

### Podioracket Presents Glimpses

by Podioracket

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 White Wolf Press, LLC

Table of Contents

Conclave – Mick Bordet

Foretelling – Arlene Radasky

The Interview \- M. Darusha Wehm

Appeasement \- Gloria Oliver

Good Luck - Casey S Townsend

Fleeting Time \- Keith Hughes

Blind Curve \- Dave Donelson

Holy Rites \- Emerian Rich

The Siege \- Katharina Maimer

Wayward Spirits - A Prelude to The Dawning of Power \- Brian Rathbone

Future In Hand: A Rivenspace Story \- H.E Roulo

Conclave

Mick Bordet

The menacing creature towered over the two men, looking down at them, its long claws extended from massive white paws and teeth bared in a controlled snarl. Macleod lifted his broadsword and swung it, building up the speed needed to strike a blow. The beast paused, watching him; it seemed to know all too well what the man intended. When the blow came, the bear stepped backwards on its hind legs and let the blade slice past its belly, the soft fur only ruffled by the gentle breeze. Macleod staggered forward, his balance thrown off by the missed strike, and fell to the ground in front of the bear. He pulled his sword before him, a desperate defence against the certain death to come at the huge creature's next move, but no such move came. The bear stood still, as though frozen, claws poised at the ready.

"Are you all right, Macleod?" asked Macdonald from a safe distance behind. The Macdonalds had something of a reputation for rushing in and attacking with the element of surprise before beating a hasty retreat, but on this occasion he was happy to have left that approach to someone else.

"Aye, I'll live. I didn't see you rushing to my aid, Ewan Macdonald. Did you think your day would be made better by my passing?"

"That it would, Seamus, but in truth, I'd rather see you at the head of your clan than that eejit you call your nephew," replied Macdonald.

He stepped forward and helped Macleod to his feet, slapping him on the back once the man stood beside him.

"Aye, the lad's an eejit all right, but at least he's not a Macdonald! Clan Ebhir would never stoop so low," Macleod said and smiled through his thick dark beard.

"I thought you were dead for sure when that beastie stood up, but I would wager that it's only meant to scare us. It could have killed us both by now if that's what it wanted," said Macdonald.

"You mean, what he wanted. Our host."

"Aye, fair enough, Seamus, the beastie has been seen to do his bidding. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Macleod nodded and they both waited a moment, each hoping the other would make the first move.

"Are you there, Stranger?" Macdonald eventually called around the side of the bear, into the mouth of the cave.

The man they only knew of as Erik stepped forward, appearing at first as nothing more than a shadow from the gloom and echoes of the deep scar in the hillside. He was noticeably cleaner and better-groomed than the other two men, with short dark hair and a neat, trimmed beard. His skin was pale and pink, even soft in comparison to the rugged earth-worn appearance of Macleod and Macdonald. Where they both wore their own dull plaids flung around their stocky bodies, the garment Erik wore seemed tailored for him alone, with no excess material hanging down and not one piece without function.

"Welcome, friends. I see you have met Bear," he said.

"Aye, we've seen your monster, but it will take more than that to scare us, Stranger," replied Macdonald.

"Please, Ewan, call me Erik, and I can assure you that Bear is not here to scare you. He is merely my companion and protector."

"You bring yourself a protector, yet tell both of us to come alone," said Macleod.

"This is true, Seamus, but you have seen some evidence of what I offer, have you not? You know that I have much more to lose and let's be honest here; you have both been less than reliable when it comes to meetings such as these. The Laird of Glencarse was never heard from again after you met with him, Seamus, from the tales that I have been told."

Seamus shrugged. Macdonald smirked at the sight of his rival being called out for his past activities, not that he was an innocent in such matters himself. He had removed the occasional barrier to progress, just with a little less fuss than the Macleod chieftain.

"Anyway, today is not about blame or the past; it is about the future, about working together. Come my friends, join me inside, but please, leave your weapons out here," said Erik, returning to the darkness of the cave.

Macdonald and Macleod exchanged glances, but they had expected nothing less. The stranger had his protection with him, but if he was leaving the beast outside then there could be no harm in leaving their weapons as well. They both unhooked their swords and placed them on the ground outside the cave. Once they had done so, Bear stepped aside, making it clear the two men were free to join Erik. They followed him into the cave, never letting their gaze stray from the huge polar bear as they walked past.

A short, stooped corridor led into the main body of the cave, which was lit with three flickering torches attached to the dark, damp walls. In the middle of the space was a single, flat, round stone, knee-high and an arm's length-wide, laid out with stone goblets and a large loaf of dark brown bread. Erik invited the two men to join him for food and the three of them knelt down on the furs he had laid on the floor. As they sat, Bear entered the cave, sitting down on the floor at the entrance.

"Tell me stranger, how is it that you have control over such a beastie as this?" asked Macleod, pointing at Bear.

Erik gave a gentle smile.

"I thought that might be one of your first questions," he said. "My people are much the same as yours, though we live in secret, isolated from petty squabbles, clan battles, failing crops and fatal winter storms. Without the devastating effect of war and disease, my people have been free to develop our skills. We have learnt about many things that you would find amazing, even magical. For example, we have found a way to change the way bodies are built at the lowest level. In doing so, we have been able to create bears that are far more intelligent than normal. These bears work together with us to protect us when we travel far from home and in return they are supplied with food and somewhere to stay, as well as the benefits of genetic manipulation their line will receive in future generations."

"Gen... what?" asked Macdonald, clearly confused.

"Sorry, genes are those tiny parts of the body we change. By doing so to the bears living with us, those changes will be passed down to their children and grandchildren. What I'm saying is that both my people and the bears benefit equally from the changes. This device allows us to communicate directly with them," said Erik, pulling out a shiny stone sphere from within his clothing and holding it out in the palm of his hand for the two men to see.

"What's that?" asked Macleod, leaning forward to try and make some sense out of the object, noticing it was covered in a set of intricate spiral designs.

"We use it to control many things in our home. I doubt you would understand how it works, but I can demonstrate a little of what it can do," Erik replied.

He held the stone ball in one hand and ran his fingers over it with the other. It started to glow, giving out a very slow pulse of green light. The two clansmen drew back in fear, having never seen anything light up of its own accord.

"Watch you dinnae burn yourself, man!" said Macleod.

"It's not hot, Seamus. Here, feel for yourself," said Erik. He smiled and held the sphere out towards Macleod, who flinched a little, but touched the rock, never willing to show anything like weakness or fear to his life-long rival.

"Very strange," said Seamus, withdrawing his finger, "but what does it do?"

Erik pointed over at Bear.

"You see the small device attached to his ear?"

"Device?"

"The little black rock."

"Ah, yes."

"That is connected to his brain, the part of him that makes him think. It sends silent messages to the control sphere I'm holding, which lets me talk to the bear," Erik explained.

"You can talk to that thing?" Macdonald asked, disbelief written all over his face.

"Bear, could you go out and gather some wood, in case we need to light a fire later?" Erik asked.

The two men looked over at the creature, wondering if it would rise and obey immediately or if it would need told again.

"Okay, Erik. I will go," said Bear. His legs straightened, lifting his massive frame up, and he left the cave.

"It talks? You've got a talking bear? This is magic, stranger!" yelled Macleod.

"Not magic, no, though it may appear as such to you. I have explained how it works as best I can with your limited knowledge. Accept that it can happen, but only because my people have changed the bears and have created these devices that allow us to communicate. Without these, the bears are more intelligent than normal, but have no idea what we are saying and cannot respond to us."

"Does it work with all creatures?" asked Macdonald.

"We are still working on it. At the moment we use the bears because they serve a useful purpose to us and their large skulls are easy to work with, but it may be possible in the future to do the same with other animals," said Erik, nodding.

"Very interesting, I can see how we could use this," said Macdonald. "What else can you show us?"

Erik took a deep breath. The first part of his plan had been accomplished, to get the men to see he had something worthwhile to offer them. What would prove more difficult, he knew, would be getting them to agree to his terms for learning about the technology behind the tools he could offer them. Clever devices on their own would be no use unless mankind had the knowledge to create more and the appreciation of the consequences of their use.

"Okay," he said, "let's talk."

