh as she recalled gobbling down Charles the First's soul, for her reach had been long then, and Hampton Court lay within her grasp.

Nathan shook his head as if to clear it and swung himself up. The things she told him were setting his veins afire. He licked his lips; his palms itched. The lighter was not enough. He needed a bigger fire. He reached for the rucksack that hung from the wardrobe door under the band poster pinned there. With hands that shook slightly, he unzipped it and listened as she spoke of flames leveling the city, her voice taut with joy and rage.

She recalled the fire spreading through the city, consuming everything in its path, and she had danced through flames and shadows, inciting them to grow large and fat on buildings and bodies. She had fed better that night than she had done for centuries beforehand, glutted on power and chaos, pain and death. Pudding Lane had become sacred ground, the one place she loved, the blaze had fed her so. Nathan felt her brittle joy fill him as he packed smuggled chemical bottles into his bag; it felt like an elation that was ready to crack.

"So what happened then?" he asked, casting a glance towards the door. "I mean, they rebuilt the city, didn't they?" He kept his voice soft, hoping that the cat thin wail of an ambulance siren coming from the telly next door would cover anything he said.

There was a white-hot spark of rage that sent him sprawling across the room and into the wall with a loud thump, and he groaned as he slumped down on the floor beside the tiny computer desk. Books and computer games clattered loudly down around him and he froze.

"Keep the noise down, runt," Dad shouted from the lounge, roused briefly from the pages of _The Sun_. Nathan tensed, watching the light under the door for his father's shadow, waiting for the heavy tread of feet on the carpet, the angry wrenching of the door handle. It took a moment for him to realize his father had returned to agreeing with whatever the paper's columnists had written today. Nathan reached for the heavy lighter and flicked it to calm his nerves, forcing his breathing to slow as he did so.

"Are you there?" he whispered, and waited. No answer came, and in panic he said a little louder, "I didn't mean to upset you. Please talk to me."

Images flickered in Nathan's eyes suddenly, words exploded in his mind, both hot and angry. He could hear her bitterness and rage running through him like a torrent of lava. He saw the new city rising in brick and stone, layer upon layer, bound with the magic of math and architecture. A New Jerusalem as constructed by Wren and Hawksmoor, built upon the principles of sacred geometry and ancient knowledge. A city intended to be imperial, where all that was old and pagan would be forgotten, consigned to the cesspit of history. They had no place in their new world for the old city goddess with her bitter jealousies, quick temper, and what they called perverted appetites.

Cornerstones bound her to the earth, denying her the air above the city. Channels forced her power into the new streets and boulevards, trying to seal it for the good of King and country, to bind it into Wren's purpose. Where that failed they drowned it, pushing it down into London's underground rivers and out into the Thames where it was washed out to sea. And everything led to the seal, to the one place that held the whole cage shut. She had been silenced, her voice lost along London's new streets and in the city's new buildings. She used the new windows to watch as the metropolis changed and, in the few places where the prison's walls grew weak, she screamed and beat against the bars until she was sore and exhausted. Finally, to add insult to injury the men had created a fiction concerning a pair of giants called Gog and Magog, whom they claimed had founded the city to try and drown out any lingering memories of her presence.

"If the cage was so strong, how come you're talking to me now?" Nathan asked. He had recovered slightly, though his head ached fiercely. He crouched by the bag, checking the bottles for leaks.

The answer did not surprise him. Over time Wren's notes had been lost, burned, or buried somewhere; and his successors scoffed at superstitious, primitive ideas such as spirits that lurked in the hearts of cities. The Georgians and Victorians had torn at the walls of the cage, weakening them with Neo this and Go that. The new sewer system and embankments, pioneered by Bazalgate, had immensely improved the city's hygiene, but at the same time they had destroyed many of Wren's conduits to keep the spirit's power grounded, and she had relished a return of what had been stolen.

Railways carried her consciousness down the tracks to new parts of the city and allowed her to sense kindred spirits far away in other places, other metropolises: Liverpool groaning with fat from the misery of the slave trade, Birmingham black with soot and industry that left her a raddled crone, Sheffield with a scraping steel voice. She had found her own voice again, merely a whisper but just enough to find followers amongst the dispossessed and the hopeless and to entice them with promises. They whispered about her in the rookeries, where the fires burnt low and pitiful. She promised warmth in return for trifling favors: a quick stab in the dark and a scrawl of charcoal on the nearest wall, just enough to dedicate the sacrifice but to be washed clean in the morning rain.

The rucksack was nearly full now, sitting on the bed as Nathan slipped on his trainers. The voice was talking about the slums burning, about how entire families died in their tiny rooms, giving her terrible sustenance in tiny bite sized portions. Lime House, Mile End, and Whitechapel, she savored each name as if she tasted the flavors of destruction she had wrought.

She was a jealous spirit though, and the city was her toy. Nathan could sense her bitterness, her possessiveness as she spoke of the Blitz. All the things she loved had been wrenched from her, the flames caused by something else, a distant presence that was as crazed as she was, albeit in an utterly different way. Such a thing was not to be borne, and she had fought her own nature as best she could, briefly rejecting her urges. Not from any pity but because if London was to be destroyed, it would be by her will, and hers alone.

Nathan stood, made for the door. "I gotta go to the loo," he told her. "I'll be back in a minute ok?" She did not reply, and he took it that meant she assented. He slipped into the living room and blinked in the bright electric light. It had gone nine o'clock, and Mum had changed the channel to some American crime import, one of the ones with the funny camera angles and science. He had watched it for a while and even applied to College to get on a BTEC course that would let him study forensics. Now, though he did not think he would go; there were far more interesting things to do than muck about with dead bodies or take photos of tire tracks.

Dad cast him a baleful glance, his head rising briefly so that Nathan could just see his eyes staring at him coldly from over the paper's top edge. Nathan ducked his head a little and tried to ignore it, rushing to the bathroom as his bladder urgently signaled it needed emptying. He locked the door behind him and pissed, staring at his reflection in the window as he did so. The need for fire was growing in him, the spirit's story had seen to that, and he could almost smell the smoke and flames he planned to ignite. He licked his lips and fastened his fly.

"Nathan." His head wrenched up. It was her voice, smoky and seductive, but for the first time he heard it properly, as if she was standing in the room with him, rather than an unseen presence that seemed to be so close he could touch her but at the same time was somewhere else entirely. He felt warm breath against his ear and felt arms slip about his torso, but when he glanced down there was nothing there. His eyes snapped to his reflection, questing for an answer.

In the window and, he realized as he glanced across, the mirror too there was the image of a woman. She had her arms about him and in the reflection he could see her long black-clad arms stretched around his t-shirt, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. She was beautiful. A wild tumble of red hair fell about her shoulders. Her eyes were cloudy black, looking out of chalk white skin; an eternal Goth like the bitchy clique at school who spoke to nobody. The bathroom suddenly smelled rich and strange, her scent oozing over the clean, antiseptic smell of soap and toilet cleaner, replacing them with smoke, spice, and warmth. Cinnamon and gunpowder mingled together with other scents drawn from Indian restaurants and Turkish kebab shops; the smell of heat itself. Her head dipped a little, she kissed him. Nathan gasped as she sucked at his neck a little, raising a love bite just where his neck and shoulder met; an alien heat spread through his veins.

"Do you like me, Nathan?" she whispered into his ear.

"Yes," he told her, not even thinking to try and lie. Even if he had the words to dissemble, he knew his body would give him away. Other boys said you had to play it cool if girls asked you that kind of thing, that acting aloof was the best way to keep them interested, but Nathan could not do that. Somehow he knew the spirit had no time for that kind of game.

"Will you do a little something for me? Please?" Her breath was hot by his ear, her hands gentle on his flesh.

"What do you want me to do?" Nathan watched her lips. He knew he would do whatever she wished.

"Just what comes naturally to both of us, but in a special place?" Her voice was soft and seductive. She held him tight against her, and he blushed as she made eye contact.

Nathan swiveled his eyes, as if he could turn his head and see her standing next to him. "Where?" he asked. There was a warning voice at the back of his head, telling him to get a move on or Mum and Dad would want to know what he was doing in here.

"The lock," she told him. "Burn it for me; you don't have to destroy all of it. Damage it enough, and I'll be free. We could be together like this all the time, just the two of us."

"But I don't know where the keystone is," he whispered back.

"If I tell you, will you do it?" she asked. "I need you to Nathan; I need to be free." There was an element of urgency in her voice that alarmed him, an undercurrent of madness that terrified him to his very bones. She stared at him in the mirror, her black eyes boring into his blue ones.

"Tell me where it is. I'll," he swallowed noisily, "I'll see what I can do."

She seemed to turn him somehow, her hands rising to cup his face. For an instant it seemed as if she looked him straight in the eye. He could feel the heat radiating off her as she pressed her lips to his. He tasted ashes on her lips; her tongue carried exotic flavors into his mouth. They kissed for what seemed like an eternity, and as she broke away she whispered where the lock to her prison was.

A knock on the door made him snap his head around, shattering the mirage, allowing the mundane world to intrude. "Nate, can you hurry up? I'm bursting for a wee," Sam asked in a voice a million miles and years away.

"Crap, uh, yeah sorry. Give me a minute." He splashed cold water onto his face and rubbed his eyes. There was a taste of smoke in his mouth, and his lips were warm but, aside from the love bite, they were the only signs he had just slipped into a slightly erotic daydream. The name she had whispered to him burned in his mind, imprinting itself into his thoughts. He knew somehow that nothing he could do would cool it down. He scrambled to the door and opened it.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, face crinkled with concern.

"Yeah, sure why wouldn't I be?" Nathan replied as he ducked past, letting Sam dash frantically into the bathroom. _Stupid kid, always asking stupid questions._

He let the door to his bedroom close behind him and checked the rucksack over again, ensuring that he had everything he needed. He knew he was almost ready as long as he could get out of the flat.

His other gear was hidden in an old shoebox in the bottom of his wardrobe. He opened it quietly, reached inside, and pulled out the box. He had owned the box for years; once it had contained a pair of school shoes that he had long since outgrown. Nathan had co-opted the box for a much nobler, exciting purpose. Inside there lay a mausoleum of dead disposable lighters and old matchboxes. Each had served Nathan faithfully over the years and brought back memories. Near the top was a long box of kitchen matches. Nathan pulled them out along with a pair of nearly full turquoise lighters. He flicked them a couple of times, to check if they worked, grinning as the flames leapt up.

The old lighter slipped into its usual home in his coat pocket, the matches and disposables into the rucksack's front pocket where they nestled beside a deodorant aerosol can. Mentally he concocted a list of things he needed to do in order to carry out the spirit's wishes; he would need more fuel. The stuff in the bag would have been fine for a small fire like a sofa or even a car, if he could pry open the fuel tank. For what she was asking, though, he'd need at least a few cans of petrol and some accelerant to make the flames hotter, to make them spread faster. That meant either stealing a car or trying to buy petrol and lighter fluid from one of the local garages. He wondered how much money was in his bank account, probably not enough. Glumly he reached back into the box and pulled out the knife he had bought from a kid at school in a vain belief that having it might save him from being bullied. He returned the box to its resting place in the bottom of the wardrobe before quietly shutting the door and locking it.

He pulled on his hoodie and then his coat, pausing to make sure he could raise his hood over it. Gently, he shrugged the bag onto his shoulders and stepped out into the lounge. The cop show was still on, the loud music and special effects competing with the tinny tune coming from Sam's game.

"Oh, his Lordship's decided to join us has he?" his mother snapped from her armchair, not looking away from the screen. Nathan ignored her and headed towards the door. "Where do you think you're going?" He realized she was looking at him now, the crime lab in Las Vegas quite forgotten.

"Out," Nathan replied and then, feeling more was required, "Just out." He began to pad carefully across to the front door, keeping his eyes fixed on his goal.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dad lower the paper. He folded it, deliberately, set it down before he rose.

"What are you going to do, more burning?" Dad's voice was taut, cold.

Nathan froze, tensed. He knew the signs of his father's bad temper too well.

It had all come out last month; the police had caught him out on the heath as the flames died on something nobody else wanted. It had taken hours to get everything sorted out, and he had spent the night in a police cell trying to ignore the sounds of other people they brought in. The spirit had been silent that night, and as his nails dug deeper into his hands, trying to keep the panic in his heart under control, Nathan had longed for the sound of her voice.

Predictably, he'd gotten into deep trouble for it; his parents were reluctant to forgive him. They had made him dispose of nearly all of his gear, throwing out everything they found in bin liners, dumping it at the bottom of the flats. Only his grandfather's lighter and the shoebox had been spared because Nathan had managed to keep them hidden as his Dad yanked out everything else he had gathered. It had taken him ages to get enough gear to even burn anything decent — smuggling little pieces of this and that into the flat in the bottom of his school bag — let alone something large enough to satisfy his friend.

"No, just to see some friends," he lied, hoping his parents were so absorbed in their own lives they did not realize his friends were few and far between. He shifted his weight nervously, and the bottles clinked. _Idiot!_ He should have wrapped them up more carefully.

"You lying little sod!" Dad's voice cracked. He was striding across now, his hand raised. Words were coming to his lips, words Nathan had heard through the wall late at night when his parents fought, thinking that he and Sam were asleep. Words about how Nathan was weird, how he was so unlike the other boys, that he would never amount to anything at all. And shouldn't he have a girlfriend by now? The words "bloody puff" had been used more than once.

The hand fell sharply, and in panic Nathan's own rose in response. He had been on the receiving end of his Dad's anger more than once and knew exactly how much being hit by him could hurt. Expecting the worst, he braced himself, waiting for the beating to begin.

His hand shook as it made contact with his Dad's arm. A hideous, shuddering pulse ran along his body and out through his fingertips. There was a sudden sickening scent of burning that sprang out of nowhere. Dad's clothes caught fire; flames blossomed like flowers. Dad started beating at them; Mum was on her feet screaming for Sam. It was all that Nathan could do to tear his eyes away. Had he used the lighter without thinking about it?

He forced himself to look. There was only his hand. With a twinge of surprise, he realized the lighter's comforting weight still rode in his pocket.

Mum rushed towards Dad, screaming at Sam to call the emergency services, the television quite forgotten. She was shouting at Nathan too, saying the same things as Dad. Something snapped inside him. The love bite on his neck pulsed with a ferocious heat. A heat haze settled over his eyes making the flat warp and shimmer. Fire spread through everything he saw, imposing itself like CGI in a film.

His gaze flicked over, finding his mother. There was a whooshing sound and she ignited, greasy flames spitting and rolling, spreading to Dad's already screaming form so that they became some kind of grisly, twin torch made of human fat and tissue. Nathan forced himself to look away and saw Sam running with a blanket, the way they taught you to do at school.

The phone lay abandoned on the floor. A woman's voice, tinny and small, asked which emergency service Sam needed.

Another pulse shuddered wildly through Nathan. His mouth tasted of hot metal and ash. Sam tumbled to the floor, clothes and hair igniting.

Nathan wanted to weep, to howl; grief stabbed at his heart suddenly like a knife. With suddenly clear vision he could do nothing but watch as they burned, writhing, screaming, until there was nothing left but stains on the carpet. He was unable to move — his legs simply would not work — and tears streamed down his face.

"What did you do?" he asked, addressing empty air. "You didn't have to kill them. I could've got away." There was no answer, but he could sense her, seething with energy out in the city, close but keeping her distance.

His legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, staring blankly at the place where his family had been only seconds before. On autopilot he reached for the remote control and turned the television off before dropping it to the floor.

Something touched his heart, a finger of flame that burned the grief away, spreading through his body until his tears had evaporated. Nathan gasped at the pain of it, and for a second he thought he smelled the spirit's perfume, felt her hands stroking his hair. The love bite on his neck throbbed; numbness oozed through him as the pain died away and left him empty.

He knelt for what seemed like an eternity, staring at the ashy stains imprinted on the carpet. How long it would be until the emergency services arrived, he wondered. The neighbors were bound to have called them. As the thought rose, his head lolled a little and his eyes became blank, devoid of any emotion. His ears filled with the crackle and spit of flames; the memory of the spirit's lips rose and wiped away his fear. He would be gone long before the police or fire brigade got here.

Finally he rose to his feet, something alien forcing him up and across the room, his legs working mechanically like an automaton's, his eyes blind to everything but his goal.

The flat door swung shut loudly as he walked down to the lifts, leaving 1666 Pepys Tower behind. At the back of his mind, the part of him that was still Nathan knew that he would not, could not return. Purpose filled him to the brim, fiery thoughts crackling across his mind to the exclusion of anything else. He set off in the direction of the prison's lock, towards St Paul's Cathedral with bottles clinking in his backpack and his knife in his hand.

Steve Cotterill is a writer based in Birmingham, in the UK. He's a fantastika writer who has had stories in Horrorbound, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, Corvus, and in the Last Line's Lost Souls of the Asylum, as well as in the pages of Cogzine. Aside from writing he is a gamer, Goth, and geek and is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Birmingham City University. Drawn to the dark side of life, the things that keep him awake at night are the wonderful ideas in his head, and his cats.

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#  Any Ending

by Alexandra Grunberg; published August 6, 2013

Third Place Award, August 2013 Fiction Contest

They told her she was sick, and Meg did not argue.

You never argued when they came to take you away.

Her parents stood in the living room, holding hands, their eyes gazing at some point far above Meg's head. They could have been avoiding eye contact to prevent a breakdown in front of the Officials, which would imply an objection to their diagnosis. Or they could have been avoiding the gaze of the person they had committed themselves, perhaps to gain approval from local Officials by contributing to the new Healthy Community Hostels. Either way, her parents did not even say goodbye to her as she was led from the house she had lived in her entire life, guided gently but firmly by two Officials in long white coats.

 Meg was actually surprised at the conduct of the Officials. In the hallways at school, during sleepovers after curfew, and in the alley behind the mall, she and her friends would try to scare each other with stories of the Officials confining their patients in metal straight jackets, leaving them on leashes in cells for days, spitting on them as they grasped through the bars of tight cages. These Officials did not seem like the monsters from her stories. They just seemed like the doctors at the hospital, but maybe a little more tired, a little more worn out.

A small black car was waiting outside. The Officials helped her into the back seat and locked her inside. It was dark inside the car. Too dark.

Meg could feel her heart beating faster, her breath getting louder.

No!

She forced her breath to slow.

No!

She felt her heart grow calm.

The worst thing to do was to panic, to freak out, to scream, or assault. The number one thing to remember was not to show any sign of insanity.

Meg did not know why this was the case. She had already been diagnosed as insane. She could not see how having a fit would hurt her position even more. But everyone knew that you had to stay calm. Or else.

Or else what? That information, nobody knew.

She did not know how much time passed before the door opened again. Two different Officials led her out of the car, just as gently and just as firmly as the first two. It was bright outside, still morning.

They were at the train station.

The train was large, and its metal hull shined. Meg's first impression was that it looked like a series of metal sausage links. She stifled a laugh. Laughing right now would definitely be seen as inappropriate.

"Were you okay back there?"

Meg looked up at the Official who spoke. The woman's eyes were kind, but her grip on Meg's arm was secure.

"Fine, thank you," Meg said, hoping her smile looked genuine.

"Good," the Official said, smiling back. "Some patients find the darkness uncomfortable. But it's more painful to look out at the place you're leaving. Trust me."

Meg nodded, but she did not trust her.

The Officials led her to a restroom, handed Meg her new clothes, and waited as she changed. A plain gray shirt, gray sweat pants. The shirt was modest, but the neck was cut just low enough that the edge of Meg's tattoo, right beneath her collarbone, was visible. A simple black circle with a line through it.

As they left the restroom, Meg saw that she was not the only patient being transported today. Cars were arriving, each one carrying a new patient. The ones who had already changed were being led to the train. Meg felt the slight pressure of hands on her back, guiding her to one of the train cars.

Inside was a thin hall, with small rooms on either side. Meg was led into a room closest to the doors. She watched as a young man was dragged, kicking and screaming, to a room near the middle of the car.

"I want to go home! Let me go! I'll kill you! You better let me go!"

Poor idiot.

"Let me know if you need anything. I'll be right across the hall."

The Official put a reassuring hand on Meg's shoulder as her partner rushed to help the others with the struggling patient.

"What do you mean?" Meg asked.

"I'm the chaperone for this car," explained the Official. "I'm going to take care of all of you."

They heard a scream and sobbing from the middle of the car.

"Don't worry about a thing," said the Official. "I'll watch out for you."

Meg was not sure if that was a reassurance or a warning.

"What's your name?" Meg asked.

"Diane."

Diane. She would have to watch out for Diane.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you, and then I'll kill everyone in this train!"