* * *

The men talked for hours, Erik describing some of the most basic tools at his disposal. He didn't want to show his full hand at this early stage, knowing only too well what most of mankind was like, but he had been chosen by his people for this meeting because he was a great reader of men. As he was telling them about the simple devices he could share with them, rock cutters and things that would start fires in an instant, methods of storing food for weeks and ways to protect from disease, he was also dropping little traps into the conversation. All it would take would be for too many of those traps to be figuratively sprung and he would back off, limit his sharing to the bare minimum. Earlier the men had not been doing too bad, having only tripped over themselves a couple of times in their eagerness to gain as much as they could from Erik whilst trying to outmanoeuvre each other so that one clan or the other would come out on top, but now tempers were beginning to flare. All three of them were tired and found themselves unable to agree on anything, despite the best efforts of Erik to find some common ground.

"Please, my friends, this is not about advantage to either Clan Eremon or Clan Ebhir, it is about the benefits to mankind. Any advantage you may gain will be due to each clan's own unique set of skills and knowledge, as well as the raw materials you have available to you," said Erik, trying to explain.

"Enough talk, Erik," grumbled Maclead, "it's time to take action. You have what my clan wants, now give it to us and stop trying to manipulate the situation!"

"Manipulate? Listen Seamus, I can walk away at any time and be just as well off as I have ever been. I do not need your help, nor am I asking anything from you other than assurances about how you will use what I can offer. And those assurances do not include ensuring your clan rises to power," said Erik.

Macleod stood and grabbed for Erik, who pulled back away from the attack easily, as though he had been expecting it. The irate clansman lunged again, taking a firm grip on his arm and pulling Erik towards him.

"My clan will rise to power, with or without your aid. Now, give me what I came for," Macleod yelled, his face turning a bright shade of red.

Erik tried to push the man away, shouting "No!"

Macleod brought his fist in hard to Erik's stomach, catching him off guard and winding him. He staggered backwards as Macleod released him, stumbling over one of the furs on the floor and falling to the ground, his head slamming into the stone table as he dropped. Macleod gasped and took a step back. Erik lay spread out on the floor, unmoving.

"You've killed him, Macleod," said Macdonald.

"He's not dead," the man replied and knelt down beside the body. Macleod bent over, looking for a breath, a pulse, anything that would show the man to be alive, but to no avail. His hand ran across the stone sphere, held in a pouch at Erik's waist. He pulled it out and showed it to Macdonald. It had turned a dull grey and was no longer glowing as it had before.

"No? It certainly looks that way," said Macdonald.

A low growl came from behind the men and they turned to see Bear standing in the cave entrance, staring directly at them, teeth slightly bared.

"It was an accident!" Macleod said to the bear. It growled again, but stood its ground.

"Come on, Bear," said Macdonald. "Macleod here just got carried away. These things happen, we never meant to hurt him."

They both took a step towards the creature. It growled again, lower this time, as though to emphasise it was being serious, and took a step towards the two men.

"What now?" said Macleod.

"I don't know. Get Erik out of here and back to his people?"

"We could just bury him and leave this place," said Macleod.

"That would be no good. You've seen some of the stuff his people can do. They'd know and they would come after us. No, we need to be honest and tell them it was an accident," replied Macdonald.

"Okay, okay, but how are we going to get him out with that thing guarding the exit?" said Macleod, nodding over towards the bear.

The colossal white animal had returned to its original position as they had been talking, as though content to let the men discuss their problems. When Macdonald stepped tentatively towards it again, it straightened up and came to meet him, snarling.

"Look, big yin, we only want to take your friend back to his people. Maybe you can help us?"

The bear just growled back.

"It's no use, Ewan," said Macleod, "I don't think it understands us. I think that the thing Erik had to control it with is broken, it seems to have died when he did, if that makes sense?"

Macdonald returned to the body and helped Macleod cover it up. As he did so, the bear returned to its guarding position once again.

"The damn thing is determined to keep up in here. I'm not going to be dictated to by some furry beastie like that. Come on, we're getting out of here."

"What are you thinking?"

"I've still got my skean dhu. How about you?"

Macleod lifted the shoulder of his plaid to show the small dagger hidden under his armpit, nodding as he did so.

"Aye, I never give it up, no matter what. Do you think we can take the beast on? Come around its flanks and surprise it?" he whispered.

"We can only try Seamus. I've no desire to spend the rest of my days in this damn cave, though, so let's do it."

They parted to opposite walls of the cave and paced back towards the entrance. The bear watched them, approaching from either side, and stepped forward to meet them, its low growl barely audible, but growing as they came closer.

Within a few moments the men both stood only a metre away from the polar bear, one to its left, one to its right. The creature maintained a low growl, trying to divide its attention between the two of them, aware that they were up to something, but apparently reluctant to act.

"Now!" Macdonald shouted, his voice a blend of fear and excitement, the same as it had been on many a battlefield.

Both men leapt at the bear at once, pulling their daggers out from hiding and stabbing them into the side of the beast in one fluid, almost mirrored movement. The bear roared, a deafening, terrifying wail that would have had the two men covering their ears were they any less intent on bringing the animal down. It stumbled back into the narrow part of the cave wall, loosening rocks that fell at its feet. The bear lashed out, blinded by the pain, its huge thick paws throwing the men across the cave to hit the walls on the far side, both of them sliding to the floor. As they slid into unconsciousness, they were aware, for just a fleeting moment, of a low rumble and a cloud of dust, before everything fell silent.

* * *

"Ewan, can you hear me? Wake up, man," said Macleod.

Macdonald winced and forced his eyes open, letting them adjust to the darkness before talking.

"What happened? Did we kill it?" he said.

"I think so, but it's difficult to tell. The place is full of dust and there's only one torch still burning. The beastie seems to have stopped moving, though," replied Macleod.

"Good. That thing is dangerous to have around. Quite a throw it has, too. I don't think my back will ever be the same again. Here, help me up."

Macdonald helped him to his feet and the two of them walked over to the body of the bear. It lay in front of the narrow tunnel leading out of the cave, facing away from them. Macleod put a hand on the creature's head and waited for a moment, then he pushed it and the head lolled over to the side, eyes open, but showing none of the life it had been full of when they attacked it.

"Aye, it's dead, all right. I wonder what it was doing over here. You'd think it would have eaten us or just left us alone here to die," said Macleod.

"No, look at the tunnel, Seamus. It wasn't going anywhere," replied Macdonald.

Macleod turned away from the bear to look at the tunnel. Instead of a short passage of rock, leading out into the cold highland night, as he had expected to see, there was a pile of large stones and rubble that reached to the roof of the cave.

"That explains the dust. The ceiling must have collapsed when the big beastie went crazy," he said.

"Aye, it looks like we're sealed in. There seems to be a bit of a gap at the top, though, that's strange. It's almost as though the top of the pile has been removed," replied Macdonald.

Macleod leant in for a closer look.

"You're right, there's been stones dragged out of here, I can see tracks in the dust. Oh, look here, there's blood on these rocks."

"Blood? What would cause that?" asked Macdonald.

Macleod pointed back to the polar bear. Macdonald lifted one of the animal's massive, lethal paws, trying to look at the claws, but they were worn-down, bloody stumps. The paws were no longer white, but dark red and black, torn to shreds by the effort.

"It was trying to dig us out," said Macdonald, placing the paw back on the ground with a new-found respect for the animal.

"Us? Really, Ewan, it was trying to save itself," replied Macleod.

Macdonald shook his head.

"I dinnae think so, Seamus. There was something I noticed about it when Erik was killed. The beastie clearly didn't understand us, but it wasn't going to let us out. Every time we drew closer it stopped us. I think it wanted us to finish what we came here for, to come to some agreement like Erik was after. Maybe it was just following his orders or maybe it was acting on its own, but I don't think it meant us any harm. It could have killed us at any time. Even when we stabbed the damn thing, it only knocked us out of the way. If it wanted us dead, it could have killed us then. No, Erik saw this as an important meeting and I think he made sure the beastie knew it was too. It was trying to save us, I'm certain of it."

They stood on either side of the huge white, blood-soaked cadaver, looking down on it, paying it the respect they would give a fallen comrade after a battle.

"It's a magnificent big beast, is it not?" said Macleod.

"Aye, that it is, Seamus. We could have had animals like this working for our clans too, if we hadn't become so greedy."

Macleod nodded, but said nothing. He was thinking of the possibilities. The things that Erik had described to them would have changed their lives and those of everyone in their clans for years to come. The stranger had told them that, in time, they would share more wonders than the handful he had described to them, but they had to prove themselves worthy of such progress. Macleod had been so caught up in the moment, the possibilities that such things offered, that his first reaction had been selfish. Erik had been right. He had wanted an advantage over the Clan Eremon, Macdonald and his people, so his natural instinct had been to focus on that and not the facts that would actually benefit both clans.

"Ewan, I would like to make sure the efforts of these... friends of ours do not go unnoticed. I propose a truce between our peoples. We may never benefit from the incredible things that Erik told us about, but we can at least accept that he has taught us something. There is something noble about this stranger and his tamed bear and what he was trying to do for us. We should never forget that."

Macdonald nodded and held out his hand. Macleod grasped the offered hand and smiled back.

"To a new future," he said.

Macdonald returned the smile, saying "Aye, we'd best get digging, then."

Between them they managed to pull the body of the bear to the back of the cave so that they could continue the task it had begun. They had spent nearly an hour shifting the rocks away from the pile, using their daggers to dig into the layers of dust and grit, when the last torch guttered out, leaving them in a deep, near-physical darkness. Though the task was made more difficult, they continued with a renewed vigour, believing that the torch had been extinguished by a draught of air. Had they come to their agreement with Erik, they might have learnt from him enough about the way the world works to know that oxygen is required to keep a torch burning. They would probably also have discovered that the same gas is required for people to breathe. In the absence of such knowledge, however, they kept shifting rocks until the air ran out and they passed out from lack of oxygen.

Erik's people believed he had been killed by the clans and never tried to bring them together again, remaining largely hidden for thousands of years, referred to only in whispers and legend.

Ewan and Seamus' clans assumed the worst and the hatred between the Clan Eremon and the Clan Ebhir escalated over time. Indeed it is still present to this day, with influences stretching across the world as the two clans continue their battles through covert activities, governmental agencies and multinational boardroom politics. Both sides still seek out every advantage in the war and still believe that finding the elusive descendants of that first 'stranger' will unlock riches and power beyond compare.

<http://www.podiobooks.com/title/some-other-scotland>

Foretelling

Arlene Radasky

56 AD

Caledonia

Breathless, Wynda carefully looked back over her shoulder at the steep path she was climbing. "I did not realize it would be this difficult, but I also did not realize this babe would choose this day to be born." She had started her hike before dawn and the sun was now halfway through its journey. She was almost at the end of hers.

"At least my owl greeted me before I left the fort and I told Gavina, where I was going. If I do not come home in two days they will look for me."

Wynda was glad Gavina was a part of her family now. When her brother, Beathan, the clan chieftain, had declared he was marrying Gavina, Wynda doubted she would ever be able to welcome her, a member of a clan they had been fighting for so many seasons. But Wynda admitted to herself that she was wrong, Gavina had not only helped to create peace between her clan and theirs and she had helped keep Beathan in line. Wynda knew Gavina would make sure Beathan and his warriors would leave the horse races they spent so much time at lately, and search for her if she did not get home.

Before she stopped climbing to let the pain pass, she had seen the small stand of trees where the Druid slept during warm weather. Her shoulders relaxed when the treetops came into view.

"He had better be there. I do not want to have made this trip for nothing." Her chin followed her eyes up as she glared at the sky, "Mother Morigna, why on this day of all days you tell me I must make this journey, I will never know." Turning back to the barely visible, loose shale covered trail, she continued talking to herself, "Ogilhinn, you must be there, you must. I can go no further if you are not." She knew in her heart, but did not want to admit it aloud that the vision from last night was the reason she was here now.

It had been a moonless morning and more than half the mountain was covered in fog when she started her climb. Now in the high sun, she was warm. She slipped out of her cape and laid it next to the path. "We can pick it up as we go down later."

One more of the uncountable waves of pain swept over her, she leaned forward and began to slide backwards, her leather sandals, losing their tremulous grip on the loose shale chips. She wrapped one arm, protectively around her swollen belly and tried to catch herself with her free hand, trying not to think of the warm, safe bed she had left at cock's crow.

The pain subsided, but her backwards slide did not. She fell forward on her knees, her dress providing slight protection for her skin. She leaned to one side, and slid until she was able to position her feet and use a boulder as a stop to break the fall.

"Mother Morrigna, are you sure you want me here? I started this because you told me to. I can go home, if you do not get some help to me now. You make this decision. If I have my babe here on this hill alone, I swear by all that is sacred to me that I will never listen to one of your visions again. I hate them. You have yet to tell me why I have them. They just get me into trouble usually, like now."

Wynda groaned as another wave of pain flushed over her. "This one is different. My sons were not this difficult to carry. But they did not live long, not even a day. This child seems to be a fighter. Well, fight child. I will fight with you to keep you alive."

She turned her body to look up the trail and gauge how far she had slid backwards. She noticed a tall man hand holding a long oak staff, white hair hanging straight below his shoulders, standing at the top of the trail.

"Do not move Wynda, I am on my way down to help you."

"Alright, I will wait." She was not unhappy to be able to sit there a bit longer. She stretched out on her back and twisted her head to watch the downward steps of the druid, Ogilhinn. Even with his staff, he slid more than walked down the trail to her.

He finally was at her side and positioned in front of the boulder that she also rested against. Reaching down he grasped her outstretched arm and under her shoulder to lever her up to stand.

"Thank you. I thought I was going to have to give birth here."

"Come, take my staff, go in front of me and I will keep my hand on your back to steady you." Ogilhinn stayed one step behind, trying not to slip back himself as he stopped Wynda several times from returning to the boulder where they started this journey together. As he passed it, he reached down and threw the cape she had taken off, over his shoulder.

At the top, they both stood still for a moment, the view over the valley below was clear, the fog gone. She looked down at the fort, and pastures dotted with sheep and cattle. In this season the fields were filled with men harvesting the abundant crops that grew this year, thank the gods.

"You do not seem surprised to see me, druid."

"I had a dream last night that you would be coming. I actually expected you earlier."

Wynda winced, another pain coming. "I expected to be here earlier, but this babe is as insistent as I and started wanting to be born an hour into this walk. It slowed me down quite a bit."

Ogilhinn nodded. "Let us go into the shade of the oaks. Annag is there. I asked her to come with me this time. Morrigna told me your time was close, two nights ago she told me to keep Annag near. Then last night, the dream, telling me you were on your way."

Wynda turned and started towards the gathering of oak trees. A woman, the same age as her, stepped out of the shadows and held her arms open, inviting Wynda to come and receive her help for the babe's birth.

"We have been anxious," Annag said. "I do not understand why Morrigna asked you to climb the arduous path on this side of the mountain, the animal trail on the other side would have gotten you up here, as well, and without the danger," She offered Wynda a cup of water.

"Thank you, Annag. It is so good to see you. I thought Ogilhinn was going to be the only one here to help me. I know he has attended many births, but having another woman to talk to will be nice." Wynda held her cup out for more water and when Annag refilled it she dipped the corner of her skirt into it and wiped her face. "The shade is good. The oaks smell wonderful." Then she bent over in pain. "Oh Mother Morrigna, I pray it is almost time."

Ogilhinn replied, "It is, Wynda, soon." He waited for a now panting Wynda to look up. "I think you had to make this walk because Morrigna is testing you to see if you are ready to raise a child who will be a challenge. I have been given glimpses and know you are going to be in need of all of your patience for this babe as it grows."

* * *

Prys was home. He had been gone for six full moons this time. Walking, leading two pack ponies laden with trade goods, he stopped at the gate of the fort and greeted Craig, the guard of the day, and was welcomed back inside.

"Ah, the smithy, Gleann is waiting for you, Prys. He told me to send the boy as soon as I saw you. I did and I am sure he is ready to see inside the packs you have."

"And I have something that will bring a smile to his face. For the two, decorated bowls and one mug that he sent with me, I was able to get three full measures of bronze and a small surprise for him to use to make a trinket for Beathan's home." Prys knew the small nugget of gold was worth more than all the bronze and bowls he could carry in a year, but the man who had it last, had no use for it now.