"Excuse me," Diane said, giving Meg's shoulder a last comforting squeeze before running out to subdue the patient.

Meg turned to examine her room. There was a toilet and a sink in the corner with a mirror above it, probably made of the strange water-like material that was replacing expensive and dangerous glass. There was a small window at the top of the car, barred from the inside and outside, barely letting in any light, though it did not really need to. A large lamp hung from the ceiling far above her, way out of her reach, emitting a warm, bright light. On the end of the wall was a bunk bed. The bottom bunk was empty except for neatly folded white sheets and a single white pillow, probably designed to thwart any attempts of self-suffocation. The top bunk was occupied.

The girl who sat on the top bunk could have been Meg's age, or a little younger. Her gray clothes hung loosely on her thin frame. She had large blue eyes that were currently locked on Meg. She did not blink.

"Hello," Meg said.

The girl shook her head.

"What's your name?"

The girl shook her head again.

She did not speak. Smart. You cannot say anything incriminating if you do not say anything at all.

The door shut behind Meg with a loud bang. Meg spun around and was faced with what looked like solid wall, no sign of an exit at all. The room looked much smaller now. Meg realized she had never asked Diane how long they would be in the train. Not that she would have trusted her answer. But it would have been nice to have an idea.

Time passed strangely in the car. The light never went out. She slept when she was tired, and when she woke there was food in the room. She never saw the other girl sleep. At first she felt uncomfortable using the toilet in front of the other girl, but she was so unresponsive it was like Meg was alone.

Inside the room was silence. At first, Meg heard cries outside from the other cars. Little by little, the cries became silence too. Time ticked by unmarked. If she was not insane before, Meg had a feeling she would go insane by the end of the trip. She began to talk to the other girl, just to fill the room with noise.

"Do you know where we're going? Me neither. I know all these stories about getting there, all these rules to follow, all these things you have to do along the way, but I don't know how this is going to end.

"Do you know? Of course not. I don't think anyone really knows where the trains are going. Maybe Diane doesn't even know. If she did, I doubt she'd tell me. Only the Officials are allowed to have that information.

"I think my old teacher used to be an Official. She would tell us these odd stories about the insane. She said that inside of each of us is a light. It shines with goodness and kindness. It shines with compassion. This light is our soul, or spirit, our pure mind, and it is what makes us human.

"But sometimes shadows come across the light. Most people can ease the shadows away, let the light shine through once more. But some people can't fight the shadows. The shadows take root deep in their minds and plant the seed of insanity, the poison of darkness. The insane can't fight it on their own. They need help.

"Until the insane get help, they are dangerous to others. They feed the shadow and let it grow, passing it on to others, letting it consume themselves. We can help them to stop feeding the shadows, so their light can shine out once more.

"Or, if we can't help them with their shadows, we can at least make sure they won't hurt anyone else.

"I think I've felt shadows inside of me. I've felt them grow in the pit of my stomach when I heard about the trains. I can feel them in my heart when I'm in the dark.

"It's funny. I used to think about escaping. When we reached whatever place this train is heading to, I would calmly walk out of the doors, and I would look around for the sign. The circle with a line through it. The sign for nothing. No Officials. No light. No shadow. Silence. It is the sign of people who think the trains have gone too far.

"I've seen the sign on TV, in the protests that are supposed to show us the bad people across the borders. The shadows would hurt the most then. I could feel them tighten my throat and eyes as I watched the protestors cry and make speeches. I was so happy when we heard stories about them bombing Healthy Community Hostels or attacking Officials. Oh, I must be sick!

"When I saw the sign, I would run for it, just run, and I would jump, and I would be free!

"But how can I be free when I feel these shadows? How can I know how to escape if I don't know what I'm escaping from? It's hard to find hope when you don't know what you're hoping for. It's hard to change the ending when you don't know where you're headed.

"Maybe all I can do is believe that the Officials will help me. Maybe what I know is better than what I hope for."

There was a loud bang from behind Meg. She turned around. The other girl was standing in front of the open door, her hand pushing down a perfect square in the wall.

The girl pointed to the hall. Outside, Meg could hear the muffled sounds of people talking. Meg walked out into the hall, following the sounds to the middle of the car. Another door was open. Quietly, Meg made her way to the door and peered inside.

Diane was inside with another Official and the boy who had thrown a tantrum while entering the train. Or what was left of the boy. His smile was broad and ecstatic. The smile of the insane.

"You're happy, aren't you?" Diane asked the boy.

He nodded.

"You're not going to hurt anyone, are you?" Diane asked.

He nodded again.

"He can't hurt anyone now," chuckled the other Official. Diane glared at him.

"Now, don't you worry about a thing," Diane said to the boy. "I'll watch out for you."

Meg did not need to see any more. She snuck back to her room. The other girl released her hand from the wall, and the door shut once more.

Meg stared at her hands. They were visibly shaking. She slowed down her breathing, relaxed her body, until her hands were still. The worst thing to do was to panic, to show any sign of insanity.

"Any ending is better than what you know," the other girl said.

Then they both were silent. They were silent for hours, or days, and their silence filled the room with at least one true, completely sane piece of knowledge to hold on to.

Then the door opened. Diane stood in the hall. Her eyes were tired, but kind.

"Are we there?" Meg asked.

"No," Diane said, sighing. "We're having some problems with the train. A malfunction with the engine."

A malfunction with the engine. Caused by what? Caused by whom?

"Don't worry," Diane reassured Meg, misinterpreting Meg's suspicion. "We're fixing it up right now. We should be ready to go within ten minutes. But we thought this would be a nice time to let the patients get some fresh air. We're actually by the ocean. Would you like to look at the boats?"

"Yes, that would be lovely," Meg said.

The other girl nodded.

Diane led them outside the train, her hands on their backs, guiding them. The train had stopped at the top of a low cliff overlooking the water. A spiraling staircase led down to a pier where docked ships were just preparing to leave. Patients in gray shuffled around the cliff, followed closely by Officials, or stared into space, unmoving, still watched closely by Officials.

It was odd, seeing boats. They were not used very often nowadays. Desires to keep policies private meant that travel across borders was discouraged, and boats could leave borders far behind them as they travelled across the world.

The rare view was marred by the water. It was choppy, blackish brown, the color of oil, feces, and other refuse. Calling it water was just a formality. It was liquid garbage, the remains of what used to be an ocean. But Meg did not have to swim in it. Just enjoy the view. Maybe her last view of open air.

She watched as the boats began to leave the pier. The cracked paint of the first boat showed that it used to be named "Good Times." A tropical island scene was painted on the side of the second boat, now faded almost beyond recognition, the green palms and yellow sands blending with the brown of the wood, tainted with the brown of the ocean. But the paint on the side of the third boat was fresh.

A black circle with a line through it.

Meg felt a gentle hand on her back. She looked at the other girl. She was silent, but her eyes told Meg to run.

Meg ran.

She heard Diane scream behind her, but to Meg it was just noise. She ran to the stairs and began to spiral her way down, hearing the pounding feet of the Officials behind her. She went as fast as she could, flying downward, trying not to trip, watching as the boats moved further and further away.

The water slapped against the edge of the pier with wet thuds, a constantly turning sludge. Meg could hear the breath of the Officials behind her, ragged and loud, as she ran. The boats were so far now, but maybe not too far. She could feel a hand grasping at her shirt, ready to pull her back to the trains. But her breath was steady, her heart beat calm.

Meg jumped.

_Alexandra Grunberg is a New York City based author and actress. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Pantheon Magazine, Perihelion Science Fiction, and more. You can find links to her stories at_alexandragrunberg.wordpress.com _._

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  Kastner's Job

by Bojan Ratković; published August 9, 2013

When he first took possession of a small leather briefcase from the man in the white hat, Kastner didn't intend to open it. His job was clean and simple: get the merchandise, make the call, wait exactly 48 hours before making the delivery. He never looked inside — the thought didn't even cross his mind — and this, he believed, was why the woman continued to employ him.

He received the package at the same place, the back entrance of the _Café Isidore_ across the street from the park. As he did a hundred times before, Kastner nodded to the man in the white hat, grabbed the briefcase, and strolled casually into the park and out of sight. He entered the phone booth on the corner of Flint and Elyse at five past one, his beige fedora perched just above his eyes. He closed the doors behind him and grabbed the receiver, sliding a single quarter into the slot and dialing the woman's number. There was a brief pause, and then the familiar _click_ on the other line.

 "Hello."

"It's Kastner. I've got a present for you, miss. It is your birthday."

"Yes. Thank you, Kastner."

"Will there be a party?"

"There will be, at the old place. Will you come?"

"Yes." They would meet two days from now, on the third floor of the art gallery at 1 o'clock.

There was a slight crackling on the other end, and then the woman spoke again. "Kastner, the present. I need you to open it."

"Pardon?" Kastner's steel-gray eyes darted from left to right.

"Yes, please. It needs to be done, and it has to be you. You're the only one I can trust with this. I need you to make sure it works."

Kastner was silent. The woman's request was unprecedented; she was asking him to look inside the package.

"Excuse me, miss," Kastner said, gripping the receiver tightly, "forgive me, but _what_ exactly am I looking for?"

There was a brief pause, and then another crackle on the other end. The woman sighed. "I don't know. The man in the white hat wouldn't tell me — not this time. But I know it's something special. That's why I need your help."

Kastner shook his head. "But surely you have someone else who could ... who could do this for you. My job has never been —"

"It has to be you, Kastner. I'm sorry, but I can't trust the others. Not with this. This is your last job, after all, and then you're free to do as you wish. But I hope I can count on you this one final time."

"Yes, but ..."

"It would mean a lot to me, and it goes without saying that you will be properly rewarded. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't absolutely necessary."

"I understand," Kastner said after some time. "I will do as you ask, and I will see you at the party."

"Good." Another loud _click_ and she was gone. Kastner frowned; he slammed the phone down on the hook and burst out the door. He stepped quickly through the busy street, his long coat whipping behind him. The briefcase felt heavy under his arm.

~~~~~

That night Kastner sat frozen at his desk in darkness. The fire had long subsided and there was only a small heap of scarlet ash in the fireplace. The scent of the dying flame spread through the apartment. He glared at the briefcase on his desk. The sooner he opened it, the sooner he could determine if it worked — whatever that meant.

It was his job.

The whole thing felt like payback for his early retirement, but in his line of work — where payback meant death — this kind of payback was something he could live with. He reached forward, grabbed the briefcase, and turned it upright. He pulled the latch and probed the lock with his finger. He cracked the combination, and the latch popped free.

Just about anything could have been inside the briefcase. Kastner had known the woman for some time, and there was a reason why she employed him every time she needed to procure something from the man in the white hat. For this kind of job she needed an expert in a very particular field, and Kastner was the best. But even Kastner knew better than to meddle with the merchandise, and he wasn't looking forward to doing it this time. With a shake of his head and a deep breath he switched on the lamp on his desk, then pulled the briefcase open and peered inside.

It was only a book, very thick and bound in black leather. On the cover, written in sharp white letters, was a sequence: _XXI/VI/MMXIII_. He crossed his arms over the table and closed his eyes, the letters on the cover dancing in his mind.

_XXI/VI/MMXIII_.

_It could be code, or initials_ , Kastner thought. "But no, that's not it," he said aloud. "It's Roman numerals." The numbers were 21/6/2013. After a brief pause, Kastner nodded and smiled. "It's a date," he whispered to no one in particular. "Tomorrow's date." He ran his fingers over the spine of the book, feeling the smooth leather beneath his fingertips. Then he flipped the book open and turned to the first page.

The paper was black with small white letters arranged in neat columns stretching from top to bottom. Kastner skimmed through the book and saw the columned layout repeated on each page. There was nothing odd about the book itself. The texture was perfectly normal, and there was no strange smell. Upon closer inspection, Kastner determined there was nothing concealed inside. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, flipped back to the first page, pulled the desk lamp closer, and started on the contents.

The first column was made up of names, arranged in alphabetical order. The very first name on the first page was Aaberg, Georgina May; followed by Aarons, Gregory Martin; and Aazam, Asif Hammad. _Funny name, Aazam_ , Kastner thought, _like something a magician would use — AAZAM THE AMAZING_. The names went all the way down to Zwinger, Franz, which was the final name on the last page. The second column contained a time of day, so that for Aaberg it was 4:03 a.m.; for Aarons it was 1:48 p.m.; for Aazam it was 12:33 a.m. The third and final column was the most curious: for Aaberg it read Heart Attack, for Aarons it was Overdose, and for Aazam it was Train Derailment. It seemed to indicate the way they died — something like the cause of death for each person.

_It's like a phone book of the dead_ , Kastner thought. He flipped quickly through the pages and it struck him as incredible that there could be so many pages there. There had to be tens of thousands of names in this book, maybe more. But what was the purpose of it all? What use could anyone have for this list? The answer was beyond Kastner's grasp — at least on this night. He slammed the book shut and turned off the lamp on his desk.

~~~~~

Kastner woke the next morning to the sound of screeching tires on the street below. He flew out of bed, dashed through the bedroom door, and threw a quick glance at his desk. It was still there — the big black book. Kastner let out a slow, whistling breath of relief at the sight of it. No one could have broken in and taken it without waking him, but even so, Kastner was driven by an obsessive attention for detail that made him so good at his job. He needed to see the book again just to be sure.

He prepared for the day and had just finished the breakfast dishes when a faint knock on the door broke the steady melody of the street outside the window.

At first Kastner thought the knocking was coming from next door; he didn't receive visitors here, and he made a point of keeping this particular location secret. No one knew where he lived, not even the woman who employed him.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was louder this time, and there was no doubt the knocking was coming from outside his door. He considered ignoring it at first — if he didn't answer the uninvited guest would have to leave eventually — but then he remembered that it could be the building manager, and ignoring him would raise questions. Moving quickly, Kastner tiptoed to his desk and slipped the big black book into the drawer and out of sight, but not before removing the pistol from inside.

"Just a moment," he called from across the room, then moved for the door, the gun concealed carefully behind his back. He slid the small wooden cover from the peephole and peered outside.

The building manager was a short, balding man with a crooked nose and a single massive stripe of hair where his eyebrows should be. This was not the manager. Through the peephole Kastner saw the slightly distorted image of a woman's face; she was young and pretty, with wavy red hair that fell to her shoulders and deep green eyes. She was looking directly at him through the glass, and she had a friendly smile.

"Who is it?" Kastner asked. He cocked the weapon behind his back as he spoke, his voice masking the distinct _clack_ of the gun. He had never seen this girl before and, whoever she was, there was no reason at all for her to be here.

"Yes, uhm, hello," the woman said in a small voice. "My name is Marina, I'm your neighbor from across the hall. I'm new here, just moved in last week. Apartment 402." She stepped back from the door, pointing down the hallway.

"What can I do for you?"

The girl smiled, her parted lips revealing pretty white teeth. Soft dimples — as if painted on — glistened on her cheeks. "Sorry to bother you." She looked to the floor apologetically. "I seem to have gotten some of your mail." She held up a thin package in front of the peephole. "It says 'For: Mr. Jacob Carver, apartment 408.'"

"Hmm," Kastner mumbled. "I see." Carver was the alias he used to rent the place, and he supposed there was nothing very strange about some of his mail ending up in the wrong mailbox. What's more, this girl was not much older than twenty; if she was sent to kill him, she would be no threat to a man of Kastner's caliber.

If she tried anything at all, he would cut her down where she stood. _What a shame that would be_ , Kastner thought, thinking of those dimples. "Okay, just give me a second." His voice was more gentle now. He unbolted the heavy steel lock at the top of the door and there was a loud _snap_ as the latch gave way. Then he turned the key in the smaller lock under the knob, pulling the door open.

"Hi!" the girl said and cocked her head to the side as Kastner surveyed her through the open door. She wasn't very tall, but she was fit, with ample curves in all the right places. She wore a red summer dress embroidered throughout with bright, flowery designs and Kastner could feel the sharp scent of her perfume fill the air around him. For a moment he wondered what she would look like without the dress, without any clothes at all.

"Hi," Kastner replied and his lips curved slightly. He stood at the edge of the doorway, his right hand still hidden behind his back. The girl smiled, and her eyes jumped quickly between Kastner and the door. They were wildly green, with a thin strand of yellow around the pupils.

Kastner held out his hand for the package, and she handed it to him. He glanced down at it for only a moment, but that was all it took; something caught the girl's eye, and she slipped inside with a playful hop, brushing Kastner aside as she went.

"Hey!" Kastner screamed and turned quickly to keep the gun hidden. He watched her stroll through the hallway and toward the large double windows in the living room. He braced himself.

"Nice view," she said, approaching the windows and glancing into the street below. "It's not fair, you know. I'm jealous. All I see when I look out my window is that stupid parking garage." Her voice was soft and playful.

Kastner took two steps in her direction, then stopped. "Listen, thanks for bringing the mail. I appreciate it. But I have to ask you to leave now, I have work to do." He paused for a moment, adding, "What I mean is, I have to get ready for work. So if you don't mind —"

"Have you figured it out yet?" she asked without turning, her eyes still taking in the view.

"Have I what?"

"The book." She turned swiftly on her heel to look at him again. A big smile was painted on her lips. "That's what you're working on, isn't it?"

Kastner frowned. "I ... I'm not sure what you mean." He clutched the gun tighter.

"Oh relax, will you?" Her smile broadened at the change in his expression. "I'm not here to kill you, Kastner. And if I was, would I come knocking on your door?" At this thought she let out a soft, girlish laugh.

Kastner's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He pulled the gun swiftly from behind his back and pointed it at her. "Who are you and what do you want?" His finger curled around the trigger.

Still smiling, the girl shook her head and rolled her eyes, then placed her hands on her hips.

"I won't ask again!"

"Oh fine," the girl said, a hint of frustration in her voice. "I already told you my name; it's Marina. And I _am_ your neighbor. I also told you I'm not here to kill you, so you can put that thing away, cowboy." She pointed at the gun, lips pursed but eyes still smiling.

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind. What are you doing here? How do you know about the book?"

"Relax, baby. I'm just doing my job. I work for someone who is very interested in you and your well-being. At least that's what he tells me. I moved in last week to make sure nothing happens to you. That's all."

Kastner smirked at this. "So you're here to protect me, are you? And just what makes you think I need your protection?"

The girl shrugged. "Nothing at all. But my boss seems to think you do, so that's why I'm here. I just thought I'd stop by and say 'hello'. Also, I thought I'd help you out a bit." Kastner saw her eyes move to the envelope that still hung from his hand. He had forgotten it completely.

"How did you find me? How do you know about the book?"

"It's my employer who knows."

"Who is your employer?" Deep lines were forming on Kastner's face. He took a step forward.

The girl stood her ground. "Ah, that's not for me to say."

"How about we cut the bull and you tell me what I need to know, or else I'll —"

"Or else you'll shoot me?" she interrupted. "No, you won't. I'm just an unarmed girl, remember?" She held her hands out in front of her. "And you won't have to, because I was just leaving." She swooped past him casually, and he followed her movements with the muzzle of the gun.

"Stop right there, I'm not kidding."

The girl, now steps from the door, stopped but didn't turn. "You wouldn't shoot a nice girl like me in the back, would you cowboy?"

He said nothing. He couldn't see her face but he knew that even now she was smiling.

After a brief silence the girl spoke, her voice very sweet, "I was just leaving. But my door's always open in case you need me. Apartment 402, just across the hall, okay?"

"Why would I need anything from you?"

She giggled again. "Well, you didn't think she'd just let you retire, did you?"

"What ... what did you say?"

"Just open the package; you'll figure it out." She stepped forward slowly. "I'll be across the hall if you need me." Before he could say anything else, the girl slipped out the door and closed it gently behind her.

He stood there for some time as a single bead of sweat zigzagged down his face. He lowered the gun eventually and paced around the room, the gun in one hand and the package in the other, until his feet took him to his desk in the corner of the room. He placed the gun on the desk and ripped the envelope open.

What fell out was a perfectly ordinary newspaper — the _World News Daily_ , early edition. He flipped quickly through the pages. Unable to find a single hidden note or message of any kind, Kastner sighed and shook his head. He was just about to dump it in the trash when something caught his eye at the bottom of the front page. It was a small picture that showed a chaotic scene: overturned train cars sprawled across a burning landscape. The headline read: _Pakistan train derailment kills 20, Minister among dead_. Below the picture was a short paragraph:

This morning at around 9:30 a.m. local time a deadly train derailment near Lahore, Pakistan sent six cars off the tracks, killing at least 20 people. Sources in the Pakistani government confirm that Federal Minister of the Interior, Asif Hammad Aazam, is among the dead. More on pg. 3.