The Romans had missed the small piece of gold in the man's mouth. Prys found it when the dead man's mouth fell open as Prys was laying him in the grave he had dug for him and his family. The Roman raids were growing in number and violence. After burying the man, his woman and three children, two girls and the baby boy, Prys said a prayer of thanks that his home was now out of reach of these raids.

Prys knew Wynda was with child when he left. She did not want him to go, but he had to continue his trade or he would loose touch with those who knew him. It was the season to travel and every second year, he went deep into his homeland to the south. This was his life before he married. He met Wynda at a dal she had attended with Beathan, soon after Beathan had become chieftain. He had not planned on marrying, to do so meant he was setting down roots, not something a man in this way of life does easily.

The boy Craig sent to Gleann must have yelled to the full fort that he was back. Women stood in the doorways of their homes, chickens mingling with children around their feet, to welcome him on his path to the smith. The men who were not in the fields or out racing with Beathan came out too, and followed him, all wanting to see the treasures he brought back.

Gleann stood in his doorway and greeted him as well, his leather apron dark with sweat and heat marks, charcoal buried so deep into the creases of his hand that they never looked clean, no matter how much he dipped them into water. He lifted both arms and encircled Prys. Every time Gleann did this, Prys felt a short rush of fear. There would be no way he would be able to escape the big man's strength if Gleann wanted to hurt him. The fear quickly gave way to happiness though, when he saw a smile on Gleann's face.

"We did not expect you back for a few more moons, Prys," said Gleann.

"Yes, but the Romans have started patrolling even the back ways I take and the price they levy to let a man live is high. They are taking much more now, than giving back. Many people in the south are giving in and living the way they do, accepting their gods. It seems to be the way to stay alive now."

Gleann clucked his disapproval of this news.

"So I stopped this trip early, in caution. I think I will make one more long trip and then stay here to be a bother to you and Wynda for the rest of my short life." Both men laughed.

"Beathan will want a full report tonight at his evening meal. You can tell us more of your adventure then," said Gleann.

"Yes, after I see Wynda, I will be at the meal tonight. The first pony has the packs for you, Gleann." Prys had decided to give the gold nugget to Beathan tonight.

Gleann stood over the pony, unstrapping the heavily laden packs. "Boy, be sure to take the ponies to your father's stables when done. He will be glad to see them back in good health."

Prys turned to see a young man standing in the doorway. "Finlay?" It would have been hard to recognize the boy he had left six months ago, as this fine young man. Finlay now stood as tall as he. Finlay was thin, but Prys could see that he would fill out as he spent more time in the smith. As a trainee to Gleann, he would never lack for hard work.

Finlay grasped Prys' hand with his almost as stained as Gleann's. "Welcome back. I will be at the evening meal also. I want to hear your stories."

"I look forward to seeing you and all your family at your father's tonight," said Prys.

Prys took the bags off the second pony and opened one. He dug around inside and touched the highly polished bronze he had found as a gift for Wynda. It was polished so well, it reflected person's face. It was expensive but a fitting gift for his wife, a guilt gift because he was away from home. He also found the rolled piece of leather he was searching for. "Gleann, I would like you to make a bracelet for Wynda with this design on it." Prys handed the leather roll to him.

Gleann unrolled the leather, looked at the spirals drawn on it. Prys continued, "I was told it is the spiral of life. I ask you that this bracelet to be the next thing you make."

Gleann faced Prys, nodded, put the leather into the apron pocket and continued into the smith.

Prys now had time to look around and noticed all the women were still in their doorways, watching.

In a loud voice, to be heard over all the yard noises, he said, "I bring two pieces of cloth. A new weave is being practiced in the south and I knew you would be interested. I will give one to Gavina, and the second to Wynda. They will share it with all of you."

Happy voices chorused his way before the women turned in to their homes to attend to evening meals.

Suddenly he felt a tug the sleeve of his tunic. Gavina stood at his elbow. He handed the cloth intended for her to her.

"I heard what this is and I thank you for bringing it all this way. We will look at it carefully and decide if it is a useful way for us to weave. Wynda did not say she expected you Prys."

"She would not. I am home early."

"Ah. She has gone to the sacred oaks. She left yesterday and is heavy with child. I was not easy with her decision, but she made me promise not to tell Beathan until tomorrow. Now that you are here, you should go and be sure she is well. The druid is there, but..."

"I thought the babe might have been born and waiting for me when I came home. Yes, I will keep this pony and ride up to her. Thank you, Gavina. Please tell Beathan that I will attend his evening meal after I bring Wynda safely home."

Prys mounted the pony, his legs reaching past the pony's belly, and turned it to the mountain trail behind the fort.

* * *

A girl child had been born, wrapped in Wynda's cape, and now snuggled and searched for her breast as she rested propped up by an oak tree. Annag wrapped the afterbirth in oak leaves and buried it under the oldest oak in the grove, Ogilhinn saying a protection spell as he laid a sprig of mistletoe over the small mound.

"I am going home," Annag said. "My husband will be looking for me soon, he had enough stew for three days and now I am sure it is gone."

Ogilhinn touched her head and said, "May the Mother Morrigna look down on you with pleasure. I thank you for coming."

Annag gathered her cape and cooking pot and started down the animal path on the opposite side of the mountain that Wynda had climbed.

"Ogilhinn, will this child live longer than a few hours?" Wynda was fearful, she felt herself falling in love with this babe and knew one more child's death might be the death of her, as well. She was not sure she could live through it again.

"Yes, Wynda. This child will be become a woman. She will live longer than I do, that I can promise you."

" I don't know how you can be so sure of this, druid, but those words are pleasing."

"I had a vision."

Wynda's face wrinkled, her head shook from side to side as if she were trying to discourage a swarm of midges. "I am done with these visions, druid. I am finished. I will have no more. I am alone, my husband chooses to leave me on his trading excursions and I must find ways to keep myself, and now this babe, alive and fed. I do not have time to take dangerous walks up mountains anymore. I weave. Nothing else, just weave. If the goddess is kind enough to leave food on my table in trade for my visions then I will follow them, but she does not. I will leave the visions to you from now on. I will have no more in my home."

Ogilhinn smiled. The goddess told him that Wynda would have no more visions; this test today was the last. He nodded in agreement to Wynda's statement. She felt a great weight lift from her heart and her shoulders relaxed.

"I am rested now, we must get down this mountain. I want to spend tonight in my bed," said Wynda.

Ogilhinn squatted next to her, grasped under her arms and started to help her stand. A pony's snicker pulled their gaze to the trail just as Prys arrived.

"Prys? Are my eyes really seeing you?" Wynda quickly wormed her way up the tree as the druid gave her a lift. "When did you come? Have you been to the fort? I did not expect you so soon. We have a girl child!"

Prys slipped off the pony, touched the druid's shoulder in greeting and wrapped his arms around Wynda supporting her, hugging both her and the newborn child in her arms.

"Yes, I have been to the fort. It was Gavina who told me you were here. I am home early, yes. I will tell you why later. Now, I will put you on the pony and I will take you home."

Wynda dug her face into the hollow of his neck and cried. She was exhausted from the climb, giving birth and was very happy to see Prys. All this led to tears she could not stop.

Ogilhinn brought the pony near and said, "If we get down before the evening meal is finished, I will have Beathan come to your home for the blessing tonight. We need to get started and get to him before he drinks himself into sleep."

Ogilhinn and Prys walked on either side of the pony, making sure Wynda and the mewling babe were secure on the trail to the fort.

* * *

With Wynda settled in her bed feeding the babe and falling asleep herself, both Prys and Ogilhinn crossed the courtyard, past the fort's well, to their chieftain Beathan's home. The loud voices of his warriors and farmers who came to his home to eat in celebration tonight, the night of the races, carried across the yard over the animal noises usually present.

Prys noticed both Finlay and Beathan's oldest son, Kenrick were there. They both had grown to be strong young men. Kenrick would be the next chieftain, after his father, if approved by the clan. Prys knew Beathan was teaching him to be a leader and from the words of the warriors, Kenrick was doing well. He nodded his greetings to both, knowing his words would not be heard over the din in the overcrowded room. Ogilhinn leaned over Beathan's shoulder and shouted his words to be heard. Prys was not close and did not hear what was said, but nodded his greetings to Beathan when he looked at him in response to something Ogilhinn said. Ogilhinn was telling Beathan of the birth, the blessing ceremony and the need for him to be in attendance.

"Alright, druid, alright! I will, I said, as soon as I have one more mug of mead. Here," Beathan waved his arm over the food still on the table, "Gavina and the good women of this clan have prepared a feast for us tonight. Eat and take food to Wynda. Tell her I will come."

Ogilhinn gathered several large slices of pork and root vegetables in a bowl. He stopped as he passed Gavina, "I will make sure she eats some tonight and will bring the bowl back on the morrow. Do you have an extra mug for mead? She will do well, with a sip or two." Gavina dipped a mug into the bucket and handed it, dripping, to Ogilhinn.

"Tell her I will see her in the morn and make sure she is well and fed." Gavina tilted her head in Prys' direction. "Even with him home she will want a woman's touch. Tell her I give my good hopes to her for the babe's health."

"That is kind of you, Gavina. I will tell her." Ogilhinn pulled the wooden door open, letting in the night's fresh air, and walked out.

Prys found a place at the table and told great stories about what he had seen and people he had talked to and traded with, while he ate and drank mead.

Beathan stood, "It is time. I must go but you may stay and drink. The druid says I must see Wynda. She had a babe today and the druid wants to bless it." Everyone cheered at the news and raised their mugs several times in toasts for Beathan and Prys for the new clan member.

Prys took a torch from the wall to light their way. Outside, next to the well, Prys took hold of Beathan's arm.

Stopping, Beathan turned to him. "What? Is there more you want to tell me about your trip? I could feel that there were words you did not want to share with everyone in the room. What is it?"

Prys took the nugget from his pocket and held it under the torch. The flickering light reflected in soft rays from the gold. "I found this on a dead man. I came very close to being taken by the Romans this time. It is very bad there, south, where I grew up. My people, those I grew up with are dying, being slaughtered. I fear for them, I fear for us. I want you to have this. In trade."

Beathan lifted his eyes to Prys' eyes. "Ever the trader aren't you."

"Yes, I am. I do not apologize for that. I need reassurance from you that you will watch over Wynda and the babe if I do not come home after one of my trips."

Beathan grasped both shoulders of the man standing in front of him, "Wynda is my sister. The girl-child in your home is my niece. I will take care of them even if you did not have this trinket. Who do you think I am?"

"I know who you are, Beathan. You are my friend and have accepted me as part of your family. I know you would care for my family. But with this trade, my heart will know it, too. I will know it if I am trapped and cannot get home. I need this in my heart."

Lifting one massive hand from his shoulder, Prys placed the golden nugget in Beathan's palm.

"I promise. I will watch over the girl child as if she was my own while you are gone and when the time comes I will find her a very good husband. Is that good enough?" His eyes were still locked on Prys.

"Yes. That is my trade agreement. It is done."

Both men turned and continued the walk to Prys' home to bless the babe, in silence.

* * *

Taking the babe from Wynda's outstretched arms, Ogilhinn began the ceremony when all were present.

Lifting the babe over his head, he said, "I beg Mother Morrigna to be present and bring her protection to this babe." Walking two steps to stand in front of Beathan, he said, "Chieftain Beathan, as the Father of this clan, uncle to this babe, you are promised to protect her with your life, if it needs be. Do you agree?"

Beathan's face reddened, he disliked being reminded two times of his obligation to this child. It was the same obligation he had for all his clan members. He would fight to his death to protect them. He had sworn himself to the gods, when he became chieftain. He answered gruffly, "Yes, I have told the gods I will. And by the Face of Dagda, I will honor my promise." Ogilhinn did not move from his position. "What? What do you want now, priest? I have sworn to die for her, what more do you want?"

"Touch her head to seal the promise, Beathan."

Beathan lifted one hand, reached with fingers scarred by seasons of fighting and training warriors how to kill, and gently laid his palm on the babe's head. Ogilhinn thought he saw a glimmer of a smile as Beathan removed his hand and then he stepped in front of Prys.

"Prys. You came to us from far away. You brought ways of life and stories from your birth land. These will be important in your daughter's life. Let those close to you know your heart so it may always be a part of her life, even if you are not here to share it with her yourself."

Prys looked into Ogilhinn's eyes. Did the druid see a vision of him not being here? He suddenly became afraid, the pit of his stomach soured. Only one thing softened this, the trade he had made with Beathan earlier, would give his wife and child a chance at life if he could not. Yes, he would spend more time with Wynda, telling her of his life before marrying her. Prys leaned forward and kissed the babe still held in Ogilhinn's arms, on the forehead.

"She is my daughter, my blood. She will understand my people and my way of life. I will give her that."

Ogilhinn smiled and took three steps back to the bench where Wynda sat. "And you, Wynda, her mother. You are charged with teaching her the ways of the clan. Teach her to love her people and care for them. You will keep her safe from day to day, feeding her before you eat and only sleeping when she sleeps. You will teach her the dangers of life and the pleasures of love, then give her away as a wife when it is time. Do you promise to do this?"

"Druid, as a mother who loves this babe, I promise. She will be the sun of my day, and the moon in my night yet I will let her explore and learn. I will teach her our ways." Wynda leaned her face into the child's, inhaling her sweet breath before kissing her on her tiny, pursed mouth.

Ogilhinn again lifted the babe up and said, "Morrigna and Dagda, hear our words and comply with the promises you have made us. Protect this child as we have promised." After he safely lowered the child and laid her in Wynda's arms, he continued, "I have seen visions about this child. She will find her path when she is an adult. She will marry a man who will help this journey take place. Some of us in this room tonight will be alive to help her on this journey. Some of us will be helping from the other side of the river. My task now, is to make you understand that this child will not only be important to the family, but she will also strengthen the clan."

Beathan asked, "What do you mean, strengthen the clan?"

Ogilhinn said, "I do not know more. I only see her marriage to one who guides her and the clan to help the clan in some way. The gods tell me they will speak to her and give me only one more thing tonight. They give me her name. We will call her Jahna."

The blessing ceremony ended and Jahna's journey began.

<http://podiobooks.com/title/the-fox>

The Interview

M. Darusha Wehm

"I was working at this stim joint, a place called Ultra-Sissons. It's not where I'm working now -- I wasn't a bartender then, just a busser. Cleaning up the used cartridges, tidying chairs, occasionally tossing out the odd rowdy. Anyway, I wasn't important or anything, it was just an entry level job. Nothing special.

"This doesn't even have to do with me, though. It was one of the regulars. Guy who called himself Johnny Burling. I don't know if that was his real name or what, but that didn't matter much. We never cared about that kind of thing too much at Ultra. Johnny was a regular -- in most every night. He wasn't one of the troublemakers; you know the kind I mean: those folks who shoot cartridges all night until they can't even piss straight, and you have to slip them a sobriety™ round at closing time just to get them out the door. Every stim place I've seen has those kind of regulars. I guess they pay the bills.

"But that's not Johnny. He was strictly a Red Zinger man -- it was always the same for him. Two Red Zingers over the course of a few hours, and by the time he was starting his second he was off in his own little world. He told me once that he was creating a cooperative narrative, if you can believe it. He'd come in, take his hits of focus™ and creativity™ and zone out. He'd spend the next three hours busy working away in his onboard system \- eyes all unfocussed but zipping back and forth, like he's dreaming or something, you know? I guess he got a lot of work done that way.

"He was plenty friendly, though, before the stims really got into him. Liked to talk to the other chatty cathies in the joint, and talked to me plenty, too. Bussing was a pretty boring job, and to tell the truth most of the other regulars were no fun, so talking to Johnny was often as good as it got. He was a funny guy.

"Anyway, the point is that I liked him. He was nice -- harmless, you know? Never did anything mean to anyone. He just didn't deserve what happened."

* * *

"I never knew what it was about Johnny that caught old man Doherty's eye. Doherty was the manager; at least that was what it said on the org chart. Really, he only ever showed up when the new shipments came in from the factory. He always took a box of euphoria™ out of inventory, and told us to make it disappear over the next month. Spillage, breakage, you know. 'Spoils of war,' he called it, whatever that was supposed to mean.