Kastner paused for a moment, thinking. He put the paper back on his desk and rubbed his forehead, eyes staring into space. Aazam ... Aazam ... AAZAM THE AMAZING! His eyes twitched into focus and he opened the desk drawer, fishing the big black book from inside and throwing it open on the table. Placing his finger on the first column of the very first page, he traced his way down the list. He was looking for Aazam, Asif Hammad, who had been third on the list and whose cause of death had been Train Derailment.

But Aazam wasn't there. Neither was Aaberg or Aarons, which had been the first two names on the list. First on the list was Aaby, Roxanna. Second was Aaker, Matthew John. Third was Abel, Johannes. Kastner leaned in closer to make sure he was reading it correctly. He flipped the page once and then twice and three times, looking for Aaberg, Aarons, and Aazm. The Aa's and Ab's quickly turned into Ac's, Ad's. Aazam was gone.

Kastner checked the final page, and instead of finding Zwinger last on the list he saw the name Zvorsky, Boris staring back at him. "What's going on?" Kastner breathed as he slammed the book shut again. Then he saw it.

He hadn't noticed before, but the cover was different, too. The Roman numerals on the front now read _XXII/VI/MMXIII_ — 22/6/2013. This was tomorrow's date, but last night it said 21/6/2013 — today's date.

_The damn thing changes daily_ , _all by itself_ , Kastner thought. _The names, they are the names of those who died ... NO, they are the names of those who will die the next day._ He dropped into his chair, eyes wide, a cold shiver clawing up his spine. Then another thought swam from the back of his mind and panged into focus, pushing everything else aside.

_You didn't think she'd just let you retire, did you?_ That was what the girl said. Kastner opened the book again, but this time he flipped to the letter K. When he found it, he swept down the list with his finger.

Kane ... Kastel ... Kastner.

There, in bright white letters on black paper, arranged in three neat columns and burning themselves painfully into his brain were the words: Kastner, Hugo. 1:10 p.m. Explosion.

He rubbed his prickly chin, struggling to take in what he was seeing — his demise written down in Death's own phonebook.

Of course the woman wouldn't let him retire; he knew too much. He was foolish to think that after all these years she would trust him, foolish to think that he could trust her. Tomorrow at 1:10 p.m. — ten minutes after the arranged meeting —he would die in an equally arranged explosion. The woman would get what she wanted this one last time, and then all the secrets he knew would die with him.

That was, after all, what it meant to "retire" in his particular line of work. He had known it all along; had he hoped for a different outcome? It was a lapse in judgment, trusting in the woman and the bond they shared as a result of their long and successful partnership. There were no bonds in his profession; only interest and death. Either you serve the former, or you are served the latter. No exceptions.

Now that it was all out on the table, Kastner was surprised by his clarity of mind. He was calm, collected, and only mildly disappointed. It was part of the job — the most important part, really. This was, then, just another day at the office.

The one thing that did trouble him was the girl, Marina. Somehow she knew about the book, knew what it was, and not only that, she knew about the woman's intentions.

You didn't think she'd just let you retire, did you?

Kastner leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Why did she come to warn him? Why did her employer, whoever that was, want him alive? He noticed a spider on the ceiling above, hanging from an invisible web. It was perfectly still, as if dead. As if harmless.

Setting a trap.

Kastner slammed the book shut, rising from his chair with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

~~~~~

Marina sat on a lounge chair by the window, her legs crossed and a book in her hand. A glass of dark wine stood on a small coffee table at her side. She heard two sharp knocks from the doorway.

"Come in," she said, closing the book and placing it gently on her lap.

Kastner opened the door, freshly shaven and formally dressed, complete with long beige coat and matching hat.

"Kastner, you came."

Kastner stood in the doorway and looked around the apartment; it was the mirror image of his own: gray, plain, and spotless. But the view was terrible, with the double windows on this side of the building facing a skeletal parking structure. Only a thin slit of sky peeked in from above, darkened clouds announcing the coming dusk. "You keep your door unlocked?"

Marina smiled. "Why wouldn't I? I'm not a killer, baby. I told you that. There's no one dangerous looking for me. Except maybe you ..." She winked. Kastner stood in silence, watching her. "Well don't just stand there. Have a seat, cowboy."

He sat down at the far end of the sofa, taking his hat off and placing it on the table. The smell of wine was strong. He looked at Marina, his eyes drifting down her body and then quickly up again. Her dress was different from this morning, green with golden swirls. It was also shorter, sitting high on her crossed legs and revealing knees and milky white legs. There was a star-shaped birth mark on her inner thigh. Kastner knew that this too was part of the job — she wanted him to let his guard down, to think about her thighs instead of her intentions. It was the oldest trick in the book because it worked. He looked her in the eyes, his face stern and unmoving. But his mind was on the birth mark, and on what lay beyond.

"Would you like some wine?" she asked, then jumped in before he could answer. "No, of course not! You're more of a whiskey man, aren't you?"

Kastner waved her off. "Nothing for me, thanks." He took off his coat and folded it in his lap.

"Let me take that for you." Marina said. She took his coat and walked down the hall. Kastner watched her go, watched how the dress hugged her hips as she walked. He imagined how smooth her skin would feel to his touch. When she returned, she sat on the couch next to him, crossing her legs again, adjusting her dress, smiling as the scent of her perfume reached him.

"I figured it out," Kastner said. "She plans to kill me tomorrow."

Marina nodded.

"She wanted me to open it. Why would she let me see?"

"She's worried. She doesn't know how it works. Not many people do, but my employer does. He also knows about you."

"So he wants to help me. Why is that?"

"Because he knows your value, the value of your skills. The question is, are you ready to accept my help?" She smiled. The green dress matched the color of her eyes perfectly.

"Can I change it, then? Can I change what's going to happen?"

"Yes, of course we can. And I sure hope we do; I'm starting to like you, Kastner. So, will you accept my help?"

"I guess I don't have a choice. If I run, she'll find me. And even if she can't, your boss will. He found me this time, didn't he?"

She nodded again.

"So what will it cost me?"

She smiled again. "Your retirement."

"You want me to work for you?"

"For my employer," she said softly. "Nothing that would take up too much of your time. He only needs you for the jobs no one else can do."

"How flattering."

"My employer has many resources at his disposal." She leaned in closer. "He will make it worth your while."

"I'm sure he will." Her presence provoked his senses; he felt her scent all around, felt a thirsty flame rising inside him.

She took a sip of her wine, then placed the glass back on the table. "So ... do we have a deal, cowboy?"

Kastner smirked, then nodded. "You help me stay alive, and in return I do your dirty work. In this profession, that's really the only kind of deal there is." He looked at her, his gray eyes defiant. There was something else there — something like hunger. "But the thing is, I still don't know who I'm dealing with."

Marina's smile widened as her eyes narrowed. "I guess you don't, do you?" Her voice was a purr. "You know, there's something just so sexy about a man who's supposed to die tomorrow." She leaned forward, her hands clasping his face and pulling him into her. He drank the wine off her lips.

~~~~~

The day that was supposed to be Kastner's last was cold but bright. As he walked through the massive glass doors of the art gallery, Kastner turned over in his head the words he should have said to Marina but didn't: _Don't think for a second that your little routine worked on me. You're just doing your job, and I'm just doing mine. That's all._ But hadn't said it because he didn't exactly mean it ... not entirely.

Kastner walked casually, the briefcase gripped firmly in his hand. He studied his surroundings while pretending to take in the art. He knew the building well. From the outside, the gallery was a big block of glass and concrete that looked like an overgrown box of tissues. Inside, long white walls lined with framed paintings extended above polished floors. But it was the people he was interested in — mostly suit-and-tie types, with the occasional bearded hipster moving quietly from piece to piece at a pace that was half that of a normal person. He could see nothing out of the ordinary for this time of day.

He ascended the spiral staircase in the middle of the building. His meetings with the woman always took place on the third floor. He checked his watch as he climbed: five minutes before 1 o'clock. He made his way to the same wooden bench he sat on so many times before, in one of the corners near the window. Sunlight shown through the glass, reflecting off the white walls. The bench was facing a sculpture that looked like something a child in pre-school would make; this was the "Abstract Art" section of the galley. Abstract art was an oxymoron as far as Kastner was concerned, kind of like brilliant fool but worse, since so many fools took this type of art seriously.

He took a seat on the bench, placing the briefcase on the ground in an upright position so that it leaned against his foot. The bench was warm on account of the sunbaked window, but Kastner kept his coat on and his hat perched low on his head. He looked at his watch: one minute before 1 o'clock. He took another glance at the garbage pile of awkwardly stacked tin cans that was supposed to be a sculpture, trying not to laugh at the sight of it. If he really were to die in 10 minutes time, it would be better than having to sit there any longer.

Kastner heard the sharp _click-clack_ of footsteps and turned his head slightly at the sound. It was the woman; he recognized the long dark hair falling over her shoulders, the bright red lipstick, and the dark sunglasses. She wore a long black coat with matching leather gloves and high-heeled boots. As always, she carried with her a briefcase identical to his own; he had the merchandise, she had the payment, and the only thing left to do was make the switch.

The woman sat down beside him and placed her briefcase next to his own so that they were touching. "Good to see you, Kastner," she said quietly, glancing at him for only a moment before looking straight ahead.

"Good to see you, too," Kastner replied, his eyes looking past her as if they were strangers. "I opened the present for you. It works fine."

"Excellent, thank you." There was a hint of satisfaction on her face. She was a woman in her forties, the lines on her face not yet deep, but visible. "I'm sorry for asking you to do that," she whispered. "The man in the white hat told me it was special, but he wouldn't say anything more than that. That's never happened before."

Two men in suits passed casually beside them, and Kastner lowered his voice: "You won't regret the purchase, ma'am. I guarantee it."

"Good," she said and almost smiled. "I'm sorry to see you go, Kastner. You were the best."

"It's been a pleasure."

"It has. I wish you the best."

At that moment, they heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and they both turned instantly. It was a young girl in a tight pink sweater and jeans, her red hair tied back in a ponytail. "Oh! What a great piece," she almost shrieked with excitement as she approached the tin-can sculpture. "It's so cute ... looks like two pigs kissing, doesn't it?" She looked at the woman and Kastner as if expecting an answer. Kastner ignored her but the woman nodded and smiled, the same way you smile at someone's annoying child.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," the girl said in her high-pitched voice, "but would you happen to know where the coffee shop is? I'm meeting a friend there, and I've been looking for the place for, like, half an hour." It was great, the childish act she put on. It was _believable_. "You see," she continued, "I'm from out of town and my friend told me to meet her here, only not _here_ exactly. At the coffee shop, it's just that I can't seem to find it." She smiled an innocent lost-in-the-big-city smile.

The woman leaned forward. "Sure dear, the coffee shop is on the ground floor." She pointed to the staircase. Kastner stood and picked up the briefcase, leaving the other behind.

"On the ground floor? Oh, but I've been there already, and I didn't see anything ..." the girl sighed, puppy-dog eyes glimmering.

"It's at the far end, dear, right by the restrooms."

The girl stood still for a moment, thinking it over. Then she jumped, as if a light bulb went off inside her head. She thanked the woman before hurrying off. Kastner glanced at the woman one last time, bowed his head slightly, then took off the other way. The woman would wait for him to disappear before leaving herself. He headed for the back of the building, descended to the ground floor, then stepped out into the daylight. The time was 1:07.

~~~~~

Instead of going home, Kastner made his way around the corner. He walked quietly to a shaded spot behind an oak tree, where he could remain hidden while still having a clear view of the parking lot. At 1:09 the woman exited the building with the other briefcase in hand and walked out into the parking lot. Kastner watched her from a distance as she stepped inside a black jeep with tinted windows, and then he heard the doors slam shut behind her. He glanced down at his watch again. 1:10. The air around him was cold and dry.

There was a moment of frozen silence, and then a crashing roar ripped through the air. The jeep bounced off the ground as a giant fireball swallowed it up from the inside, the windows bursting out like confetti. Thick smoke billowed into the sky as the sharp sound of the blast gave way to the steady chirping of a dozen car alarms. Stunned passersby — some silent, others screaming and shouting — moved slowly toward the scene of the explosion. Kastner opened his briefcase just enough to see the big black book still safely inside, then closed it and walked away.

Two blocks later, Marina caught up with him. She wrapped her arm around his, and he didn't protest. "I'm glad you took the right briefcase back with you, cowboy. You never know with these things." She gave him her most alluring smile. The ponytail really did make her look younger.

"I don't know, maybe I should've taken the other one," he said with a smirk. "Who knows what I'm in for now?"

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

As they walked down the crowded street, Kastner caught something in the corner of his eye. Sitting on the patio of a small café across the street was a face he knew — the man in the white hat. He watched them with something like pride. As Kastner turned to face him, the man tipped his hat in their direction.

They walked on, dark smoke rising in the distance.

_Bojan Ratkovi_ ć _is an aspiring writer from Serbia, living and working in Ontario, Canada. Recently his work appeared in the Great Lakes Cultural Review and on the World SF Blog. He is pursuing a PhD degree in political philosophy from the University of Western Ontario, in London, Ontario._

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#  Phylactery

by Joseph Sale; published August 13, 2013

Billy sighed. He closed the novel he'd been reading and tossed it onto the table. Nothing had been the same since the fall. The memory gave him chills along his arms. He would never forget the day he'd returned to his flat to find a crowd gathered, and a police cordon around the splatter of red mess that had once been Jake.

He'd vomited instantly when he saw it.

 He was sitting at the same window Jake had tumbled from, trying and failing to distract himself from the question.

A question he almost didn't want to answer.

It was possible the whole thing had been an accident. Jake had loved to smoke there, perched on the sill like a modern gargoyle. He could have lost his balance and fallen.

He could have.

A niggling possibility scraped at Billy's insides as if he'd swallowed a rat whole. He never thought Jake would do that. Sure, he was lazy, stumbled between jobs like a drunk between bars, played the Xbox as though it was the only thing that interested him in the world, and he smelled of marijuana constantly, but he seemed happy. Billy looked down at the pavement. The road had been cleared. It was two weeks since Jake had died. He had yet to find another flatmate; had yet to even try. The problem was that every time he looked down outside, he was sure he could still see the stain.

Grimacing, he stood up and went into the bathroom.

Halfway through brushing his teeth he caught a glimpse of himself into the cabinet mirror. He stopped to take in his reflection. It was alarming. Had he looked like this yesterday? His skin was the discolored white of off-milk. His eyes looked like they had receded in their sockets. Putting the brush down, he placed his hands on either side of the cabinet and stared deep, taking in every nuance: the small bumps of acne that couldn't quite die and hair yellowed like parched grass but dark around the edges as if he was fading from something more solid — more real.

"Why does everything feel dead?"

He realized that he was gripping the cabinet hard, his fingers creaking as his nails dug into the flimsy card from which it was made. He wrenched at it suddenly, almost oblivious to what had prompted the anger. It had seeped in like an antithetical inspiration: darkly empowering. The cabinet broke away from the wall with ludicrous ease and a spray of crumbling plaster accompanied it, revealing a hollow wall. He tossed the cabinet aside.

"Well, I guess that's why I can hear them doing it every night," he sighed, looking at the empty space revealed by the hole. He clenched and unclenched his fist a couple of times to release his tension. He laughed weakly. It was all so ridiculous. This apartment, his job, his whole life, in fact, seemed like one giant joke spelled on the lips of God.

He went back to the sink to finish brushing his teeth when he saw a small glimmer inside the concave of the wall. At first he thought it was a pipe, but it seemed too bright — too beautiful. He reached in and felt something hard and coarse. He pulled it out.

It was a small phylactery, a little leather box with a gleaming silver seal. It was ornate, and old by the look of the designs on the seal. Yet, it wasn't dusty. Someone had been regularly taking it out and looking at it.

"What the hell have you left, Jake?" Billy whispered, turning it over. He flipped open the silver seal with as much delicacy as his trembling fingers would allow. As he expected, the phylactery didn't contain scripture, but a tiny, glass bottle filled with a black, toxic-looking liquid. Underneath the bottle was a small note on which was written:

"Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams."

Billy put the bottle and note on the living room table and didn't look at it for the rest of the day. When he got back from his shift on the till, he looked at it. He had no idea what the substance was, or what the hell the quote meant, but he felt like all of this was an invitation — an invitation he didn't yet understand. It was the last evidence of Jake he had, the last thing in the flat that hadn't been taken away and boxed up. Rationally, he knew it was probably hallucinogenic, and harmful.

But he _was_ curious.

Billy reached over the table and picked up the phial in two fingers. He would find out the hard way.

Unscrewing the lid, he touched the cold glass to his lips and leaned his head back. As soon as the black liquid met his flesh, he felt a tingling erupt across his mouth. He stopped and screwed the lid back on in a flurry, aware that suddenly everything was difficult to grasp, and blurred. He managed to put the phial back, but his hands were floppy and useless, so much so that he swept all his mugs off the table as he tried to sit back.

The world went dark.

But then it came back, although it wasn't quite the same. Everything looked larger. His dingy little living room looked like it had enough space to fit fifty people, and everything was bending, as if an invisible force was pushing it outwards, as if the universe could no longer accommodate him. Colors were bleeding into one another. Where did the white of the wall end and the red carpet begin? Streams of crimson were running up the apartment walls as if all colors had become wet paint and gravity was now drawing upward.

His eyes widened further.

"Jake?"

Jake was standing in the center of the room. He had been staring off into nothingness over Billy's head, but at the mention of his name his eyes had snapped onto Billy's. There was something disturbing about the way he was standing. He was perfectly upright, and unnaturally rigid like an automaton. But it was definitely him. He had his black hood up around his blacker hair, and ripped black jeans trailing along the floor.

Billy sat up, although he was dizzy.

"Jake! It's me, Billy!" He took another glance at the half recognizable world. "What the hell is going on?"

Jake pointed at his own mouth. Billy took in a sharp breath. Where Jake's lips should have been, there was a yellow sticker with a crude smiley face drawn on it, one with only a single curved line for the smile, and two impenetrable dots for eyes. It was pasted over the entirety of his mouth so his cheeks were sucked in slightly. Something about it made Billy shiver through his core. Jake shook his head sadly.

Do you mind if I talk like this instead, Billy?

Billy felt the coldness running up and down his spine intensify. The voice had sounded inside of his head, as if it had been his own conjured memory of Jake's voice. There was something else too, something else he didn't recognize.

"Sure," he stammered. "But why can't you talk, Jake?"

Jake's eyes creased as if he was smiling, but the sticker didn't move. The childish single-line drawing of the smile remained at its unnatural curve.

Do you believe in other dimensions, Billy?

"What?"

The voice resonating in his head was like Jake, and yet unlike him. It had his tone and sound, but nothing of his way of speaking.

This is another dimension, Billy, a dimension where you are dreaming. Look.

Jake raised a finger and pointed at somewhere next to Billy. Billy turned and leapt up in shock. He was looking at himself, lying on the couch, eyes rolled into the top of his head, lids flickering slightly as if he was having a bad dream. He looked down at the self he now inhabited. He could see it was shimmering at the edges, as if seen through a blurred lens.

"If this is another dimension, how did you find it?"

_The phylactery._ Jake's eyes never blinked, and they were boring into Billy as though he was trying to stop his heart with thought alone. _I found it. It took me to special places. Places I could never get to in reality. And you can go there too, Billy. Come with me, and I'll show you how to change things._

"Change things?"

Jake nodded.

Change the world.

~~~~~

Billy started awake. The first thing that came to him was a sour taste in his mouth. His head was throbbing as if the veins had narrowed and the blood was being pushed through forcibly. He sat up and regretted it immediately. His vision blurred as the head rush created swimming noises in his ears. Eventually it dissipated. It was dark. He realized it must be night. How long had he been asleep?

Had he really been asleep at all?

The strange interview flashed across his mind in fragments and dissected images. It was already fading. Just like a dream. He scratched his head and looked around. The walls were white and the carpet red and neither bled into the other. It was just a dream. The phial was just alcohol, or a drug for sleeping. Jake had never been there.

Billy stood up. His face felt like it was grimy somehow, like dirt had sunken into its pours. He staggered to his feet and went into the bathroom. It took him a few moments to notice what was wrong. But when he did, he screamed.

The cabinet was reattached to the wall as if it had never been broken.

A yellow sticker with a child's impression of a face on it was stuck on the mirror, smiling out at him. He reached up and dug his nails under it. He pulled it from the mirror. There was more. Under the sticker were words written in what looked like black marker pen.

"CHANGE THE WORLD"

Billy ran back into the living room. No one was there. He went to the front door. It was locked and bolted as he'd left it. He went into the kitchen; he checked Jake's old bedroom, but found nothing in both. He went to the window and found it locked.