"Most of the time I worked there, we only ever saw Doherty on shipment day. Then, all of a sudden, he started showing up nights, sitting with Johnny. I don't know if Johnny even knew that Doherty worked at the bar, since he'd be buying Doherty rounds every once in a while. I got the evil eye every time I tried to hang around when they were together, so I don't know much about what they would talk about. But I know that one time when I was cleaning up after one of the usual troublemakers at the next table, I heard Johnny telling Doherty about the story he was writing.

"I was under the table, picking up cartridge shards when I noticed that Johnny didn't have his usual Red Zinger on the table. He was shooting something else, something that looked like Sunbeam or Buttercup. It was yellow, whatever it was, and that meant that it was full of sociability™. For a guy like Johnny, that much 's' might as well have been a truth serum.

"But I didn't think much of it. None of my business what the customers want to feel, right? We're all grown ups here and all the stuff does is amplify whatever we naturally have to begin with; at least that's what they say. What do I know?"

* * *

"Of course, I should have known something was wrong. A few weeks later, Johnny didn't come into the bar. No one thought too much of it -- he'd missed a night or two before, it was no big deal. But when he'd stayed away for almost a month, it was pretty clear that something was wrong. I asked around, but no one seemed to know anything about it. Then one night, it's my day off and I'm at one of the liquor bars down in green sector. And who do I see walking by but Johnny Burling. I swear, I almost didn't recognize him; he looked terrible.

"I flagged him down, and offered to buy him a drink. He seemed sort of suspicious, but he took my pint and sat down.

'So, I guess everyone down at the bar has heard about what happened,' he said, sounding miserable. I just shook my head and told him that no one knew anything. As far as we all knew, he just disappeared off the face of the earth.

'But Doherty...' he said, a strange look on his face, like he was scared or something.

'Doherty never said anything to anyone,' I told him. 'He's hardly ever around and no one really talks to him. He's the boss -- you don't just have a chat with the boss.' I smiled at Johnny, wondering what the hell was going on. He would hardly even look at me, and I didn't know what to say. So after we'd sat there for what seemed like forever, I just asked him if he was going to tell me what happened or not.

"And he did."

* * *

"'Remember that narrative I was writing?' he asked, and I nodded. 'Well, it was going pretty well. I was posting chapters to a board I was running and I was getting a lot of hits. I'd opened it up for public access; people were acting out the parts, making up new stuff for the story. It was kind of like a game, you know? I was even starting to make some money from it -- you know, people paying for instant access, licensing the characters and whatnot. The usual thing. Of course what was important was the community, the fans, you know? It was becoming a proper story zone, a real solid group was forming. Taking on a life of its own.' He paused and breathed deep. 'I guess that was the problem.'

"I didn't really know what he was talking about -- I don't read much -- but I smiled and he went on. 'You saw how Mitch Doherty was chatting me up at Ultra-Sissons, right?' I nodded again, hoping he'd hurry up and and get to it.

'Well, we were mostly talking about The Sunshine Parade -- that was the name of my story -- and he seemed really into it. You know, talking about the process, about creating \-- all that. I don't know a lot of other writers in the real world, you know? So it was really nice just to have someone listen, someone who seemed to understand. I thought we were friends, that he was just interested in me, in my story...' He broke off, and I swore I saw him wipe a tear away from his cheek. I didn't say anything, though. It was pretty intense.

"After a while he started talking again. 'I didn't know anything was going on until one day I tried to log into my admin account on the story's board and I couldn't get in. I figured I just forgot the password or something, you know, but it was Doherty. He didn't even try to hide it.'

'Hide what?" I asked.

'He'd stolen the board, the story, the whole community.'

'But how?' I asked.

'I still don't really know,' Johnny said, looking miserable. 'From the little I got out of the hosting service I used, he somehow made it look like he owned the rights to the intellectual property of the plot and the name of the boardspace. I don't know if he just bribed them or what, but they kicked me off and that was the end of it.'

"I asked him if he could complain or get some Security to deal with it, but he said no. 'I went the whole way through the server's complaints process and when I asked the Security at my employer, they just laughed. It doesn't have anything to do with my work, so they didn't give a shit. There was nothing I could do.'

"I didn't know what to say. I'd never liked Doherty before, but I had no idea that he could do something like that. That it was even possible. That if it were possible that anyone would do it. It made me sick. But that was only the beginning."

* * *

"Of course, Johnny didn't just crawl off into his apartment and give up. He hung around outside Ultra-Sissons for a week, waiting for Doherty. Johnny's a typical guy -- young, skinny, a little ripped from all the pharma in the cheap food, but he's not into physical stuff, not like me. But Doherty isn't a scrapper either, so Johnny probably figured he had a chance. I bet he would've tried to make a play for Doherty even if he had no chance at all.

"I don't think Johnny was lying when he said he didn't do the old asshole a that much damage. I know how much it hurts to hit a guy, but I doubt Johnny was prepared for the knuckleful of pain he got when he decked Doherty on the chin. He sure as shit wasn't prepared for the damages order he got a week later. From his own employer's Security, no less!

"It turned out that Doherty had been recording when Johnny confronted him, and of course he turned in the vid to the goons at Ultra-Sissons Security. They sent it up the corporate chute, and somewhere near the top it got side swiped over to Johnny's own employers. I guess the corporate higher-ups look after each other, because Johnny got his wages garnished for five years as a financial settlement to Doherty.

"That's five years of no spending money beyond the minimum for food, water and transport to and from work. Of course he got an apartment with his contract, so he'd have a place to live and enough for food, but that was all. And he couldn't even quit his job or he'd be liable for paying the full settlement out of pocket. He was stuck. Stuck paying a crooked settlement with his time and his money to the guy who fucked him over in the first place.

"Oh. Um, sorry about the language there. I guess it still makes me mad.

"Anyway, beyond buying him a round or two, there wasn't anything I could do for Johnny. I didn't have the kind of cash that would help him out, and I didn't even know of any under the table work he wasn't already tapped into. It was terrible.

"So I did the only think I could think of. I quit my job at Ultra-Sissons. It was time anyway, but I couldn't bear to have to see Doherty's face again. I ended up tending bar at the place where I'm working now. There's no-one like Doherty there as far as I can tell.

"And one night on my day off, on delivery day at Ultra-Sissons, I was waiting for Doherty in the alley. You know I mentioned that I bareknuckle fight -- for fitness and self-defense, right? Well, fighting's good for more than just that. I pounded him good in that back alley, took all his 'e' too for good measure. Didn't want him to waste all the pain I'd worked so hard to give him.

"I know it didn't help Johnny any, and probably won't stop Doherty from pulling that stunt on someone else. But it was all I could do. So it's what I did."

* * *

The applicant took a deep breath, and leaned back in her chair. "You asked me about some time when I saw or felt injustice and what I did about it? Well, that's it. I know there's probably worse stuff going on all the time, I'm not blind or stupid. But what happened to Johnny Burling, well, that was the end of the line for me.

"I know I can't get by not working for the firms, and I also know I'm never going to get high enough up the corporate ladder to change the way they operate that's for sure. But if I can help some other guy like Johnny, even if it is just by giving those dirtbags a taste of their own for a change, then I'll be happy to do it.

"There's no real law for guys like Johnny, no justice for people like us. Except your outfit, from what I hear. And I want to do my bit, if you'll have me."

Pat Malone looked hard at the applicant for a moment, then his eyes blinked rapidly a few times without closing. He accessed his onboard system, the display overlaid on his vision so that only he could see it. He made some notes on the interview then quickly sent a message to his boss. Captain Zahara Zhang made the final call on all new hires for the team, but he knew his recommendation counted for a lot. After all, he'd be responsible for this Melissa Vonruden for at least a year if she was taken on to the squad. Given her particular qualifications, probably longer. He could use a brute like her out on the streets. He refocussed on the small room, noting Vonruden's efforts to appear patient and confident. He did his best to hide the smile he felt creeping over his face.

"Thank you for your candor," he said in his stern interviewer voice, then gave up the effort and let the smile out. "I'll have to confer with some other people," he continued, "but I'd appreciate it if you would try to be available on Wednesday evening. Our next training session begins then, and I think there's a good chance you'll be asked to join the group, Ms. Vonruden."

Melissa smiled then, a full real grin. "I'll make sure I'm free, Mr. Malone, sir," she said and stuck her hand out for the man to shake. "And please, call me Melissa."

"I'm sure I will," Malone said, shaking her hand.

<http://podiobooks.com/title/self-made>

Appeasement

Gloria Oliver

"Asaka-sama, we have been beset by the foulest of demons and nothing we do will rid us of it." The prostrated villager quivered from head to foot on the tatami floor. "Please, we are unworthy but would beg for your help!"

Ietsugu's heart raced at the statement, though he maintained his features as schooled as possible. He threw a glance at his father, the lord of the area, to see how he took the entreaty. The lined, square face appeared as calm and impassive as ever. Ietsugu hoped one day he too could keep his emotions so well hidden. Though he practiced, he still found the skill difficult to master.

The dire words hung in the air making a strange contrast with the warm sunlight and the soft morning breeze coming through the open sliding doors. Charms hanging from the rafters outside clinked occasionally, adding to the diversity.

After several long moments, Ietsugu's father finally spoke. "What do you think, my son?"

Ietsugu frowned down at the villager, though inside his pulse raced faster still. "Send me to investigate this for you, Father." He tried to sound sure and commanding, as a strong vassal should. "I will assess whether there's truly a need and correct it. Or, if the villagers are only making excuses not to pay their tribute, take steps." In the few years he'd studied at his father's side, this wouldn't be the first time a village tried to weasel out of their obligations.

The villager clapped his hands together in supplication. "Truly, lords, our trouble is real!"

"So we've heard." His father turned toward him. "Go and seek the truth, my son. Take Mitsuo-san with you and whatever provisions you think you might need. I will also have some _ofuda_ prepared in case the supernatural is truly involved."

Ietsugu bowed, hidden excitement rising in his chest. "Thank you, Father."

* * *

"You won't regret this, young lord. The village will be very grateful for your help." The villager named Taka flashed him a smile, urging his mare to move forward.

Their destination lay nestled in the mountains two days ride from Lord Asaka's seat. As a man of sixteen, this would be Ietsugu's first foray in service to his father. Something he hoped to be able to do frequently. While the intricacies or rule fascinated him, he also wanted to get to know the land he would oversee one day as well.

He refused to look behind him as they left the small city, not wanting to mar the excitement of his leave taking with a flood of wistful emotion.

Taka turned out to be a knowledgeable guide, chattering about plants, the best waterfall views, and the local deities. Time passed quickly.

"How much farther, Taka-san?" Ietsugu said.

"We will be there by nightfall, Asaka-sama." Taka tried to bow though he was seated on the old mare.

The side of the mountain was steep, but zigzagging paths of steps made with dirt and logs made the way easy enough for men and horses.

At random spots, Ietsugu spotted rock statues or small shrines erected for the worship of the local _kami_ , or spirits. Moss made a carpet of green and red across the land and rocks, with maples and oaks providing welcomed shade. The shrill sound of cicadas and the chirping of birds kept them company.

As the sun lit the horizon in flaming colors, the path widened and opened to a cleared area. A covered well sat in the middle, surrounded by twelve family homes with thatched roofs.

Beyond the small village, Ietsugu caught a glimpse of a cultivated mountainside, terraced with rice fields. The maturing shoots waved in the breeze.

A high squeal from a naked four year old trumpeted their arrival. Surprised faces peeked out of doorways, some pale with fear.

Upon seeing Taka astride the mare, the villagers brightened and flooded out to greet them. Almost as one, they bowed low as soon as they spotted Ietsugu and his teacher.

A stocky man with gray in his black hair stepped forward wearing a _fudoshi_ and _haramaki_ to cover his privates and midriff, a simple brown linen short coat draped on his shoulders.

Taka dropped from his horse and bowing to Ietsugu hurried to make introductions. "Asaka-sama, this is our village leader, Gendou-san."

"We are so pleased to see you here, sir."

Ietsugu dismounted and nodded, following it with the slightest of bows. "I only hope to serve." He turned eagerly toward his companion. "This is Mitsuo-san, my father's vassal and my teacher. He speaks with my voice."

Everyone bowed again as Mitsuo came forward, his misshapen, stooped form making him appear short and weak -- an assumption far from the mark.

"Please accept the humble hospitality of my family," Gendou said, bowing again. "You and your companion can rest in my unworthy home for the length of your stay. You shall have total privacy. Please make your needs known and they will be seen to immediately." The older man turned and shooed the villagers from before him to open a path back toward his home. Several of the men were instructed to take responsibility for the horses and supplies.

Whispers, stares, and nods trickled after them as Ietsugu, Mitsuo, and Taka followed.

The chief's home resembled the others except for a broad porch in front proceeded by a set of steps. The interior of the house was a single, wide room with a square hole in the center, housing a fire pit. Rolled up blankets took up one corner, along with built-in shelves and boxes.

Gendou's wife, three daughters, and young son bowed as they entered, their gaze firmly planted on the ground.

"Please sit, Asaka-sama. Though we are unworthy, allow us to extend our hospitality to you and yours." Gendou pointed toward the place of honor.

Ietsugu sat with folded legs on the wooden floor, Mitsuo settling a pace or two behind him as was his want.

Gendou's wife took command at that point and plied them all with tea, rice, and small pieces of meat, probably deer or boar, wrapped in leaves.

Once they were served, she sat at the corner of the room, observing the men and rising when needed to refill cups or bowls.

Though the fare was simple, Ietsugu was glad for the food. The sounds of night rose around them, the deepening gloom kept away by the light of a short tallow candle. The quiet company, the warm tea, and the meal, seemed to bid as a good portent for the coming enterprise. Wallowing in the sensations a moment longer, he then set his empty dish back on the floor and made eye contact with his host.

"My father has sent me to help your village as requested. Taka-san spoke of evil demons and other troubles. What more can you tell me? Has a priest been called as well?"

Gendou bowed to the floor. Taka almost immediately followed suit. Ietsugu couldn't be sure, but he thought the peasant looked afraid. "I wouldn't dare pile more upon your shoulders when you've only so recently arrived, young lord." Gendou sounded nervous. "It is late, very late, and I couldn't possibly impose upon you until you've rested. Please, relax, take your ease until morning. Then all will be revealed as much as you wish."

Ietsugu's brow rose. Were they that frightened of speaking of demons and spirits in the dark? Surely they didn't believe they'd be overheard. He decided not to be rude and force the issue despite the obvious evasion to his questions. It _had_ been a long ride after all; the rest would be welcome. "Till morning then."

Gendou's wife gathered the dishes, the atmosphere around them easing. Taka got up, bowed, and left in an obvious hurry, as if unsure the samurai wouldn't change his mind. The sounds of packages being placed on the porch rang loud in the evening air. Moments later two of the daughters returned and stood meekly to the side. Gendou rose. "My daughters will turn down the bedding for you, Asaka-sama. If you have any wish for warmth, they would be happy to accommodate in that as well."

The leader pushed his two daughters forward to where they could be clearly seen in the light. Both held their heads bowed, their hands gripped before them.

"The nights at this time of year are comfortable enough. Thank you all the same." Though to take one was within his rights, the fear pouring like water from the two girls didn't warm Ietsugu to the prospect.

"As you wish." The two girls unrolled several sets of bedding then escaped in prompt order.

"I will be in the house to the left. If you need anything at all..."

"Yes, thank you." Ietsugu still hadn't moved from his sitting position.

Gendou's wife joined him at the door and both bowed before leaving. Her expression seemed to be carved in stone and hadn't changed all evening.

"Lord." Mitsuo's deep slow tones bid for Ietsugu's attention. "I will sleep outside and guard the door."

"Sensei, I doubt it's necessary."

The old samurai creaked to his feet. "Nevertheless."

Ietsugu nodded, knowing better than to argue with his stubborn teacher. In some things, the old man couldn't be budged. He took his role as samurai and vassal even more seriously than his father. "Good night, Mitsuo-san."

"Good night."

Once the sliding door had closed, Ietsugu removed his swords and set them above the wooden pillow. Next he removed his outer coat and then the kimono underneath. Folding both and setting them to the side, he blew out the candle and by the light from the coals in the fire pit, settled under the bedding.

* * *

Ietsugu shivered, his first thought as he awoke was that it was terribly cold. A great weight pressed against him from above, making it hard to breathe. His eyes snapped open.