There was a split second where so many thoughts rushed through his head he felt that to concentrate on one of them would be like trying to jump onto a moving train and pick a carriage while he was at it, but then something seemed to click into place. He picked up the phial and went into his own room. He lay down on the bed, and lifted it to his lips.

"Change the world," he echoed, before draining another sliver of the black ichor.

When he opened his eyes it was all warped once again, and Jake was standing next to his bed, still with his strange rigidity.

Are you ready?

Billy sat up.

"I'm ready."

He blinked. Jake was gone. He stood up.

"Where ... ?"

Come through the wall.

He turned and looked at his bedroom wall. There was a desk drawer littered with countless science fiction novels, their paperback covers bent, frayed, and smudged. In the subnormal atmosphere, the pictures on their covers seemed to shift, the characters smiling widely at him. He grinned back. He was in on their secret now. He was part of his own fiction.

He reached out and touched the wall. Ripples extended away from it as if he was a stone plunged into a volume of water. He smiled wider. In one stride he pulled himself through the once-solid formation and felt the universe re-atomize around him. It was delicious. Painful, but delicious. Jake was on the other side, creases at the edge of his eyes suggesting that he was smiling too.

"I want more!" Billy said.

Jake looked down. There was a young, lithe girl on the bed. Billy recognized her vaguely: a neighbor he'd seen occasionally in the corridor, or coming back from a night out. A duvet was draped around her and her head was nestled into the pillow. Jake reached out and touched the covers. They fluttered away airily to reveal the rest of her. She was naked. Jake's eyes creased further. Billy looked down and felt a pulse inside of him.

He reached out and was alarmed when he felt how real her skin was: soft, warm, and yet yielding. She stirred at his touch but did not wake. Billy looked up at Jake. The face was static, but the words resonated invisibly in his mind.

You can have anything you want in this world Billy. When she wakes, all it will be to her is a dream.

Something was shaking inside of Billy. He withdrew his hand. The delirium of power coursed in his chest like an electric bolt.

"Is this why you killed yourself, Jake? So you could stay here forever?"

Slowly, eyes never shifting from Billy, Jake nodded. The sticker's smile bobbing up and down, somehow expressive though fixed — expressive of a gleeful triumph.

And you can have this world forever too, Billy. You can alter whatever you want and no one can stop you because you're just a walker in a dream. You can change how many votes are on a register. You can go into a convenience store and take what you want. You can possess any woman you want and she'll never stop you.

"But it won't be real," Billy said. For a moment a shadow seemed to pass over Jake's face. The eyes glared. When the shadow vanished, it left Billy feeling even colder than before.

What is real, Billy? Is the numbing repetition of delinquent conversations at the check-out till real? Does that make you feel anything? Or is reality really in your books? Don't you feel so much more in them?

"Or in your video games," Billy said, quietly. "Is that why you were so locked into that damn console?" Billy grinned. Jake didn't respond. The eyes continually stared, but there was something glassy about them, as if Jake was thinking fast.

You can have anything you want, Billy.

Billy frowned.

"You've said that. But what do you do? What do you do in this place?"

Jake jerked violently, so violently that Billy flinched. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong with everything and he had no idea how he hadn't been able to see it before.

"You're not Jake," he said, walking back. "Who are you?"

Jake was shimmering, parts of him disjointing, as if he was a malfunctioning graphic on an artificial screen.

Billy turned to run but halted when he saw the wall behind him had morphed into a sea of terrible faces, lurching, writhing, seething beneath the plaster. Who were these people?

_Jake is dead._ The voice said, cutting off his thought. _He threw himself out of the window. He couldn't handle this world. He was afraid. But you're better than him, Billy. You know you are. He was a failure. He killed himself because he couldn't face the world. I offered him everything he could want but he refused it out of fear._

Billy turned. The figure was still in Jake's shape, but now the darkness in the hood had somehow expanded, and looked like it was seeping out in small blindly sentient tendrils. The eyes were gloomier.

"If you're not Jake, then who are you?"

It paused for a moment.

I am the darkest dream you yearned to dream again.

Billy shuddered. In this one thing he was sure it was not lying.

I have power. So much power, Billy. I want to give you this world. But first you have to do something. You have to unblock my mouth, and you have to give me the elixir.

"If you drink it in this world, what does it do?"

You have to hurry Billy. Your dose is running out. You won't be asleep for much longer. You have to let me drink the elixir.

"Who says I want this world, anyway? You still haven't answered my question."

The thing in Jake's shape raised a hand. He mimed clicking a button on a remote-controller and the TV in the room crackled into life. Mesmerized, Billy walked closer. The TV was playing his whole life through on fast-forward. He leapt from toddler to child to teenager in minutes. When it reached him sleeping on the bed it cut out. Billy found himself crying. Not a single scene had made him happy to see. Not one clip was a joyful memory.

"I'll do it."

The wall was no longer writhing with faces. He passed through it and into the other room. The shape of Jake was waiting for him as he stepped into the living room, standing like a black line against the table and staring down at the small little bottle.

Open my mouth.

Billy reached out and put one hand on the sticker. The flesh was clammy, almost frost-like, and hard as enamel.

Do it.

He pulled and the sticker fell off. He swallowed. There was nothing but a circular hole of blackness lodged in the face. Inside the hole, two points of red glittered like dying stars. The rigid body jerked and its hand shot down at the phylactery. It poured all of the black liquid into its weird maw.

Billy felt sick. His heart was beating abnormally slowly, as if clogged with tar.

Jake lumbered forward through the door and into Billy's bedroom.

"What are you doing? What's supposed to happen now?"

The thing in Jake's shape wasn't listening. It leaned down, and placed the terrible hole over his sleeping body's mouth.

Something passed between the two, and Jake's shell fell down limply. Billy's sleeping body writhed and the face twitched; something black lay beyond its lips.

The realization of what had just happened left Billy dumb for a moment, and then everything swam into horrifying clarity. He could see his body's eyes flickering as if he was about to awaken. Beneath the pale flesh, two horrid red points were shining. Everything around him started to flicker and warp even further.

He ran forward and picked up his own body in his arms. It was moaning and gargling in its sleep. His physical self was about to wake up. But Billy knew _he_ wouldn't wake up with it. He was going to remain here forever, or worse. He staggered to the window, his sleeping corporeal self starting to flail as if its nightmare was deepening. The red inside it was glowing brighter and brighter. How could he have been so stupid? It had all been a trick. Whatever it was that had been in Jake's shape would cross into the real world and leave him in this broken dimension.

Unless Billy did something about it.

He flung open the window. The lids of his corporeal form's eyes were drifting apart, and the whites shone like gems. The whole world was now flashing through colors of the spectrum as if everything was constructed of multitudinous prisms.

He breathed.

And then he jumped.

As he plummeted, hugging his own form tightly, a scream of frustration soared out from his corporeal body's lips. It rippled outwards into the cycling spectrums of color with a vibrancy that made them jar and falter. There was a vicious snap as his physical body hit the pavement underneath him, seemingly greater than any sound he had ever heard. He felt his body's own limbs snapping and crunching, and then all the wind was knocked out of him. He rolled off onto the pavement. The scream had abruptly ended, and the two glowing red points vanished.

Dazed, Billy looked around him. The horizons of this world were closing in, swallowed up as the dimension crumbled. Veins of blackness were flickering through everything. Soon, Billy supposed, all would be swirling blackness.

As the darkness came, Billy had time for a few last thoughts. If the blackness that was coming was oblivion, then he had to leave something for them to find in the real world. He pulled up the shirt on his corpse, and extended his index finger.

He ran his finger along his skin. In its wake, tattoos etched themselves into the flesh. The thing inside Jake had been right in one thing then: He did have power in this world. A fat lot of good it would do him now.

He began writing, conscious of the deconstructing plane around him. He had no idea what to say. Eventually, it came to him, like a random memory.

We are only walkers in someone else's dreams.

Tread softly.

Strangely proud, Billy looked up to see that the colossal dark had almost reached him. He had no idea what would happen when he touched it. Unsure whether this was the end or the beginning, whether he had won or lost, he stood, the silent consumption of the universe hurtling like a tornado towards him. He stretched out his arms.

He was ready not to wake up.

_Joseph Sale is a writer, performer, and fencer. He lives in Birmingham, Edgbaston, where he studies creative writing and literature. Passionate about the classics and about what they can reveal about modern life, Joseph was brought up immersed in dark fantastical worlds. His heroes are Spenser, Tolkien, and King. His short stories have previously appeared in Silver Blade. He has also self published a critically acclaimed poetry book. You can find more at_his site _._

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#  The Hatchlings

by Darius Jones; published August 16, 2013

The myths, rumors, and speculation surrounding the Zakir ritual on Kaldar are well attested, but they remain only that, myth and speculation. Now, as I have witnessed the thing itself, I feel responsible to share the truth, no matter how loathsome, with the rest of the civilized galaxy. For those of you who remain ignorant of this notorious ritual, I have written this story so that the facts may be plainly known. To the best of my ability, I have tried to reserve my judgment and offer this only as a work of reportage, a relation of true events.

After several years of residence on Kaldar, in which I learned their language, their customs, and something of their primal prejudices and obscurantist rituals, I was, at last, invited to a "celebration" of the Zakir. I, of course, accepted. How could I not? It was an event which no Off-worlders had ever been invited to, let alone witnessed. To refuse would have been dishonorable, to decline, an insult. I asked few questions and begged no explanations. I knew the invitation was unprecedented, and I realized that too much curiosity might reveal my true intent, my determination to share what I saw.

 My only guide during the entirety of the ritual was a Kaldarian by the name of Mudarak, who graciously agreed to be my sponsor. It was he who not only procured an invitation from the Synod of the Holy Mothers, but agreed to provide a real-time commentary on the ritual. He was also gracious enough to share the ancient responsorial which concludes the ritual, the words of which provided scant insight. I memorized the responsorial and the requisite motions which accompany them until I performed them "like a native," according to my sponsor. The rest of my knowledge concerning the ritual was gleaned from the usual sources: faded tomes in the Kaldarian archives and miscellaneous third-hand accounts in the popular literature. Third-hand because all Kaldarians are under strict interdict to never speak a word about the details of the ritual to any Off-worlders or risk becoming the next subject of the ritual.

Not only are Kaldarians forbidden to speak of the ritual, no recordings of any kind are allowed. This is due to the origins of the ritual. For most Kaldarians the Zakir still has the residue of a hoary, numinous past associated with the hardy ancestors who first colonized their planet. It is said that in the year 473,545 A.Q., that is, almost at the dawn of Kaldarian history, the first victim — or should I say subject — of the Zakir, a certain Nebnam Haqal, met his fate at the hand of the Arakh. At the time, it was strictly forbidden to record the event, as it would diminish its mystical flavor. Of course, Kaldarian culture has, in certain respects, evolved since then. It has secularized, modernized, and shed many of the more bizarre and brutish cult customs of its first settlers, but the ceremony of the Zakir has remained virtually untouched since the time of Nebnam. But I dwell on the past, on what once was.

I approached the entrance to the coliseum in the company of my good friend, Mudarak. We paused briefly before a gargantuan white marble statue in front of the gate leading into the arena. It depicted Qarmara, the supreme goddess of Kaldar. How many times had I wandered past this statue? Had I wondered at the hidden clues that her pose, dress, and features might hold? I had seen the crowds streaming in through the Mashkal gate — men, women, and children — in their tunics of white linen and wondered what they would shortly witness just behind the high walls of the coliseum. How many times had I tried in vain to decipher the amplified announcements in proto-Kaldarian that emanated from within? How often had I tried to decipher the crowd's shouts and gasps to no avail? How many times had I altered my daily schedule to observe the look in their faces when they came out? But if any shock or horror was there, it was well concealed, for the spectators passed by chatting of trivia. Their U-Droid's battery pack had malfunctioned and needed replacing; the dust storms had been so bad this year they would have to replace all the filters on the Solarium; the Mother Omarrahku would not be standing trial on embezzlement after all, and the charges against her were to be dropped. They would speak of everything but the Zakir.

There was one clue, however. The statue of the goddess Qarmara, as I said, was immense, six times the height of a man. She was dressed in the same white tunic of all the attendants of the Zakir. She was a normal human woman, except for one detail. On her head she wore a crown of small orbs. They rose up to a great height on her skull as if she were wearing an elongated crown. Having entered the shrines of numerous deities and cult heroes on many worlds, I assumed that it was a metaphor of some kind, connoting the fecundity of a mother goddess, whether literally or metaphorically. I would soon learn how wrong, how naïve, I had been.

"Shall we?" Mudarak asked, after some moments of gazing up at the statue in admiration.

"Of course," I said with a small, resolute nod. "Lead the way."

The guards at the entrance had been notified that an Off-worlder would be attending. My sponsor presented a paper with a special seal bearing an encrypted message with the requisite authorization from the Synod. The guards scanned it and waved us on.

Before us stood a vast oval large enough to house, by my estimate, some 60,000 spectators. From our seats, I could see the arena below was full of sand — from the Great Western Desert of Kaldar no doubt — and covered in a reinforced Glassite dome strong enough to keep a Golgoth within it. Several portals under the glass opened onto the arena. A large video screen hung above the enclosed dome counting down the last minutes before the Zakir was scheduled to begin. Every single spectator, from the oldest man to the youngest child, wore the same white tunic. A relic of the ancient past of Kaldar, it must be wrapped around the body four times and is impossible to put on unassisted. My companion, as always, helped me to drape mine across my body in true Kaldarian fashion. No decoration of the cloth is permitted and no accessories are to be worn, another faithful detail of the ancient ritual preserved from time immemorial.

The last of the spectators were seated as the clock counted down the final seconds. My companion turned to me and whispered quietly.

"The Zakir is conducted in the ancient tongue of Kaldar. Most of the ritual will be plain enough, but I will try to provide some context."

I must have given some sign of apprehension for he asked me, "Are you sure you wish to witness the ritual? We must run for the gates now, or stay to witness it in its entirety. It is forbidden to leave once it has begun."

"Run?" I said. "Don't be ridiculous, Mudarak; this is what I came to Kaldar for."

My companion looked at me askance. Perhaps, I thought, my answer had given away too much?

"As you wish," he answered.

All the seats in the arena had been filled save for two rows on a raised dais overlooking the arena opposite our seats. The timer on the suspended video screen ran down to zero and stopped. The crowd began to applaud quietly and politely. The noise grew louder and suddenly stopped. Slowly, a group of men dressed in white tunics walked into the arena carrying trumpets. They silently filled the lower row on the dais. They raised their trumpets and played a melancholy hymn, no doubt unchanged from ancient times. As the song wore on, the trumpets fell silent one after the other until only one played on. Its plaintive tune rose and fell, echoing through the hushed arena.

"The Lament of the Desert," Mudarak said.

The final note died away and the trumpet player placed his trumpet at his side. He began to speak, almost shouting the words. The language was clearly Kaldarian in nature, with its trademark ululating vowels and harsh consonants, but I could not make out a single word.

"The Entrance of the Dignitaries," Mudarak commented.

In a silent, shuffling line the local Kaldarian leaders marched in, occupying the final empty row of seats above the trumpeters. The last three were Procurator Mizar, the Chief Gendarme Kochab, and one of the Holy Mothers, Zirlana. Despite their high station, they all wore the same white tunics as the rest of us.

The trumpeter blew a single, sharp note. He removed the trumpet from his lips and began to speak again, his voice loud and hoarse. When he had finished, an elderly woman entered to join the dignitaries on the dais. The old woman was followed by an old man, a middle-aged couple, and children ranging from those ready to assume the Hokhatar to those barely old enough to enroll in the Synod's chapterhouse. Every member of this family was dressed in black tunics.

"The Offended Party," Mudarak said.

The crowd applauded again politely; a few people yelled out something, but I did not catch it.

Mother Zirlana came forward to speak, addressing the crowd. It was succinct and concise. I glanced at my companion.

"The Requisite Benediction," he whispered.

She finished and resumed her seat. The crowd grew silent.

I turned my gaze to the middle of the arena. A trap door slid open and up rose a young man on a pedestal, his hands bound behind him around a black metal mast. He wore only black pants that reached down to his knees; his chest was bare, and he wore no shoes. The Mother Zirlana said something again from her seat and raised her hand above her head in a fist. Then she opened it so that her palm faced the sky. She spoke as if reciting something.

"The verdict, once more," Mudarak said.

The young man was hyperventilating uncontrollably and looking around wild-eyed. He attempted to move, to break free of his restraints, but seeing it was useless, he stopped. His head had been shaved and smeared with some type of viscous purple substance. His ears at first appeared to have had their tips cut off. But looking closer I saw they had been taped down with the greatest care so that they would not protrude over the purple skullcap.

Mother Zirlana let her hand fall.

Another trap door opened up right in front of the man. Two small towers with nozzles attached to them rose up out of the ground. They opened their valves and a fine mist came out, covering the man from head to foot.

"Pheromones," Mudarak explained.

The mist stopped and the nozzles retracted. The two towers disappeared back under the arena floor, and the trap door slammed shut. Even from a distance I could see the man breathing violently, strapped to the mast.

A portal in a side of the arena, safely under the dome, opened up. I knew what would emerge and yet did not. I clasped my hands together briefly and noticed they had grown moist. I wiped them clumsily on my tunic and forced them to hang at my side.

Something moved in the darkness, and a whispery commotion rose from the crowd. A black, hairy limb with two hooked claws at its tip emerged out of the portal. The limb probed the arena sand and retracted slowly, almost coyly, disappearing into the darkness. Nothing happened for a moment. Another dark, hairy limb probed the sand, and suddenly the Arakh charged out of its hole into the middle of the arena. The crowd shrieked and cheered with delight.

Stopping almost in the middle of the arena, the Arakh froze, waving its two front legs. I exhaled in relief, for it was much smaller than I had imagined. Legend had insinuated that the female Arakh was twice the size of a man, but I found it was just the opposite, for it only came up to the man's waist. Perhaps, I thought, it will be not as gruesome as they have said. Perhaps it will be quick!

Despite a modicum of relief, I still found the creature repulsive. It was completely black save for a small red orb at the center of its abdomen. From the end of its hooked legs to the tops of its head it was covered in thick rough hairs. It had dual fangs the size of a Krall knife. Ten soulless, unblinking eyes kept watch for both predator and prey. Eight legs served various purposes — four to capture and bind its prey, two hind legs for leaping, two more for feeding and delicate work. Only the radioactive harshness of Kaldar's Great Western Desert could have produced such a monstrosity.

I glanced at my companion, and he sensed my uncertainty.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The Arakh. It is smaller than I thought," I said. "The man must be too large for her."

"The male Arakh is twice as large as the female," Mudarak explained. "It is not uncommon for Kaldarian arachnids. Besides, she is more nimble, and the male's bulk serves an evolutionary purpose."

The Arakh crept toward the man tentatively with a seemingly unbalanced arachnid gait. Suddenly, it froze as if stunned. Its two front arms opened as if in surprise and gratitude.

"Already her caretakers have impregnated her chemically as she slept," Mudarak explained. "She is ready to birth, but the instinct to mate remains unfulfilled."

The young man began to scream. He stopped and plead hysterically with the whole arena, panting as he yelled for mercy. I turned and looked at my companion. He, like the rest of the arena, was transfixed on the scene.

The Arakh continued to flick its front legs, but did not move from its spot.

"She is picking them up now," Mudarak said, staring at the Arakh.

"What?" I asked, absentmindedly.

"The pheromones."

"Of course," I answered.

The Arakh had fallen into a trance of lust. Its four front legs rose and fell with the velvety viscosity peculiar to arachnids. It was not meant for locomotion, but to charm and entice. If it had been human the word "dance" might have captured it. As the Arakh continued, the man's screaming stopped, and his head fell on his chest. The crowd began to applaud.

I could not. I turned to my companion and saw him applauding lustily. He shot a glance at me and then down at my hands. Perhaps sensing his perturbation, I halfheartedly clapped, joining the rest of the arena.

The crowd's applause died as the Arakh's dance continued. The spider rose up briefly on its two hind legs, all six legs whipping around in a frenzy for a moment. Suddenly, its four front legs froze. A shiver passed through its body and the Arakh became still.

Without warning, the beast leapt. It scampered forward and lunged at the man, binding itself to his torso. The crowd cheered. The man's head went up again and he held it stiff against the metal mast. For an instant, the spider was face to face with its prey. I imagined ten lifeless eyes peering into the man.

"Is that it? Is it over?" I said in a hurried whisper, glancing at my companion.

"It has only just begun," Mudarak said, without tearing his eyes away from the scene.

I watched as the Arakh bound the man tightly, almost tenderly. The hooks on its legs did not break the skin, but merely stretched and held it when necessary. Without letting go, the Arakh spun on his torso until its abdomen with its livid red spot was inches from the man's face. The spider's head was now just below his belly. The man began to scream, but it was inhuman, a desperate aural gesticulation.

The Arakh's head reared back and buried its fangs in the man's belly.

"The mating bite of the Arakh," Mudarak said. "It does not kill, but only paralyzes temporarily."

The man let out a gasp and grew silent. The Arakh held its fangs in place and began to press its abdomen into his chest in a strange rhythm. It continued for a few moments and then, apparently satisfied, stopped and removed its jaws from his belly. Deftly and meticulously, the Arakh changed position again, so that it was face-to-face with the man once more. As the Arakh repositioned itself, the man's head slammed back against his headrest and stayed there as if frozen stiff. His eyelids fluttered slightly and then closed. The Arakh turned its attention to the man's head. Its fangs found the boundary created by the purple residue on the man's skull cap. It bit down. The man's body shivered at the first cut, but remained motionless as the Arakh chewed its way around his skullcap.

The Arakh finished the circular cut around the man's skull and seemed to look at the man with a sort of curiosity. It paused as if thinking. Then, with a quick flick of one of its front arms, it popped off his skullcap, which fell, wet with blood, to the sandy floor below.

The Arakh, as careful as ever, changed its position. It again placed its head near the man's stomach, with its abdomen towards his head. The Arakh's body froze. The crowd applauded again.

"What?" I began nervously. "What now?"

"The Hatchlings," Mudarak said.

The Arakh's entire being quaked. Without a sound, an egg came out of its abdomen and was deposited on the exposed brain tissue of the man. It was a yellowish egg, smaller than a man's fist. The Arakh repeated the procedure again and again, shuddering with each new egg.

"How she suffers!" my companion gasped. "The eggs are preternaturally large. Fertilization has been done unnaturally, too soon."

"She?" I asked in disbelief, turning to my companion.

I wanted to look away from the spectacle, but I could not. I, too, was under the trance of the Arakh. It shuddered and quaked as it filled up the man's head with egg after egg. When it was almost done, I noticed the eggs stacked to a point on top of the man's head as if he were wearing a crown.

"Just like the goddess," I whispered sullenly.

"What?" asked my companion.

"Nothing," I answered. "Nothing, I just ..."

I felt a wave of heat rise through my body, things started to grow yellow and white. I swallowed and told myself to stay focused. In a moment, the feeling passed and my vision was restored.

The Arakh laid its last egg. Its job was done. It scampered down from the mast. The Arakh was halfway back to the portal through which it had entered when the stadium broke into a wild cheer. I looked at my companion. He was doing the same. And then I did the one thing I truly regret from my whole time on Kaldar. I cheered. I applauded. I yelled as loudly as I could. Not because I felt it, but because of the oldest instinct of all — self-preservation.

The Arakh must have heard the muffled drone of cheers and applause through the dome, or felt the vibrations rising up through the sand. It took a few cautious steps back toward the man and waved its front legs as if trying to defend itself. In that moment, I pitied her, as horrible as she was. It looked so desperate there in the middle of the arena, cringing before a host of enemies it could not see, yet another victim of the Kaldarian's age-old lust for vengeance.

I was to be rudely awakened from my musings. The Arakh lunged forward and, in a few quick leaps, landed with a loud thud on the Glassite dome above our seats. Our entire section gasped. Without thinking, Mudarak and I fell to the ground and hid behind our seats. The two rows in front and behind us did the same. The rest of the crowd erupted in ecstasy, cheering and clapping riotously. Just above our heads the Arakh's fangs tried hopelessly to puncture the dome. The rest of the crowd began to laugh. And though they meant to mock us, I have never been so relieved at the sound of laughter.

The Glassite dome flickered on and off. The Arakh instantly let go and fell back onto the arena floor.

My companion gripped my arm as we came to our feet.

"The Glassite is electrified," he explained.

The Arakh spun around and scampered back into its dark chamber. The thick door closed firmly behind it.

My heart was racing and I breathed quickly, but I began to calm down as soon as the Arakh had disappeared. The crowd tittered excitedly for a moment more, but began to grow quiet as well. The man in the ring was waking up.

He opened his eyes wide, blinked a few times, and sighed groggily. At first, his eyes held a sort of relief. The Arakh was gone. He was still alive. Then, he looked at the floor of the arena. He saw it there, something bloody in the sand. His eyes grew wide, he had understood. That bloody waste had once been part of him.

Perhaps sensing something, he gazed upward. He saw the eggs piled on his head and screamed in a way I have never heard before or since. He tried to move and shake his head, but his body would no longer obey him. The venom had made his body uniformly rigid, stiff.

The eggs began to shiver and crack. One near the top popped open and a miniature Arakh emerged, a red livid spot on its belly. One after another the yellow eggs hatched. In a few moments, a thousand baby Arakhs — each the size of a thumbnail — fumbled and crawled over one another in a seething mass that began to spill over the man's face.

That is when the sound started, that sound which haunts me still. One of the little Arakhs lifted its legs to the sky and began to shriek. As soon as one started the cry, it was taken up by the entire brood, and the cry of a thousand famished arachnids filled the arena.

"They hunger," my friend said.

The man bound to the mast looked up at the hatchlings seething on his exposed brain. He continued to scream, but whenever he paused to breathe, all one could hear was the high-pitched screeches of the little Arakhs.

"It's not the brain of the male Arakh," my companion noted. "But they have no choice."

The Arakhs grew quiet. They began to burrow down, around, and through one another to reach the bloody, exposed tissue. They consumed in blind hunger.

"They say in the wild the young Arakhs will consume some fifty percent of their brethren in the first few minutes of life," my companion said. "In this case, the nutritional value is lower. Only ten percent of the Arakhs will survive their first hour."

"Fascinating," I muttered with derision.

The weakest and smallest Arakhs were forced aside or consumed. They began to trickle over the man's face and eyes as he looked on helplessly. He screamed a final time, his eyes dull and half-closed. The Arakhs continued their feast, spilling down his face or burrowing deeper into his brain. A few of the Arakhs, already sated, began to crawl down his body to the floor of the arena.

There was a loud alarm, a single tone. Everyone in the arena grew silent and stood up straight. The spectators, the Offended Party, and the dignitaries on the dais all bowed their heads and cupped their hands over their foreheads. I did the same. I knew it was time for the recitation.

"Life has been taken," we said as one.

We moved our hands, clasping them over our hearts.

"Life has been given," we said.

In unison, we unclasped our hands and lifted them up, our palms facing the sky.

"You are just, oh Qarmara!"

We held our hands aloft for a moment and brought them down to our sides.

The little Arakhs began to jump down from the remains of the man and spread out across the floor of the arena, exploring their new world.

The trumpeters signaled once again, and the arena bulb darkened out. The house lights came up, and the crowd began to file out of the arena.

"Well?" Mudarak asked as we passed by the statue of Qarmara.

"What was his crime?" I asked idly.

"I'm sorry?"

"What was his crime?" I said, louder this time.

Mudarak paused.

"His crime?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"I'm not really sure."

"Not sure?" I asked.

"No," he said, puzzled. "It happens so often, I ..."

He paused, sensing my unease.

"You can find the record, in the archives of the Council of the Holy —," he offered.

"I don't care about the archives!" I said.

A few of the departing spectators paused and shot glances in our direction. I stepped closer to Mudarak.

"I want to know what he did!" I said in an urgent whisper.

"I don't know. The Zakir takes place every other Alemat; it is hardly uncommon."

"Yes, yes, of course," I said. "'Hardly uncommon.' Is that it, Mudarak? Does that make it all better, that euphemism, 'hardly uncommon'? Does that drown out the screams of the hatchlings for you?"

"Pharos, you are unwell," Mudarak looked at me with mock concern, "Come let us retire to the —,"

"Unwell?" I spat out. "Unwell?"

Suddenly, his words struck me as absurd, as mad.

I began to laugh at what he had said. "Unwell? And are you well, Mudarak? You, or any Kaldarian?"

I walked away laughing derisively to myself. My companion dared not pursue me.

To this day, I remain unwell. And though I write this story a thousand times, unwell I will remain. There are things that should remain secret, things that no man should ever witness, lest he risk becoming irredeemably broken, unhinged, like a ruined airlock latch.

I know that it is so for me. Forever since that day, I have not been the same. I sleep, it is true, but it never nourishes me, never gives me what I need to become whole and healthy again. For every night in my dreams, I return to the arena. But this time I am not the spectator, but the victim. I am chained to the mast on arena's floor and hear the muffled commotion of the crowds above, the trumpets, and the pronouncements of the Holy Mother. I relive the victim's torments: the seductive dance of the Arakh, its paralyzing bite puncturing my stomach with intense pain followed by a strange numbing sensation. I nod into semi-consciousness as it goes about its work. And all this would be bearable, all this I could endure. But soon, I hear the soft sound of cracking eggs, the mass of Arakhs coming to life. And I hear that sound, the shrieks of the hatchlings. I feel the tissue give way with each prick of their innumerable jaws as they burrow into my flesh. And suddenly I jump up, fully awake, screaming.

"Get them off! Get them off! Get them off!"

_Darius Jones writes literary fiction that falls into the fantasy, historical and science fiction genres. He has done time in various professional writing gigs including ad writer, proofreader, editor, PR guy and journalist. "The Hatchlings" is his first story to be published by someone other than himself. Darius has self-published speculative and historical fiction for the Kindle, including the novel, The Library of Lost Books. You can learn more at_his blog _or his_Twitter page _. Darius lives in the United States and writes fiction whenever he gets a free moment._

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  Masked Desire

by Christel Bodenbender; published August 20, 2013

The only face that Sibling W remembered was that of her grandmother, as she turned paler with age. One time her grandmother leaned closer and explained the color was fading due to the lack of sunlight underground. Grandmother whispered so faintly that Sibling W could hardly hear the words.

Although Sibling W wanted to hear more about the star that once provided the necessary warmth to seed life on this planet, her grandmother became silent and turned away. The preachers only mentioned the sun when they lost themselves in lavish descriptions of the fires of hell that awaited anyone who would climb up to the surface of the planet. Going outside was as taboo as looking at a face, which included one's own.

 Sibling W sometimes stole glances at her own face as it was reflected on the shiny surface of the bathroom on level seven. Her face appeared much smoother than that of her grandmother. Yet there were the same bright, blue eyes.

It all was so strangely organic. So different from the crude facial expressions that the electronic facemasks projected.

She quickly put the mask back on when she heard footsteps outside the door. She adjusted the hood of the cowl to make sure it hugged the facemask tightly. It was considered a crime to show anything personal to other people, which meant that everyone wore the same gray cowls and the same black facemasks with crude, digital representations of eyes, nose, and mouth.

The eyes and mouth of the person who entered the bathroom were rendered as straight white lines as the person rushed into one of the bathroom stalls.

The only people who looked different from the majority of the population were the preachers, wearing brown cowls instead of the usual gray.

Sibling W left the bathroom and went through the dimly lit corridor back to the elevator. She had to be back in time for the second part of the ritual with Sibling H. Being late might lead to an arrest. Of course the preachers would do the same if they found out that Sibling H had convinced her to divert from the sacred steps of the ritual. They had instructed her to report any transgression. But she hadn't. Yet.

As soon as the elevator button jumped back into its neutral position, the elevator doors opened. She was lucky. Sometimes one had to wait a while before an elevator arrived at this level.

The elevator was large enough to carry ten people, but only one other person was inside. The mask displayed a stylized smile. She smiled as well and the sensors on the inside of her mask detected the change in facial expression. Immediately, the screen on the outside of the mask showed the same stylized smile.

"Level thirty-two," she said, and her mask modulated the speech sounds with the generic voice that everyone spoke with.

She remembered that her grandmother had mentioned that people also used to communicate with something called "gestures", but they drilled those out of the people very early on.

"Only if we think the same can we act responsibly," blared the automatic voice in the elevator. That constant acoustic noise had become part of their culture.

Although her fists clenched automatically inside the cowl pockets when she heard the automatic voice, she had learned to not show any signs of her emotions, and her facemasks just kept smiling.

She was startled when the elevator doors rumbled open and another person entered the elevator.

"Remember, we are all one people; we are all siblings." The voice went on with the same slogans that she had heard a million times over.

When the elevator finally arrived at her level, she rushed out.

Down here, the hallway lights were a bit brighter because a higher current was rushing through the electric wires. The increased charge was needed to provide enough power for the hydroponic tanks in beta section, which housed the plants that produced most of their oxygen.

Whenever she could, she would go to the tanks. The fresh green of the plants brightened her days. It was one of the few colors the preachers weren't able to guilt out of their lives. And they still needed a few humans to carry out some tasks that the automata could not.

She passed a preacher on her way and barely noticed his nod aimed towards her; but it was there — a subtle, yet clear reminder of what was expected from her in exchange for allowing her to work in the tanks. She had to report Sibling H after today's meeting.

Her heart was beating faster as she reached the door to the room. The scanner embedded above the door ignored her facemask and cowl and created a biometric map of her body down to the molecular level. For a moment — just a moment — she was recognized as an individual and granted access.

Sibling H was already in the barren room.

"I greet you, Sibling W," he said. The facemask showed a smile.

She returned the greeting and sat down across from him on the only other cushion. Their arms rested on their laps. As usual, they were careful not to show their hands and hid them inside the long sleeves of the cowls.

She tried to make out the sound of his breath. It had been fascinating to hear him breathe the last time they met. The whole meeting had been ... arousing, much more so than the preachers would have wanted. Well, the two siblings had somewhat bent the rules of engagement. The experience had been too profound to simply end it after only one meeting by reporting him to the preachers. She needed to find out more first.

"I take you as my wife," he said.

"And I take you as my husband," she said, uttering the words of the ritual.

The ritual was why the preachers wanted them to meet; artificial fertilization had not been as successful as everyone had hoped.

"I guess one of us has to go first," Sibling H said eventually. He lifted his left arm. As his hand emerged from inside the sleeve, she could see that he was holding a small device.

Then she realized that he did not wear a glove.

Fascinated, she stared at his hand. It was as dark as the skin that covered his face, which he had shown her last time.

He guided her attention to the device.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Through this wireless device, I can access the sensory input from the inside of your mask," he explained. "It means that with this I can see your face."

He turned the device so she could see the small display. It was her face, clearer and more detailed than the walls of the bathroom on level seven could ever reflect.

"Hand-held devices are forbidden," she objected automatically.

"So was what we did last time." He pulled the hood back a bit to take off his mask.

"We shouldn't take off our masks anymore. What if someone comes in?"

"I am logged into the camera at the door and will get a warning when someone else seeks to enter. Also, I gave the room a sensor sweep before you came in. We are safe."

Now she understood why the preachers recruited her to spy on him. With his electronic gadgets, their usual surveillance tricks weren't working.

She paused for a moment before she took off her mask as well.

His smile was contagious. There was something magical about seeing a real face. His skin looked so soft; she wanted to run her fingers over it like last time.

When she inched closer to touch him, he backed away slightly. "Today I want to show you something else," he revealed. "Something that everyone should be able to see."

He took another device from underneath his cowl. She began to wonder what else he was hiding underneath the wide garment.

"It's a UI-modem," he explained, but the term meant nothing to her. The device looked like the seeing-glasses of her grandmother, except that both ovals where black like the surface of the facemasks. "Put it on and you will see."

Although the glasses rested comfortably on her nose, she was disappointed that they were as black on the inside as they were on the outside.

"There is a button on the left earpiece. Press it."

She closed her eyes and pressed the button, anticipating a bright burst that might blind her.

There was no burst. Instead soft light penetrated her closed eyelids. Carefully, she opened them.

Images and text flooded her visual nerve with colors she had never seen before. Although she only saw the images through her eyes, they appeared to be projected right into her mind.

One prominent picture showed a three-dimensional representation of an uncovered person. Not that the woman was naked. She just wasn't wearing a cowl or a facemask. She was quite beautiful. Sibling W could feel arousal welling up again and fought it down; this was not the right moment. The woman was holding something in her hands — a sign with just one simple word: Freedom.

"This is a page with news from one of the final days before the preachers turned off what used to be called the 'Internet,'" explained Sibling H.

"The Internet." Her grandmother had sometimes talked about it. "Wasn't it some kind of primitive collective consciousness? From the time before we all became truly one with the help of the preachers?"

"The Internet was a collection of data stored in so many places that the preachers could not destroy them all. Some of the old folks were able to store pieces of information inside every chip they could find — like, for instance, the processor that controls the scanner of this door. All the technology the preachers use is networked. We are simply tapping into that network and hiding our information inside. And now we are about to put it all back online." He paused for a moment. "This UI is for you. That is, if you want to keep it."

"I can keep it?"

"Of course. Also, this is one of the new devices with integrated facial recognition. There is a button on the other earpiece. Press it."

She did, but nothing happened until he put on his facemask and although it covered his face, she was able to see right through it. His smile warmed her heart.

"We need you to do something for us," he continued.

" _We_?"

But Sibling H ignored the question. "We know the preachers have asked you to report on me." He took a deep breath. "We want you to meet them, look in their eyes and be completely honest."

She frowned. "You want me to betray you?"

"I didn't say that. I just want you to be honest. Which is one of their commandments, isn't it?"

"I still don't understand."

The device she was wearing displayed his wink as he adjusted his hood and got up. "You will," he stated before he turned and left the room. She followed him outside but lost sight of him as her eyes followed the other people in the hallway. Everyone's face had the same basic features, yet small difference betrayed their individual histories. She saw scratches and discolorations, high cheekbones and thick eyebrows, so unlike the stylized images on the facemasks. It took all her willpower to force a neutral smile on her own facemask.

She almost failed to recognize the preacher who passed her on his way to the tanks. He would be waiting inside for her report. Although she only saw his face in passing, it seemed a lot like that of her grandmother — older and feminine. She had never thought that a preacher could be a woman like her or her grandmother.

The doors to the hydroponic tanks opened for Sibling W and she slipped inside, where she was greeted by the familiar green of the plants. Even the air smelled better in these rooms than outside.

She walked around a few of the large glass containers that provided the perfect breeding ground for bushes until she came to one of the over-sized computer terminals that governed the climate inside this facility. The blinking lights told her that everything worked within normal parameters. The preacher stood next to the terminal, waiting for her.

Sibling W studied the face of the other woman. She noticed the swollen tear sacs, the brittle lips and gritted teeth.

"Let the guilt flow through you," said the woman with a modulated, firm voice that hid the weak articulatory movement under the mask.

"And through you," replied Sibling W automatically.

"We have sinned against the planet," the woman continued the common sermon with a blank stare in her eyes, as if she was reciting from a sheet of paper that hung in front of her in the air. "We had chosen blind faith in our ability to fix things later. Until we finally took responsibility and accepted the guilt. Never again can humanity be allowed to choose ignorance and convenience."

The woman looked tired, the bags under her eyes heavy and saggy, which stood in stark contrast to the harshness of her words — phrases that couldn't undo the atrocities that had been committed and only created new pain.

"Maybe it is also sin to embrace guilt for all eternity," Sibling W blurted out.

Her hand rushed to the stylized mouth on her facemask, covering it in an attempt to take back the words she had just said.

Yet she could see a spark in the eyes of the preacher, spreading as color to the rest of her face as if she had just found a reason to live again.

"We need to heal," added Sibling W.

The preacher frowned. "Is that what Sibling H told you?"

"No," she answered truthfully. The similarity between the face of the preacher and that of her grandmother helped Sibling W to put aside her inhibitions. "I have watched plants heal from injury and stretch their tips to the light again. Maybe we should do the same."

"The guilt is too large," replied the preacher.

"Don't you have grandchildren?"

Sibling W could see the other woman swallow. "I think so," she eventually replied.

"Then give them the freedom to choose."

The woman in the brown cowl was silent for a moment, tears running down her cheeks as Sibling W had only seen from her own grandmother when they had to put on the facemasks again after their secret meetings.

"Go," whispered the woman behind the mask. "Just go."

Sibling W ran off but not without noticing the automatic voice blaring through the hallway, "Only if we think the same can we act responsibly."

Christel Bodenbender is a writer currently living in London, Ontario. She has been creating stories since childhood, taking part in short story competitions. After a Master's in Linguistics she rekindled her passion for writing. Since then she has penned a selection of short stories and worked on a science fiction book series. Apart from spinning tales, Christel works in IT and web design.

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#  Night Shift

by Dyane Silvester; published August 23, 2013

Emma yawned and looked at her watch; only three hours to go until the morning shift took over. She glanced across at Ken, who was dozing in his seat at the Reactor 2 control desk, and smiled.

A streak of mischief overtook her and, grabbing a pen she threw it across into his lap, just for the fun of watching him jump.

 "Emma!" He spun round to face her. "Don't do that!"

Emma stifled her giggles.

"Don't go to sleep, then. It's not fair anyway; it's always you who sleeps."

Normally Emma didn't really mind. Having worked at the nuclear power station since its commissioning stage, she felt like it was her baby. She wouldn't dream of sleeping on the job. Something about Ken's slacking really bugged her. Being alert was so important.

A blue light flickered on her internal phone, and she reached for it.

"Control desk. Unit 1."

"Emma, it's Dez. I'm on Boiler 4. Have you had any alarms?"

She quickly scanned her desk

"No, nothing? Why? What've you got?"

"Not sure; I thought it was a steam leak but I can't find it. There was a hell of a hissing and so much vapor, though. Have you got the camera on up there?"

"Yeah, just hang on." Emma reached to her left and switched the CCTV monitor onto the boiler tops. "Looks okay to me."

"Okay." Dez was hesitant. "Really spooked me."

Emma grinned. "You'll be off in a couple of hours. I think you need some sleep."

"Yeah, cheers." Dez hung up abruptly, and Emma was left staring at the phone in her hand. Feeling spooked just wasn't like Dez. He was so rational.

She glanced across at Ken; predictably, he was asleep again. If she could only rely on him to stay awake for half an hour she'd go up to the boiler tops herself, but if she left her post it was really important that he was here to watch both desks.

The light on her phone disturbed her reverie again.

"Control desk. Unit 1."

"Emma? Dez. I really need a couple of guys up here. Boiler 4 is pouring steam, and it should be obvious where from but it's not; it's just, _there_. Can I get Colin and Paul on it?"

"Yeah, do. But I've got no alarms, and the monitor looks fine. Get back to me when you know anything."

The puzzlement returned. In the midst of it the thought of ghosts came to her, and she smiled inwardly. The idea of a brand-new nuclear power station being haunted really tickled her. That would give all those tree-huggers something to panic about.

She glanced up at the monitor screen again and saw Dez, Paul, and Colin come through the hatch and look around. There was clearly some banter, which Emma couldn't hear, and Colin slapped Dez's shoulder. Then the image seemed to flicker for an instant, and the men were no longer on screen. Emma froze, then blinked very deliberately and looked again. They were there; her imagination was running away with her. Perhaps it was she who needed to sleep.

She scanned the rest of the desk quickly, then sat back and closed her eyes for a moment.

A beeping alarm woke her with a start. Glancing down she saw the turbine first stage over-pressure alarm light flashing and reached automatically for the phone to call the operations office.

"Ops office. Harry."

"Harry, it's Emma. I've got an over-pressure on unit 1 first stage, can you have a look?" Glancing back at the alarm screen she saw the pressure was still rising. "I'm going to have to trip the turbine, get yourself down there and see what you can do."

Harry's response was his usual grunt, and he hung up. Emma was glad it was Harry who was on duty; an old school engineer who'd started on coal-fired stations as a 16-year-old apprentice, he was the best she had.

She held her breath as she firmly pressed the turbine trip button; she'd never had to do this before. The dull thump and muted roar of high-pressure steam screaming out of the emergency dump valves reverberated through the building, and Ken woke again with a start.

"What's that?"

"Turbine trip. Overpressure." She really didn't have the patience to deal with him right now, and anyway her phone was ringing.

"Control desk. Unit 1."

"Emma? Dez. Was that deliberate?"

"Yeah, turbine overpressure. What's going on up there?"

"Not a clue. We can't find anything, and this steam's coming and going." She heard a scuffle in the background, and Dez came back on, his voice slightly panicked. "Emma, I'm getting Colin off here. He's freaking out and going on about ghosts. We'll deal with the leak later." He was gone before she could reply, and as soon as she hung up the phone rang again.

"Control desk. Unit 1."

"It's Harry. High pressure outlet valve's closed. Who the hell's been down here?"

"No one should have been." She looked up to the system overview monitor, and a frown creased her face. "Is it still closed? Because the monitor's showing it open."

"It's closed. Bloody computers don't know shit. I'll get Kate and Bob on it." He was gone again, and as Emma replaced the phone she looked back up to the CCTV screen and felt a cold sweat prickle her skin. She saw the image of Paul's inert form sprawled across the boiler pipework. Emma rang the emergency team and ordered them up there immediately, paging Dez at the same time. Waiting tensely for him to call back, she couldn't take her eyes off the screen, even when she felt Ken hovering at her shoulder.

"Just go back to sleep," she growled softly as her hand reached for the now ringing phone.

"Control desk. Unit 1."

"Dez. You paged?"

"Why did you leave Paul on the boilers? On his own? You idiot!"

"I didn't. He's here with me, I needed his help with Col."

Eyes still locked on the screen, she felt a trickle of sweat down her back; words failed her.

"Emma? Are you still there? Paul's with me. We're at the medical center. They've sedated Colin. Do you want us back up there?"

"No." She felt her voice crack. "Stay where you are."

"You okay, Emma?"

She hung up. Was she going crazy?

When her phone rang again she stared at it, terrified for the first time in her working life, afraid to answer it.

"Control desk. Unit 1."

"Emma, it's Joan on Emergency, we're on Boiler 4 but there's no one here." Emma stared at the screen. Joan was looking straight up at the camera, Ella beside her, Paul's body to her left, his arm dangling _through_ her thigh. As Emma watched, a cloud of steam began to materialize around them, gradually obliterating her view, and her consciousness was filled and extinguished by the thin inhuman scream coming down the phone wire.

Dyane Silvester is a Civil Engineer during the daytime, but loves to write in any spare time she can find between work, hiking, sailing, and being on the amateur stage. She writes regular articles on behalf of Cumbria Wildlife Trust, but in recent years has found herself drifting towards fiction. She finds inspiration by looking into the cracks in everyday situations and considering what could happen if they opened up. She has had work published in Ken* Again (ezine) and "Camping" magazine in the UK.

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#  Memory Book

by Sean Monaghan; published August 27, 2013

Second Place Award, August 2013 Fiction Contest

Candace watched the big plane arc around the outside of the bay. Up on Rothan Promontory, the highest point overlooking the village, the breeze carried to her the heady sweet smell of pollen from the ocean of flowers that covered the hill between the rocky crest and the sand of the beach below. Spring had come in warm and bountiful; the flowers were blooming and the orchards, if the weather kept up like this, were going to bear a vast crop of fruit.

The seaplane leveled off, aiming almost right for her as it dipped towards the calm waters. Candace could see Jake's boat heading in around the breakwater. He would have seen the plane coming in and wondered why they were getting a visit.

 Candace sighed, wishing they hadn't argued first thing. He wanted to take her on a sailing vacation, but she just didn't want to get on the boat. Partly it was fear of the water, but mostly it was guilt. She didn't deserve Jake's loyalty, not after Richard. There was no way she could tell Jake, either. She'd tried writing, tried talking to the memory book, but nothing worked.

Yet Jake just kept on being a good husband, loving her, providing, encouraging. Some days it made her sick inside, what she'd done.

She hoped he'd caught some good fish. Some red gurnard or snapper. He would have gutted them; then she could scale and fillet the carcasses and throw them on the grill. Nothing better than seared fresh fish for dinner.

The plane kept dropping for the water. Jake's boat looked so small in comparison, even with the plane so far off.

The city was a hundred and eighty miles away, off back around the rugged coast of the ocean road, making it tricky to get there. It took over a week with a good buggy and a strong horse, much longer with a wagon and bullock team. For the most part Candace and the few others in Selvenge were self-sufficient. Sometimes Jake or one of the other sailors would take a boat around to get mechanical equipment for the pumps or vehicles.

A plane coming in meant something was up. Something bad. And Candace knew it was her fault.

If only she hadn't mentioned the memory book.

With a sigh, she sat down on the rock, feeling its hard rough surface against her backside. She debated with herself whether to just stay up here for the afternoon or to traipse down to the village and face up.

It wasn't really so much of a village: six houses and a few outbuildings, a mill running from piped water out of a stream, an old abandoned lighthouse, and the power turbine spinning away behind her.

As a child she'd explored the secret passages in the lighthouse. Once hidden behind moveable furniture, the passages were narrow and led through to caves below. For a joke, Jake had even built a passage behind their bed in their house. "For the kids," he said. "When they arrive."

The city — Melton — where the plane must have come from, had hundreds of thousands of homes. Candace found it hard to imagine such throngs. Sealed roads and carriages with engines.

The plane touched down just beyond the breakwater, sending great plumes of water splashing out on either side. The thing slowed quickly, but still outstripped Jake in his boat. With its six big propellers whirling, it pulled its way toward the beach.

It was a huge thing, dwarfing the boat, dwarfing even the breakwater. Candace could tell that her whole house would fit inside the plane's cavernous belly. It had two sets of big wings, one near the nose, with two propellers on each side, and another set, raised up from the narrowing fuselage on a pylon, with the last set of propellers, one on each wing. The engines, even at this distance, set up a constant deep roar.

She was glad that Jake and Maria had told her about the outside world and how things worked. On occasions, when planes would pass over, they would explain how such a massive construction could float through the air. Even though she'd never seen one so close before, she knew the parts, knew the tail plane from the undercarriage, the cockpit from the cabin.

On the top, behind the cockpit but ahead of the main wings, a hatch opened and someone climbed out and up. Candace thought it was a woman, though from so far away it was hard to tell. She had a way of moving, a fluidity and delicacy that a man wouldn't. She wore a long black coat and had her hair tied back under a brimmed hat. She raised something to her eyes and looked around.

Binoculars. Jake had a set.

As the woman looked, Candace noticed something else.

A gun.

The long muzzle pointed skyward from behind the woman's shoulder.

As Candace stiffened, the woman turned and looked up, swinging the binoculars directly up at her. Candace suddenly felt cold. She could only see the shape of the woman, but with the lenses the woman would have a much clearer view of Candace. With guilt written all over her face.

She had to hide.

Candace stood. The aircraft — now a boat with wings — had almost reached the shore. Jake had his head down and headsail up. He would arrive on the beach no more than five minutes after the visitors.

The woman had dropped the binoculars to her side, but she still seemed to be staring up Candace's way. The gun stayed where it was, but Candace imagined that the woman could probably kneel, aim, and fire accurately from where she was. Candace would collapse in a bloody heap and the woman would get back in her behemoth of a plane and fly off.

But the woman didn't shoot. She adjusted her footing as the stern propellers came to a stop. The plane shuddered as its prow rose up onto the beach.

People were on the boardwalk now, and some on the jetty. It looked to Candace as if the whole village had come out.

Candace knew she had to find a way back to the house and get the memory book without the intruders seeing her. She should have gone as soon as she'd seen the plane, instead of just watching. Should have known they were coming for her.

Clambering up over the rock, she ran into the forest and followed the path back around to the village. It was the long way, but at least she wouldn't be seen.

It had been raining lately, and the path was still slick, wet, and muddy in places. She heard some boars snuffling away, and the sound of birds singing.

In her rush, she slipped on some leaves lying on the path. She fell on her side and rolled. Stones poked her, and wet mud oozed through her clothes. She sat up quickly, cursing and wiping herself down. Her breeches and shirt were brown and soaked all down her right side. The mud stank.

Not a good start to evading the visitors.

Picking her path more carefully, she hurried on. Five minutes later she came to the edge of the forest. The village ran some cattle in a big paddock fenced with stone walls. The cows stayed out of the forest and Candace stopped at the edge of the grass, peering over toward the houses.

The droning hum from the aircraft's still spinning propellers seemed suddenly louder. From her vantage point Candace could see the top of the plane, the wings and propellers. The aircraft towered over the houses, bigger than Stacey and Daniel's home. Even bigger than the mill. The leviathan, still moving, looked as though it was going to roll in and demolish the buildings.

And standing on top, the same woman with the gun.

Candace could see her more clearly now. Her long ponytail whipped around in the wash from the propellers. Her lips were a strong red, and her eyes lined with kohl.

She looked like a princess.

The plane's engines abruptly shut off and the world seemed suddenly quiet. The cows had clustered across the paddock and were staring up at the new arrival. One of them mooed. The unpowered propellers continued to scythe the air, but Candace could see they were slowing.

The woman climbed down into the cockpit.

Candace ran. Leaving the forest, she sprinted across the paddock, avoiding cowpats and thistles. She stopped behind the water trough, hunkering down out of sight to catch her breath.

From the village came the sound of shouting. Candace raised her head up above the trough's edge. She saw people running between a house and one of the mill outbuildings. Toby and Clare. A moment later Jenny followed.

A momentary lapse had brought all this down on them now. Foolish woman, she thought to herself.

Jake had been gone a week, riding to Copperton to sell a wagonload of dried fish, and a troubadour team had come into the village. The juggler had winked at her during the show, and then after. The team had only planned to stay an hour — there wasn't much money to be made from such a small village — but he'd stayed the night, telling them he'd catch up in the morning.

Richard. He was slighter than Jake, but had dark eyes and a thick day-old beard along his strong jawline. With a smile, he'd touched her cheek in a way that made every resolve and memory of Jake drift away like spilled flour. It was as though she'd never become engaged.

In the conversation, that went almost all night, he'd shown her tricks, both from his show and others that left her breathless. Excited, overwhelmed, she'd let it slip about the memory book and let him talk her into showing it.

His sudden quiet look had told her it was a mistake.

He left before she'd woken.

Candace could never tell Jake what happened.

Another cow lowed, making Candace jump.

She waited, but no one else came. Despite her break she was still breathing hard, heart pounding. She took another glance and sprinted toward the houses.

She stepped in a hole, rolling on her ankle. With a yelp, she collapsed to the grass. Lying still, she stared at the open sky. Pain spiked from her ankle, but she could feel it abating. Twisted, not sprained or broken then.

Back on her feet, she hobbled toward the nearest house. Toby and Clare's place, where they raised their kids Damon and Wilma. Candace felt exposed and vulnerable, moving slow, but she made it to the building wall.

People were still shouting. Candace crept along the wall, running her hand along the rough surface as she went. A quick look around the side, and she ran across to the next house, trying to ignore the twinge from her ankle. She moved along to the kitchen window of John Miller's place. She could see right through the living room and out into the front yard. The plane's sloping prow rose over the picket fence. She could see an opening and the edge of a ramp. People filed out. Soldiers.

Candace's breath caught. So much trouble over a little memory book.

She needed to get home. Fast.

Darting from the side of Miller's house, she ran across open ground. Her ankle sent constant twitches up her leg and felt like it might give out any moment.

Shouting. They'd spotted her.

Behind Jessica's place and then there was her and Jake's, last house in the row. It was a small home, just the one bedroom. Jake had plans to build another room, between the house and his separate workshop, for when they finalized their wedding and decided to start a family.

Candace came up to the back door. She could hear the soldiers nearby. She put her hand on the latch and turned it slowly. The door creaked. Holding her breath, she stopped. No one had noticed. She pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The kitchen was as she'd left it, tidy and clean. The smell of the morning's bread baking still lingered, doughy and sweet. Keeping low and close to the walls, she went to the bedroom.

The memory book was under her side of the bed. Instead of walking around — which would have mean going near the window — she rolled over the soft covers and dropped into the gap. Stretching her hand out, she found the leather-bound block of the memory book. It felt cool and soft. The cover had aged well, with just a few stitches failing.

Her mother had said to keep it secret. It was old, self-sustaining, very different to most anything else in the world.

Candace had known that, only taking it out very occasionally, always when she was alone, just to look at the images and texts about a long-gone kind of life. Craft without wings that lifted beyond the atmosphere and traveled to the stars. Carriages that traveled roadways as ripples, appearing thousands of miles away in a matter of minutes. The idea made the ocean road seem so laborious and coarse.

But more than any of those things, the book had made its own images of her family. Of her mother and father, and of Samuel, the brother she'd never known. There were some pictures that moved: Samuel as a boy running around a fountain; a little older working with her father — looking so young — to build a bed from slats and posts. Samuel the teenager not long before he drowned, rowing his boat back in filled with gurnard and snapper.

Richard had seemed so odd at the moment he'd seen the book, but she hadn't thought of it until a few days later. She'd remembered then her mother's admonition to never reveal it to anyone.

"Bad things might happen." Her mother had been baking for the village, the smell of scones wafting through the kitchen. "If they knew we had it. There are so few such things from the old world. And this is a treasure."

"I won't," Candace had promised. "Not ever."

Now look what happened.

The memory book showed its subtle green telltale. It was fully charged. Once she'd left it in the bottom drawer for weeks and taken it out to look at images and history, only to find it dead and blank. Her mother, still alive then, had shown her how to keep it hidden in a place where it could receive at least a little sunlight. It was like a fern; it could hide away under a forest's canopy, but still needed a little sunlight to function.

Someone rapped on the window, making her jump. A male voice shouted, "No one back here. Just another field."

Candace tucked the memory book into her jacket. She tried to get to the secret passage, but it was blocked by one of the trunks of summer clothes.

From further away she heard another voice, the words indistinguishable.

"Just going inside now," the man answered. "Is this the last of them?"

Candace couldn't make out the reply, but knew she had to get out of the house. Back to the forest.

She hoped Jake was okay.

Rolling further under the bed, she squeezed between the trunks and crawled out to the narrow hallway between the bedroom and the bathroom.

Someone burst in the front door.

Candace ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She threw the bolt into place.

There was ceiling access in here.

Standing on the toilet bowl, she reached up and pushed the hatch aside. Grabbing the edge of the hole she pulled herself up.

A knock on the door. Candace's foot struck the cistern with a thump.

"Open up in there."

Caught.

"Kind of busy," she said. "Give me a minute."

"House to house. Open up now."

She dropped back to the floor, whipped her pants down and squatted on the bowl as the lock broke against the soldier's charge.

He stood in front of her. Young, gun in hand, green helmet with straps hanging loose. He had a bad moustache and thick eyebrows.

"You are going to be in so much trouble," she told him.

"Finish your business and get out." He stepped back into the hallway, but kept facing the door. "And don't flush."

"Eww," she said. She didn't have anything to flush anyway. And she couldn't squeeze out any pee with him standing right there.

"Don't speak. Don't try to be funny."

She didn't answer. Tearing a wad of paper, she dropped it in and stood, turning away from him as she pulled her pants back up.

"If you looked," she said, facing him at the door, "you'll be in trouble for that too."

The young soldier sighed. "Keep quiet I need to take you to the others." He grabbed her arm and pulled.

Candace wrenched from his grasp. "I can walk. I'm not going to run away."

"Sure you're not." But he didn't touch her again, just followed closely as she went to the front door.

The aircraft seemed even bigger. Two of its propellers were still rotating slowly and she could feel the weight of hot air rolling back from the engines. It had gun turrets up its flank from the waterline to the wings. She counted eighteen, four high at the front. That was just this side. It was a battleship, designed to fight other nations.

It stank of oil.

She saw the other villagers, standing in a row in front of Jenny's chicken run. Jenny was there, Toby and Clare too. Their flight to the outbuilding hadn't been worthwhile.

Soldiers stood at either end of the row, while others walked purposefully around the village. Most everyone was here already. Were they searching houses? Candace was glad she'd been interrupted and stuffed the memory book back in her jacket. If they were thorough in their search they would have easily found it in the small ceiling cavity. Her first intention had been to hide herself in there, but that would have made things worse.

She could hear the others talking, some demanding to know what this was about, others saying they had nothing to hide. Two of the smaller children were crying. Candace didn't see Jake among them.

Slipping into the row, she leaned up against the fence.

"I saw you on the hill," Clare whispered, moving closer. Her cloying potpourri scent washed over Candace.

"Gathering flowers."

"You should have stayed up there."

Candace shook her head. "You would have nothing for your centerpiece."

"Please, I saw you running down empty-handed. At least Jake had the sense to stay away."

"Where is he? I saw his boat coming into the bay."

Clare shrugged.

Candace looked around for the woman she'd seen on top of the plane. She was probably still inside the aircraft. The soldiers with the villagers weren't doing anything other than standing around. It wasn't as though anyone was being interrogated. The soldiers ignored all the shouts and abuse.

"Did you see the woman?" Candace said.

"Who?"

Candace stepped away from the line, heading for the nearest soldier. The one who'd walked her over. "Who's in charge here?" she asked.

"You should step back into line, please."

"So it's not you then." Candace walked by him, heading for the plane. There was a single soldier standing at the base of the ramp, but other than that the aircraft was unguarded.

"Hey!" The young soldier took a few quick steps and grabbed her again.

"You're going to get a fat lip, buster." She turned on him. "You've got to stop doing that."

"You have to stay wi—"

"Who's in charge? I need to talk to them." Part of her wanted to get away, to run back up into the forest and lie down among the flowers, out of sight and bathed in their scent.

The villagers had fallen silent, watching her. None of them stepped out of the line.

"You can't—"

"Of course I can," Candace interrupted. "You can't come in here and start marshaling us around. Where is she? Is she a princess? Is that it?"

"I ..."

"Then take me to see her." She turned again and marched toward the ramp. The soldier there lifted his rifle. Not aimed at her, but he was ready to swing it around.

"We already spoke with the mayor," the young soldier said, matching her pace.

"And who is that?" Candace looked at the boy, and he stared wide-eyed back at her. They didn't have a mayor. Copperton did, she knew that, but they were far bigger and needed some kind of political voice. "Is it Kevin Birt? Did you talk with him?" She glanced back and saw Kevin with the others. He had stepped out now, but had a soldier facing him.

"Who?" the young soldier said.

Candace sighed. At least as she kept talking and walking he wasn't trying to stop her anymore. "Kevin. He's kind of the head of the village, but he's not the _mayor_. That's way too fancy and involved."

The boy swallowed. "Someone called Jake?" he said, unsure.

Candace swallowed. She was only a few yards from the bottom of the ramp. Jake knew about the memory book.

"Hold it there," the soldier guarding the ramp said. He took a step forward and raised his rifle a fraction.

"He's taking me to see her," Candace said, indicating the young soldier.

The soldier at the ramp inclined his head. He had a moustache too, but he was much older, probably old enough to be the boy's father. There was even a family likeness to them, similar noses and brows.

Candace kept walking.

"Mitchell?" the old soldier said. "Why would you be taking this woman inside?"

"I'm not. I'm trying to get her back into the line while we search for the book."

The old soldier sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, exasperated. "So take her back then."

"I demand to see her," Candace said. She was only a couple of feet from him now and she angled to go around him and get onto the ramp.

He put his rifle out to block her. "You don't get to demand anything. Do you even know who she is?"

Candace pushed the rifle aside. "Where's Jake?" She kept on for the ramp. This was either the most stupid thing she'd ever done, or the most brilliant. There was always the chance that they were here for something else, but what the boy, Mitchell, had said made it clear that they were definitely looking for the memory book.

A vessel like this, so powerful and ready for war, she hated to imagine what it might be like if they could harness the book. She had no doubt that was their intention. Even though it was such a small thing, such a simple thing, it had a subtlety and elegance that this brute of an aircraft lacked. And even though the two seemed worlds apart, there would be things they could do with it that she couldn't and wouldn't imagine.

The old soldier raised his rifle. "I should make an example of you." He jabbed the rifle into her belly. "But Princess Ettaclara would frown on that." He rubbed his chin.

"Where's Jake?" she said, gritting her teeth. The barrel hurt. But she smiled to herself, knowing she'd been right thinking the woman royalty.

"The mayor? Okay. He's inside talking with the princess."

"He's not the mayor. You should let me talk to her." Candace cringed inside. She shouldn't have said that. If they thought he was the mayor then she'd effectively called him a liar. They were tolerant, to an extent, but how far could that be pushed? She didn't want to find out. Not with all the guns. She glanced up at the side of the plane again. Bristling, like a big pinecone.

"Not the mayor, huh?" the older soldier said. "Maybe you better come talk with her then."

"Good." She kept up the front, but inside she felt like a fool. Praying that she hadn't just endangered Jake, she followed the soldier up the ramp.

Inside the plane was harsh and cold. The ramp led into a short companionway lined with pine sheets bolted to long metal crosspieces. The wood had been polished to the point where it almost glowed. It smelled of linseed. A ladder with rough rungs at the end took them up to another floor, with another hallway that led fore and aft, lined with sealed doors.

"Next ladder along." The old soldier pointed.

Candace saw an alcove with another ladder. She climbed and after that they went up another ladder. She was starting to get a sense of the internal scale of the machine. It seemed extraordinary to her that such a vast piece of equipment could stay aloft. She'd had trouble enough, as a child, with kites. This heavy, ungainly thing, bigger than any building she knew of, seemed like it ought to remain earthbound.

As they moved through the vessel, she caught glimpses into some rooms and openings. Big metal machines and functional storerooms. They looked like the internal mechanisms of the mill — industrial wheels, cables, and cogs. Like some big factory at Melton.

The last ladder led them to a room with windows. Candace went to one right away. Through the thick glass circle she could see out across the village. All her friends were still standing, corralled by the chicken run.

"So, did you bring the memory book?" someone said.

Candace turned and saw the woman standing in a doorway. Ettaclara. She was taller than Candace had expected. The woman's hair was out now, long and black, flowing down over her shoulders. She was no longer in the big coat, but was wearing a short red dress and leggings. Her tall boots laced through at least two-dozen eyelets on each side. A princess.

She no longer had the gun.

"Well?" she said.

"Memory book?" Candace said.

The woman smiled, showing teeth whiter than any Candace had ever seen. "Won't you come in? I have crumpets and tea. I believe that I'm speaking with your husband."

"Jake?" Candace said without thinking.

The woman's smile widened and she turned, slipping into the room.

"Come on then," the old soldier said.

Candace followed and found herself in a room vastly different from the other parts of the plane. There were thick patterned rugs covering much of the polished wood floor. The walls were hung with bright tapestries, swirling brocades showing people on horses or riding planes, buildings and flower gardens, maps and strange devices she didn't know. After the bland wood and metal of the plane, the assault of reds and blues and golds made Candace blink.

There was something about tapestries she knew. It was in all the fairy tales. Just like the lighthouse.

"Surprising, yes," the princess said. She moved to a big plush armchair, red velvet, trimmed with gold tassels. Not quite a throne, but no regular chair.

On the left, Jake sat, bound to an ordinary dining chair.

Candace moved toward him. A soldier she hadn't noticed stepped from the wall, coming between her and Jake.

"What's going on?" Candace said. She went to one of the tapestries and touched it. Heavy. She lifted it enough to see a gap in the wall at the bottom. As she'd suspected.

The princess sighed and studied her nails. "Your husband has been most helpful. And, I think, has saved us a lot of time."

Candace took another step toward Jake. The soldier drew his sword. From behind she heard the sound of another sword sliding from its scabbard: the old soldier, still at the door.

"You should hand over the memory book." The princess inclined her head. She reached to her waist and drew a long dagger. "The Arnhemlanders are massing for an attack on Melton. They are far bigger and far stronger than we. Our people will be wiped out."

"Then surely," Candace said, meeting Ettaclara's eyes, "you should have your warship there and ready to repel them."

The princess smiled. "Brassy. That's good."

"I don't possibly see what my old scrapbook could mean to you."

Standing, Ettaclara looked at the dagger's edge. "Obfuscation does not suit you. With that kind of technology we could protect Melton." She lowered the blade and met Candace's eyes again. "Protect Selvenge."

Candace laughed. "It would take years to decipher what the old technology means. How it works."

The princess nodded. "Months, my scientists tell me. Time enough to bolster our defenses."

Candace shook her head. "What makes you right? What makes you better than the Arnhemlanders?" She'd seen maps, knew of the vast country to the north where hundreds of thousands lived. The desert always kept them separate.

"Don't give it to them," Jake said.

"Perhaps you should choose," Ettaclara said.

Candace was about to ask what she meant when the soldier raised his sword to Jake's neck.

The princess walked right up to Candace. The woman smelled of flowers and oils, doubtless from bathing. Candace imagined the aircraft had a spa and sauna, decorated with more gold and stone. The kind of opulence she'd only read about.

"Choose?" Candace said, aware of her own farm smell. She'd fallen in the mud and probably stank.

The princess sighed and glanced at the soldier.

"Ettaclara?" Candace said.

The princess's eyes flew wide.

Both soldiers drew in breath. Candace felt a hand on her shoulder and saw the old soldier's sword flash, felt its cold steel on her neck.

"You will address her as 'Your Highness'." The old soldier's voice was quiet, raspy, his breath hot on her ear.

Candace stayed very still. She wasn't going to be dictated to. "You come charging in like this and then demand how I should address you?"

"Off with his head," the princess said.

The soldier holding the sword to Jake's neck hesitated. "Princess?"

"Now!"

"Wait," Candace said.

"Too late, sweetums." The princess turned to face the soldier.

The sword swung out away from Jake, ready for the decapitation blow.

"Love you," Jake said. His green eyes stared at Candace.

She dropped, collapsing her knees. As she went she drove her elbow back into the old soldier's belly.

The man grunted.

Candace sprang as the sword swung in at Jake.

"Stop!" the princess commanded.

The sword struck as Candace tackled the soldier. They both fell back into the tapestries. The sword clattered to the floor.

Candace had the breath knocked out of her as she fell. The soldier landed beside her and quickly scrambled to his feet. The tapestry, torn from its hooks, fell on top of them both.

Candace lay under the heavy fabric trying to catch her breath. She felt emptied out.

She hadn't made it in time.

Jake was dead.

The fabric moved. They were pulling it from her. With effort she sat up as it came away. She looked for Jake.

The chair had fallen and he lay, still tied, in a wide pool of dark coppery blood, his neck half-severed.

"Well," the princess said. "All this over a silly book."

Candace looked up at her, the woman who'd ordered the murder of her husband.

"Now hand it over."

Without breaking her gaze, Candace reached behind and found a latch on the little door. It clicked open.

Of course. There was always a secret escape route. Too bad for Ettaclara it was going to be used to allow an enemy to escape.

The princess took a step forward. "You want to make this worse?"

"Ettaclara. How could it be any worse?" She pushed the door open and kicked back, sliding into a narrow hole.

"Grab her." The princess's voice was almost a scream.

Candace shoved the door closed, plunging herself into darkness. She felt for a lock but found nothing. The door shunted partly open, pushing her back.

They were going to get her, going to find the memory book. All the images of her family, of Jake and the world.

"Come out of there." The soldier must have kicked the door open without immediately coming in. Candace closed it again and scrambled backwards. Squeezing between the narrow walls she turned and crawled through a kind of tube. The floor was flat and the ceiling low. She couldn't stand. She crawled as fast as she could. Ahead she could see a dim light.

Another crash from behind and light from the princess's chambers washed over her. Candace kept moving.

"Get her out of there," the princess yelled.

Candace moved as fast as she could.

Jake was dead.

Dead.

She'd never even gotten to tell him about what she'd done, never been able to ask forgiveness. She felt like weeping, but could hear the soldier scrambling along behind her. No time for grieving.

The floor dropped away and she tumbled down. She cried out as her elbow cracked against the wall, sending jabbing pain up her arm.

The soldier laughed.

Moving around, nursing her elbow, she had a clearer view ahead. Light from a narrow grate.

The passage changed. It squeezed into spaces in the aircraft, between the wing structures, rooms, and the mechanical parts. It had to be secret.

From above a hand grabbed her collar, yanking her back. Candace jerked away and rushed as fast as she could toward the grate. Her right elbow was too painful, and she had to keep her arm curled up against her belly as she went. Hobbling, she came to the grate and found herself looking out towards the breakwater. The plane's nose had pulled up the slope of the beach, but the stern still stuck out into the bay.

The grate was fixed with a split pin that was bent around, holding it in place. She managed to twist one of the ends almost straight before the soldier reached her.

He jabbed with the sword, enough to prick her but not quite draw blood.

"All right," she said. "I'll come."

Still facing the grate she slipped the memory book out of her jacket and lifted it.

"Let's move then," the soldier said. "You have to squeeze by me."

"Yes." She held the memory book up to the lowest opening in the grate and pushed. The book hung half outside the plane.

All the images, all her memories.

Perhaps it was best gone. After all, if she'd gotten rid of it before Richard she never would have created this entire problem now. She should have hidden it in the lighthouse passages and never ever shown it to anyone.

"Come on." He pushed the sword again, cutting this time.

"Ow. All right then."

With a shove, she let go of the memory book. It slipped out the side of the plane. She heard it skitter down. Pushing her face up to the highest gap, she peered out. She saw the book bounce, catching some projection in the plane's side. The memory book spun through the air. For a moment it looked like a bird that might take wing and fly for the forest.

It landed in the bay with a tiny splash. Gone. The ripples vanished among the waves.

Candace turned and squeezed by him, and he made no effort to avoid touching her. She felt vindicated. Perhaps it was arrogant to destroy something from the old world — and she did feel sad over the loss of pictures of Samuel and her parents — but if these people could murder Jake, who knew what they would do if they could make their war machines stronger with old technologies?

They might find them elsewhere, but at least she'd done something to slow them down.

Back in the princess' chamber, Jake still lay on the floor. Two more soldiers were mopping up his blood. Others held her in the room and stripped her, searching for the book. She couldn't look at his body.

The princess was nowhere to be seen.

They let Candace dress again and escorted her back to the others at the chicken run.

"Candace?" Clare said. "You all right?"

She shook her head. "Jake," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Clare registered surprise, then pulled her into a hug.

The soldiers continued to search. At one point she saw Richard. He was at her house. The soldiers knocked the walls apart, pulling everything down. They even crawled into Jake's secret passage — the one he made for children who would never come, now — hunting for the memory book.

They searched for hours in Candace and Jake's house, all but demolishing it, leaving just parts of the frame.

As the sun headed for the horizon, they brought Richard to her. The princess came to stand with him.

"Where is it?" he said. "The memory book."

"Stolen," Candace said. "The Arnhemlanders came here. With a plane bigger than yours. They asked nicely, and I had to give it to them." She should have said that at the very start, she thought. Then Jake might still be alive.

"I'm done," the princess said. "She's lying, but it's not here."

"Are you sure?" the old soldier said. He looked at Candace with a frown.

"It's not." Princess Ettaclara fixed her gaze on Candace. "You're very lucky."

Candace shook her head. "Murderer."

"I could have killed you too."

Candace held her arms wide. "Why not?"

The princess laughed and turned, walking back to the plane. Richard frowned at Candace, staring for a moment before following.

It took almost an hour for the soldiers to load up. The plane's engines started and idled. Two soldiers came down the ramp carrying Jake's body. They dumped him on the beach. The ramp closed up and the plane turned, heading out into the bay. The engine pitch rose to a scream, and the aircraft sped away across the water, finally lifting and swinging away to the east, the last rays of sun glinting on its flank.

~~~~~

The next afternoon they buried Jake in the village plot up on the hill among the flowers. Candace sat with him after the others had gone back to work.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Sorry this happened to you." She felt heavy and tired. Waking in the morning had been the worst, worst day of her life. All over the memory book.

At least Ettaclara didn't have it.

Sitting and looking over the bay, Candace told Jake about Richard. It felt so hard to tell him now, as a ghost. She knew she would never feel forgiven.

She had the memory book back. The best swimmers among the village boys and girls had found it just off the beach. It still worked.

As she told Jake about her indiscretions, she let the memory book record it all. Would it help? Would she feel purged? She didn't know.

What she did know was that she was going to take it up to the lighthouse and go into the deepest passage and hide it away. If she ever needed it, ever needed to remember Samuel and Jake and the others, it would be there.

Somehow, she didn't think she would need it.

_Sean Monaghan is a New Zealand writer. His stories have appeared in Aurealis, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and Takahe among others. You can find him at_seanmonaghan.com

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  A Murder in Cyrene

by Alex Doiron; published August 30, 2013

Ragged steps rang out on a moonlit street in the city of Cyrene. Short brick buildings stood mute testimony as a woman stumbled through the near darkness. Her sandaled feet pounded along the packed dirt as she staggered out of an alleyway. She was injured, afraid — blood dripped down her leg from a knife wound in her thigh.

She fell to the ground, scuffing her knees on the hard packed dirt. With shaking limbs she struggled to get back on her feet, staggering into a wall in the process. Gritting her teeth she started running again but maintaining balance proved harder with each faltering step. She stumbled and weaved down the uneven street until she finally fell face first on the ground. With shaking arms she tried to push herself up and failed.

 The sound of her breathing echoed off of the buildings around her, harsh and shallow. Not the heavy breathing of someone who had been running, but the desperate breathing of someone who couldn't get enough air. In the feeble light of the moon the woman's lips began taking on a bluish tinge.

A shape stepped out of the darkness, walking the same path that the woman had stumbled down moments before. A man, wrapped in a cloak, a knife in his hand, the blade wet with blood. He walked slowly. The woman flopped on the ground, struggling to breathe. He didn't need to hurry.

~~~~~

The midday sun glinted off of the calm sea as a small galley slowly worked its way across the harbor. Standing on the dock, Magnus waited impatiently as the ship approached. He really hated this kind of job. The wonders of his position, senior enough that he wasn't allowed to wear armor but junior enough that he could be ordered off to perform trivial duties like this one.

Pacing back and forth, Magnus watched while the ship's crew took its time maneuvering the vessel into position. While they fussed about, a man on board stepped up to the railing and scanned the dockyards. Of average height, he wore a bronze breastplate and matching helmet. Belted at his side was a short bladed sword, the hilt worn and faded with use.

"Hail dockside," the man called out. "Are you here to greet us?" A cautious approach, not overly surprising considering the sword belted at Magnus's waist. Magnus pulled his badge of office out from under his tunic.

"If you're with the Lady Chara then the answer is yes," Magnus replied. Hidden behind his back, he brought the ring on his left hand into position. The man on the ship was armed. If things turned ugly then Magnus wanted the ring ready to go.

With a bump and the grinding sound of wood against wood the ship slipped into position. Crewmembers jumped off the vessel and busied themselves with ropes. The man in the bronze armor took the opportunity to vault over the railing onto the dock. "Greetings," he said, "I am Gaius, the Lady Chara's bodyguard."

"Welcome to the city of Cyrene, Gaius. I am Captain Magnus of the city guard. I've been ordered to escort the Lady Chara to the palace."

Gaius looked at him for a moment, taking the time to examine his chain of office. Eventually he seemed to reach some sort of decision and nodded, extending his hand. The tension between them eased as they shook hands.

A voice echoed strangely from the ship. Magnus looked up to see a woman standing at the railing. She was short with dark hair that fell casually across a white tunic and long gray skirts. In her hands she held a ball of what looked like blown glass. She spoke, but the words she used weren't meant for human ears; they slid across Magnus's mind like oil, heard but impossible to understand. Magnus instantly recognized the woman's use of magic, her prayer to summon divine power. The orb in her hands started to glow.

"Tell me Captain Magnus," she said. "Is it true that I won't be persecuted for my religion?"

It wasn't the first time he had been asked that particular question. Granted it was the first time someone had asked while peering at him through a ball of magic, but that didn't change his answer. "That's correct ma'am. Visitors and citizens alike may worship whichever gods they choose in our city."

There were many religions on the Middle Sea and it could mean a death sentence to worship the wrong god in the wrong place. Not in the city of Cyrene though. By royal decree there was no religious persecution in Cyrene. As long as people followed the king's laws then no one cared whom they prayed to.

"You're telling the truth," the woman said, a note of surprise in her voice.

"Yes ma'am," Magnus replied.

With a flick of her wrist the light from the orb dissipated. It had been a truth spell of some sort, one she used to test the veracity of Magnus' replies. Apparently he had passed the test. She carefully put the orb in a pouch hanging from her belt.

"Are you the Lady Chara?" he asked.

"That is correct, Captain," she said stepping off the ship. "However I am also an initiate of Athena. I was sent here by my father on a diplomatic mission."

Magnus suppressed a smile at her words, she was saying more than she realized. If her diplomatic mission had been important then a member of the royal family would have been at the docks greeting her. Yet, if it weren't important then why would she be sent across the Middle Sea? The answer lay in the pendant hanging from her neck. Initiate was the title given to new members of the church of Athena. Her father had likely sent her on this so-called diplomatic mission in order to get her away from the virgin priestesses. It wouldn't be the first time a high-born child was sent to Cyrene to save them from the clutches of a local church.

"Welcome to Cyrene lady Chara. Please allow me to escort you to the palace."

~~~~~

Magnus led the way out of the dockyards. The route he had chosen would take them through the old city district, an area characterized by rough brick buildings separated by hard packed dirt streets.

"I don't understand why so many people are attracted to this city," Chara said pointing east toward a fishing settlement near the city walls.

"It's the ban against religious persecution," Magnus said. "There are some brutal religions on the Middle Sea and they victimize the poor. Many of the people moving here have lost family members to the sacrificial knives. It doesn't take many ..."

The shrill sound of a whistle interrupted him. The noise echoed over the city from a nearby street. Instinctually his hand went to his sword and he took a step toward the sound before remembering his companions. He looked up to see both Gaius and Chara watching him expectantly.

"What was that?" Gaius asked.

"City guard," Magnus replied.

"Are you needed?"

"No, probably not. It's likely just a young guard who's caught a pick pocket."

A second whistle started blowing, making him regret his words. The only reason two whistles would be blowing is if a second guard got to the scene and the two of them weren't enough to handle it. Normally he would already be running toward the whistles, but he couldn't right now; his orders were to escort the Lady Chara to the palace.

"If you are needed captain," Chara said, "then we can take a quick detour."

He didn't need to be told twice. Magnus set off at a trot, just slow enough for Chara to keep up. By the time they arrived, there was already a small crowd gathered around the alley where the guards were blowing their whistles.

Closer up Magnus could see the cause of the commotion. There was someone on the ground, and through the crowd he could see bare flesh and blood. The senior guard spotted him and a hole was quickly formed through the crowd.

"Thank the gods you're here, sir," the senior guard said.

The guards stopped blowing their whistles and stepped back as a sudden silence descended. Behind them in the street lay the dead and naked body of a woman — her skin disfigured by dozens of cuts forming arcane symbols. There was a lot of blood, especially on the left leg near a deep wound in her thigh. A red flower had been placed in her mouth, its color a striking contrast to her pale dead flesh.

"Sweet goddess," Chara muttered.

Damn it, he had forgotten about her. He was supposed to take her to the palace, not give her a tour of a murder scene. "I'm sorry ma'am. I shouldn't have brought you ..."

"Nonsense, Captain," she interrupted. "I'm not some flower to be sheltered from the world. I am fine. We can wait until you are finished here."

Despite her words she looked a little green. It was obvious that she wasn't accustomed to seeing dead bodies. If she was going to play at being tough, though, that was fine with Magnus, he had a job to do.

"Anyone know her?" Magnus asked.

"Delpha," the senior guard said. "She's a street priestess."

"Damn it!" Magnus said.

"What's a street priestess?" Chara asked quietly.

"It's a polite term for a prostitute," Gaius replied.

"File leader," Magnus said addressing the senior guard. "Go to the temple and give them the news."

"Sir?" the man asked. There was fear in his eyes. The priestesses wouldn't take the news well.

"There's no need Captain. We already know," said a feminine figure in a pale blue hooded robe standing in the crowd. With delicate fingers the woman reached up and lowered her hood, revealing soft features framed with golden blond hair. Her strikingly blue eyes scanned the crime scene for a moment before settling on Magnus. The hint of a smile tugged at her full lips.

The guards reacted as if a bear had suddenly appeared in the middle of the street. There were shocked sounds of alarm as they grabbed for the hilts of their weapons. With an act of will Magnus kept himself from activating the ring on his left hand. Rationally he knew she wouldn't attack, but her sudden appearance had surprised him.

"Greetings, Yasmin," Magnus said.

"Hello, Magnus," she replied with a genuine smile, walking over to stand in front of him.

"This is a crime scene, priestess. I have only just arrived and we have not yet begun our investigations."

"I understand," she replied. "I am simply here to care for the soul of my sister in faith. I will not interfere."

She was lying. He could see it in her eyes. She wouldn't interfere but she certainly hadn't come for the sake of Delpha's soul. He couldn't just turn her away, though. As long as she didn't interfere with him or break any laws she had every right to be at the scene. He could force her to back off until he had taken a good look at the body, but there was little point. She could be discreet when she wanted to be and a second set of eyes would be helpful. With a quiet sigh Magnus gestured for Yasmin to join him in examining the corpse.

"Delpha, you poor dear, what did you get yourself involved in?" Yasmin asked. She then started to pray in a quiet voice. It wasn't divine magic, or perhaps it was the most basic of divine magic; it was a prayer for the soul of the deceased woman. Despite everything that Yasmin could be accused of she was devout and truly cared about her faith.

As Yasmin prayed, Magnus reached into the mouth of the dead body and removed the flower. It was a pomegranate blossom, which helped to explain some of the sloppier symbols etched into the woman's flesh. Producing a copper coin, Yasmin placed it in the dead woman's mouth, an offering to the ferryman that would take Delpha's soul into the underworld. Her fingers lingered on the dead body's lips. She pulled on them gently, revealing a dark blue discoloration. Leaning forward she turned Delpha's head and brushed her hair away from her ears. The tips of the ears were the same color.

Continuing to pray, Yasmin made eye contact with Magnus. He nodded that he understood. In return he pointed to the flesh around the hole in the woman's thigh. It was puckered and swollen. He then traced his fingers down to one of the ritual cuts lower on the same leg. The skin around that cut showed no sign of swelling. Yasmin nodded in understanding, never pausing in her quiet prayer.

With a few final words over the body Yasmin stood up and stepped back. "You will keep the temple informed, Captain?"

"Absolutely, Priestess," Magnus replied, "and if you learn anything you will tell the city guard?"

"Absolutely," she replied in the same tone.

They were both lying. It was theatre for any listening ears. Yasmin of Aphrodite was running her own investigation.

~~~~~

Two guardsmen lifted the blanket-wrapped body and dropped it onto the waiting cart as Magnus pulled a coin from his pouch. He held it out to the cart's owner. "Take her to the temple of Aphrodite. They'll be expecting you."

"Yes, sir," the man replied taking the coin.

With that unpleasant task out of the way Magnus could finally try to catch up with Yasmin. As if to thwart his unspoken plans, Chara walked up with Gaius trailing behind her. Damn it, he had forgotten about her again.

"Shall we go to the palace now?" Chara asked.

"Yes, that's a good idea," he said before turning to the senior guard. "File leader, please escort the Lady Chara and her bodyguard to the palace."

"Excuse me," Chara said in a tone of indignation.

"What?" Magnus asked.

"I am struggling not to be insulted here. Surely escorting me to the palace takes precedence over any further investigation into the death of a prostitute."

"Ma'am I mean you no insult," he said. "Prostitutes in the city of Cyrene are under the protection of the church of Aphrodite and the church reacts violently to anyone who harms them. I need to find the killer before the situation escalates."

"It's a race to find the murderer?"

"Somewhat," he replied.

"Then I'm going with you," Chara said.

"What? This isn't a game, Lady Chara. I can't take you with me. It could be dangerous."

"I am to be a shield maiden of Athena, Captain," Chara said. "The goddess I worship is the goddess of truth and knowledge. I have studied investigative techniques. I can be an asset to you."

"That wouldn't be appropriate."

"I'm not giving you a choice, Captain. You can either escort me to the palace yourself or include me in your investigation," Chara said.

Magnus looked over at Gaius, silently pleading for him to talk some sense into her. The man was supposed to be Lady Chara's bodyguard, keep her safe. All Magnus got was a shrug in response, the universal symbol of "nothing I can do." This wasn't good. He didn't have time to escort her to the palace. Yasmin wouldn't wait long before she started acting on her own. It didn't look like he had much in the way of options.

"Fine," he said and then pointed at Gaius, "but her safety is your responsibility."

"Of course, Captain," Gaius replied.

"Let's go," Magnus said. He started walking north toward the edge of the city. A couple of moments passed before Chara caught up to him and started walking alongside.

"You have a problem," she said, "the flower and sigils were the work of Hera worshippers."

"What makes you say that?" Magnus interrupted.

"Well the flower you pulled from her mouth was a pomegranate blossom, holy to worshipers of Hera. The iconography carved into the girls flesh was symbols of Hera and worshippers of Hera hate prostitution. That killing was an act of religion."

"No," Magnus replied, "that's what someone wants us to believe. The sigils were sloppy."

"So?"

"Tell me something, Initiate," Magnus said using her religious title. "When you draw symbols of Athena are you careful about it or do you just slap them down as quickly as possible."

Chara glanced back in the direction of the cart and the dead body it held with a look of confusion on her face.

"It was supposed to look like a ritual killing," Magnus continued, "but the details were wrong. The cuts were sloppy and they were made after the woman's death."

"How could you tell?"

"The wound on her thigh was puckered and had bled significantly," Magnus explained. "The ritual cuts, on the other hand, showed little sign of swelling or bleeding. Therefore the wound on her thigh was the only one that happened before her death."

"But that wound wasn't fatal," Chara said.

"You're right," Magnus agreed. "She was poisoned."

"Poison?" Chara asked. "Why do you say that?"

"There was a distinct color to her lips and the tips of her ears. I've only ever seen that in people who were exposed to a distillation of cherry laurels."

As they got closer to the edge of the city the pedestrian traffic began dropping off and the quality of the homes decreased. Few people liked to live in the northern portion of Cyrene.

"Where are we going Captain?" Chara asked.

"There are only three people I know of who distil cherry laurels," Magnus replied. "One of them lives nearby. I want to talk to him."

[divider]  
The buildings on the northern edge of Cyrene were simple structures made of rough-hewn wood, stained by the elements. One of them was different though. It was a large compound surrounded by a fence. The home of a man named Korax.

A flash of color caught Magnus's attention as they walked toward Korax's compound. A feminine figure in a pale blue robe stepped out of an alleyway. She lowered her hood and approached with a mischievous smile.

"Fancy meeting you here, stranger," Yasmin said.

"Hello, Priestess. Why are you here?" Magnus asked.

"Delpha used dryad hair charms to maintain her appearance. There are only two people in town who sell those. And yourself?"

"Cherry laurels," he replied.

"Shall we go in then?" she asked.

Her smile had hardened, becoming less mischievous. She knew as well as he did what it meant for them both to be outside Korax's home. The odds of it being a coincidence were low.

"Working for the city guard now are you?" Magnus asked.

"No, I just need you to distract his goons," Yasmin replied.

"I'm not going—"

"Speaking of working for the city guard who are your companions?" she interrupted, gesturing to Chara.

"The Lady Chara and her bodyguard are diplomatic envoys from Athens," Magnus explained.

A single raised eyebrow was her only response. Yasmin wanted to know why he had taken a diplomat to a suspected murderer's home. He wasn't entirely sure of the answer himself.

"Never mind," he said, not wanting to explain.

"Okay," she replied shrugging. "But I'll bet you that Korax's goons won't let you in to talk to him. I on the other hand won't have any difficulties."

"Priestess ..."

"I promise not to interfere," she said.

That stopped him. Yasmin was usually true to her word. If she promised not to interfere then she probably wouldn't. He was missing something; he had to be. Nevertheless he couldn't see the harm. He had come to ask questions, not make an arrest, if letting Yasmin tag along kept her happy then it wasn't necessarily the worst idea. It was best to be satisfied with her promise and then keep a close watch on her.

With a shrug, Magnus walked to the metal gate leading to Korax's compound. The gate had gaps between the bars large enough to reveal a man in dark leather lounging on the other side.

"What do you want?" the man asked.

Reaching into his tunic Magnus pulled out his chain of office, showing it to the doorman. "I'm here to speak with Korax."

"Korax doesn't want to talk to you," the man replied.

"That's interesting," Yasmin whispered.

She was right, interesting and suspicious. The city guard were representatives of the King's authority in Cyrene. Nobody turned away the guard without a good reason. "Open the gate in the name of the city guard," Magnus growled.

The man licked his lips nervously but didn't obey.

"If you don't open this gate I'll come back with a squad of guards and we'll break it down."

"You do what you have to do," the man replied. He looked nervous, really nervous. He was committing a crime by refusing to open the gate. He could be thrown in the stocks for it.

The doorman glanced past Magnus, focusing on something behind him. Honeyed words suddenly slipped through Magnus's mind. They were words not meant for mortal ears, gliding through his thoughts without meaning, leaving behind only a sense of desire. The doorman's eyes seemed to glow with an unnatural light in response to the words.

"Open the gate and walk away," Yasmin said from directly behind Magnus.

Without a word the doorman opened the gate and stepped out of the compound. He pushed his way past Magnus and wandered aimlessly out into the street, his eyes glazed and unseeing.

"Priestess!"

"What?" she asked. "I'm not interfering, I'm helping."

Magnus took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The doorman probably wouldn't suffer any harm from the spell. Yasmin had magically scrambled his brains, but it would likely wear off in a few minutes. Nevertheless, he didn't want any more of her help.

"I need you to go away," he said.

"Of course Magnus," she replied.

She began speaking, the words slipping through Magnus's ears like oil and fading away without comprehension. Simultaneously with the words fading from his mind Yasmin faded from sight. One moment she was there and the next her robe flumped to the ground empty and discarded. Yasmin was nowhere to be seen, her magic making her invisible.

"Damn it, that's not what I meant, Yasmin."

Silvery laughter was her only reply, and the sound of it faded into the courtyard of Korax's compound.

"What now?" Chara asked making Magnus jump.

He had forgotten she was there, again. Whether she liked it or not she was a born diplomat, able to fade into the background effortlessly. It was a good question though. It was tempting to walk away, but he knew he couldn't. "I can't let her go in there alone," Magnus said. "You two wait here."

With those words he stepped through the gate into Korax's compound. The courtyard wasn't large, just big enough to bring in a horse and wagon and turn it around again. At the far end of the courtyard was a brick house — luxurious for the neighborhood it was in, consisting of multiple rooms and sporting a thick wooden door.

"Lady Chara, wait," Gaius whispered.

She ignored his order and followed Magnus into the compound. Before Gaius could reprimand her, the front door of the house opened and four men stepped out. Three of them were in black leather matching the doorman; the fourth was Korax. He was a short man with a darting look about him. All of them were armed with an assortment of knives. "What are you doing here?" Korax demanded.

"I am investigating the death of a woman named Delpha," Magnus replied. "Your doorman let us in."

"What? That's impossible." Korax advanced into the courtyard with a look of anger on his face. The anger turned to confusion though as his searching eyes failed to find his doorman.

Unfortunately there was also no sign of Yasmin either. Whatever magic she used was making her incredibly hard to find. Magnus needed to stall for time while he figured out how to get her out of the compound. "I'd like to ask you a few questions," he said.

"I have no interest in your questions," Korax replied.

"That's too bad. I guess I'll have to arrest you for refusing to cooperate with the city guard."

A vicious glare was the only reply he received. Korax wasn't the type to quietly allow himself to be arrested. On the other hand he wouldn't attack a member of the city guard unless he felt he had no other choice. That left a small window that Magnus could use. "Do you know anything about the death of the street priestess Delpha?" he asked.

"No, I don't," Korax replied.

"He's lying," Chara said.

Looking back, Magnus could see that Chara was peering at Korax through a glowing glass sphere she cradled in her hands. He hadn't heard her casting her spell but the sphere looked exactly as it had when she questioned Magnus in the dockyards.

"I am not," Korax said.

"Yes you are. Did you kill her?" Chara asked.

The situation was spiraling out of control. This wasn't the time or place for a magical interrogation. Magnus began backing up towards Chara, gesturing for her to be quiet while keeping his eyes on Korax.

"No," Korax replied.

"Did one of your men?" Chara asked.

The body language from Korax and his men suddenly changed. Hands began reaching for weapons while they shifted their feet and transitioned into fighting stances. Behind his back, Magnus brought his ring into position.

"Lady Chara, please stop," Gaius whispered.

"No, of course not," Korax replied.

"You're lying!" Chara declared.

At Korax's gesture his men erupted into violence. The three of them started pulling out and throwing knives, the blades glittering as they flew through the air toward Magnus and his companions. Fortunately Magnus had been watching Korax and he was already speaking the activation word for his ring. In the blink of an eye the ring was gone and a large bronze shield appeared on Magnus' arm. There was a pair of reverberating clangs as knives bounced off of the shield.

Behind him, Gaius reacted without hesitation. His sword whispered as he pulled it from its scabbard and batted a knife out of the air. Grabbing Chara by her tunic, Gaius shoved her behind Magnus as a second knife glanced off of his breastplate. Within moments he was crouched beside Chara, his body sheltering her where Magnus's shield didn't cover.

What in Hades had the fool woman been thinking? A quick glance at her face showed she was in a state of shock at the sudden violence. It was as if she had expected her actions to somehow turn out well. Another knife plinked off the shield, this one falling away at an odd angle. Korax's men were circling to the sides, trying to get into position for a clean shot.

"We need to move," Gaius growled.

"Wait for it," Magnus replied drawing his sword.

"Wait for what? They're going to flank us!"

"You idiots," Korax yelled. "He can't ..."

Suddenly Korax made a liquid rasping sound as blood gushed from a gash across his throat. He fell to his knees, looking in bewilderment at the woman in tight leather who had appeared beside him, a knife wet with his blood in her hand.

"That," Magnus said.

Throwing himself into a sprint, Magnus charged the knife throwers on the right while Gaius went left. Staring in shock at their dying leader, Korax's men didn't react fast enough to save themselves. The fight was quick and brutal and ended with two of them falling to Gaius' blade while the third collapsed with Magnus's sword in his chest.

A hush fell over the courtyard, broken only by the panicked breathing of Lady Chara. Four men lay dead on the ground. It was tempting to blame Chara for what had happened, but Magnus knew different. There was only one person responsible for what had just happened and justice had been served when Yasmin slit his throat.

Korax had made a stupid mistake. He had assumed that because Delpha worshipped Aphrodite she was an easy victim. After all, what was the danger in going after a prostitute? One look at Yasmin was enough to end that misperception. She was dressed for battle. Granted, her armor was skin-tight and more revealing than any warrior would wear, but it was war gear nonetheless. Aphrodite wasn't just the goddess of lust she was also the god of war's lover and the mother of his children, the personifications of dread and terror. Aphrodite was a destructive goddess, and Yasmin was her servant.

"I wasn't here, Magnus," Yasmin said walking to the front gate and picking up her robe.

"Of course not," he replied.

"Wait, yes you were," Chara said. "You killed that man. If ..."

"No dear," Yasmin interrupted. "I simply assisted a member of the city guard who was being attacked. And I wasn't here because everyone knows that the church of Aphrodite and the city guard never work together."

She put her robe back on, covering her leather armor. Then she walked away, pulling up her hood as she went. With the robe and hood she didn't look dangerous, just another anonymous shape disappearing into the crowded city.

There was one last thing that needed to be done. Reaching into a pouch on his belt Magnus removed a small metal object. "Lady Chara," he said, "I'm afraid we're going to be delayed in getting you to the palace."

Chara wasn't listening to him though. She was leaning on Gaius, shaking with spent adrenaline. A look of nausea slowly creeping across her features as she stared at the dead bodies around them.

Magnus lifted the metal object to his mouth. The shrill sound of a whistle echoed over the city streets.

Alex Doiron lives deep in the frozen wilderness of Canada near a small settlement called Ottawa. On a daily basis he braves feral polar bears in order to bring food and firewood home to his three-bedroom igloo. He is a chartered chemist and has multiple non-fiction publications on the exciting and dynamic topic of rust in journals such as Corrosion, Corrosion Reviews, Materials Performance, and Oil and Gas Journal.

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# About Fiction Vortex

Fiction Vortex, let's see...

A fiction vortex is a tornado of stories that pick you up and hurl you through a barn to find enlightenment on the other side. It's a whirlpool of fascinating tales so compelling that they suck you in, drag you down to the bottom of your mind, and drown you with incessant waves of glorious imagery and believable characters.

Nope.

A fiction vortex is an online speculative fiction magazine focused on publishing great science fiction and fantasy, and is run by incredibly attractive and intelligent people with great taste in literature and formidable writing prowess.

Not that either. But we're getting closer.

Founded in the 277th year of the Takolatchni Dynasty, Fiction Vortex set out to encourage people to write and publish great speculative fiction. It sprang fully formed from the elbow of TWOS, retaining none of TWOS's form but most of its spirit. And the patron god of writers, the insecure, the depressed, and the mentally ill regarded Fiction Vortex in his magic mirror of self-loathing and declared it good, insofar as something that gives writer's undue hope can be declared good. Thereafter, he charged the Rear Admiral of the Galactic 5th Fleet to defend Fiction Vortex down to the last robot warrior.

Now we're talking.

Take your pick. We don't care how you characterize us or the site.

Fiction Vortex focuses on publishing speculative fiction. That means science fiction and fantasy (with a light smattering of horror and a few other subgenres), be it light, heavy, deep, flighty, spaceflighty, cerebral, visceral, epic, or mundane. But mundane in a my-local-gas-station-has-elf-mechanics-but-it's-not-really-a-big-deal-around-here kind of way. Got it?

Basically, we want imaginative stories that are well written, but not full of supercilious floridity.

There's a long-standing belief that science fiction and fantasy stories aren't as good as purely literary fare. We want you to prove that mindset wrong (not just wrong, but a steaming pile of griffin dung wrong) with every story we publish. It's almost like we're saying, "I do not bite my thumb at you, literary snobs, but I do bite my thumb," but in a completely polite and non-confrontational way.

We've got more great stories online, with a new story twice a week. Visit our website FictionVortex.com, follow us on Twitter: @FictionVortex, and like us on Facebook: FictionVortex.

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