It was still night. He lay in the same place as where he fell asleep. Yet through what little light seeped from the window behind him, he saw his breath turn white as he exhaled. The weight upon his chest increased, becoming painful. But he could see nothing there. Fear nipped at him.

He bid his arm to move, to reach behind him for his katana, but it would not. He couldn't move at all. How could this be? An act of treachery from the peasants? The food must have been poisoned. But what had they to gain from such a maneuver?

His breath coalesced before him as he breathed out again.

No. This must be something else. The cold was real and not a part of him.

That's when he heard it -- the barest of whispers. Yet, it seemed to come from right in front of him, from where he felt the weight, from where there was nothing.

"Leave this place..."

His pulse sped faster. And though he tried, he couldn't speak. But he dared not let his fear show. He schooled his face into an impassive mask, the one that was a samurai's alone.

"You are not of the village. You must leave this place..."

A mist spread above his blankets. It floated upwards toward the ceiling, like strokes of a brush creating a painting. It formed before him into the shape of a beautiful young woman.

Tears covered her face. Her clothes were entirely white. Wisps of light floated around her head.

Ietsugu had heard too many stories not to know what she was – _yurei_ – a ghost.

"You will leave this place...or die!" Her face came close, the features changing as they rushed near. Full and lovely cheeks shrunk, thinned and hung as if there were no meat behind the loose skin. Her dark hair rose around her, spiking in every direction. Sad tearful eyes turned to burning coals of hatred.

Cold pierced his soul as she shot through and past him. Then she was gone.

Ietsugu leapt to his feet, no longer weighed down, his limbs his own once more. His skin broke out in goose bumps, the previously muted sounds of the night now overtly loud. The warm night sucked away the cold as if it had never been.

The door slid open behind him, and at the sound Ietsugu whipped around with a gasp.

"Asaka-sama! Is all well?" Mitsuo knelt at the entrance, his gaze piercing every corner of the room, his hand on the hilt of his katana.

"Yes. Nothing to be alarmed about." Ietsugu hoped his teacher couldn't hear the harsh galloping of his heart. Pretending a calm he didn't feel, he sat down on his bedding, all thoughts of sleep fled. "The village indeed has a problem."

* * *

With the first hint of dawn, Ietsugu stepped out to the well, waiting for the peasants to awaken. He stood with one hand on his sword, the other on his hip, a blank expression on his face. He had to fight the urge to pace.

As soon as one of the villagers peered out their door and spotted him, they sent sleepy children running in several directions, including the house where the chief and his family slept.

Within a minute Gendou rushed from the house, hair in disarray, and prostrated himself before Ietsugu's unhappy gaze. "Asaka-sama, is something the matter? Have we somehow displeased you?"

The rest of the village poured out to find out about the trouble, but all kept their distance from Ietsugu's dangerous expression.

"It is morning. I wish to have the meeting... _now_." He raked the entirety of the village with his gaze. "Do not make me wait."

He strode back to the chief's house and entered it without once looking back.

He'd barely seated himself, arranging his swords so they wouldn't hinder him, Mitsuo moving to stand at the back wall on his right, when Gendou entered.

Taka wasn't far behind him, helping an older man up the steps. One other, whom Ietsugu hadn't met before, brought up the rear. The samurai said nothing as he waited for them all to be seated.

Gendou's wife came in with a tray of rice cakes and tea, but Ietsugu waved her away. He didn't even give the new men time to introduce themselves.

"Tell me about the ghost."

The four men stared at one another in confusion. "Ghost? Asaka-sama, many apologies, but there is no ghost. Our troubles come from a demon," Gendou said.

"Several people have seen it," Taka added. "They all described it as a monster."

The oldest of the four leaned forward. "All the signs are there, great lord. It began months ago with many bouts of lighting and horrid storms. We tried to appease the demon as our ancestors did in ages past, but it didn't work. People have been attacked in their sleep." The old man's voice shook. "Our livestock have been hurt or killed. The walls holding the water for our crops were damaged so we very nearly lost everything. It is why Taka was sent to seek your help. We are most desperate." He bowed to the floor, his hands clasped together in supplication.

Ietsugu stared from one to the other. Could it be they truly didn't know? Isolated as they were, might it be possible? "The actual harm to the village, when –"

A piercing scream cut off his words. As one, they rushed outside.

A young man in traveling clothes stood in open-faced shock, a woman unconscious at his feet. Several men of the village rushed him and grappled him to the ground.

"Do not hurt him!" Ietsugu took the lead, the crowding villagers parting at his approach. "We need to ascertain what has occurred here first."

A heavily bent old woman pushed through the crowd from the side, poking stomachs and elbows with her gnarled staff. She knelt beside the fallen woman. "She still breathes. It looks as if she may have only fainted." She cackled with harsh humor.

Ietsugu couldn't fathom what she could possibly find amusing about the situation. There was a puzzle here and it would be unraveled. "Stand him up."

The men holding the newcomer jerked him to his feet. The young traveler's eyes went wide when they settled on Ietsugu's swords.

"Who are you?" the samurai said.

"My, my name is Daisuke, sir."

Ietsugu nodded. "Tell me what occurred here."

The young man opened his mouth but no words came out. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I just came into the village, sir, and called out a greeting to Izumi-san. But when she saw me, she screamed and fell dead away to the ground. I don't understand it."

"So you have been to this village before? You are known here?" Ietsugu felt a tendril of dread as a dark suspicion itched for his attention.

"Yes, sir."

Gendou bowed his way forward. "That is correct, Asaka-sama. He spent a short time with us during the winter before last."

"Yes!" Daisuke nodded quickly. "I'd meant to come back much sooner – just as I'd promised. But a long illness befell me and only recently was I well enough to travel again." The young man gazed at the gathered faces around him. "Where is Haruka-chan?"

The crone patted the face of the unconscious woman, her other hand holding tiny leaves to Izumi's nose. She cackled again. Everyone grew strangely silent their gaze anywhere but on the young man or the samurai. The men holding onto Daisuke's arms released him.

"Asaka-sama, I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding – nothing to concern yourself about. We will take care of it." Gendou placed himself between Ietsugu and the traveler. "Why don't we go inside so we can continue with our meeting?"

Ietsugu stiffened, his previous sense of dread growing. He sensed Mitsuo doing the same. Something wasn't right here. "I haven't finished, Gendou-san." He put as much disapproval into his tone as he could.

Gendou instantly bowed and stepped aside, his face hidden.

"She's coming around now." The crone helped prop Izumi against the side of the well.

The woman moaned, her hand rising to cradle her head. Then she snapped up straight and her gaze locked with Daisuke's. Her face paled and tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh ohhhhhh."

"Izumi-san?" Daisuke pushed forward and knelt beside her. "Are you not well? And where is Haruka-chan?"

Izumi would no longer look at him, turning her face away and hiding it behind her sleeves.

Looking baffled, the traveler rose to his feet and stared about him as if never having seen any of them before. "Where is _Haruka-chan_?"

"She's dead." Gasps rang all around as Ietsugu answered his question.

"What? How can that be?" Daisuke turned to face the samurai.

"That is something the village will need to answer. All I know is that I have seen her angry ghost with my own eyes. She is now an _onryo_."

Several villagers fell to their knees, groans echoing around them. Daisuke's face paled, even as he stared at Ietsugu with incomprehension. "A vengeful spirit? Why would she be a vengeful spirit?" He turned on the villagers. "What have you people _done_?"

Ietsugu turned merciless eyes in Gendou's direction. "Yes, Gendou-san, tell us what was done."

The village leader groveled on the ground, his face in the dirt. "This cannot be. It cannot be." He shook his head. "You must believe us. We saw the signs! An offering had to be made."

" _What did you do_?" Daisuke shook where he stood, obviously fighting for control.

The answer didn't come from the leader, but from Izumi. Her low voice sounded lifeless. "You hadn't returned. We didn't believe you would. And she was the loveliest and most pleasing... The one most likely to satisfy the demon and therefore save the village."

"No. No, no, no no no. Haruka!" Daisuke slumped to the ground and covered his face with his hands.

"Ignorant peasants."

Ietsugu didn't acknowledge Mitsuo's soft voiced comment though at the moment he totally agreed. "What was actually done with the girl? How was she offered to your imagined demon?" He held back none of the disgust he felt from showing in his voice.

The adults cringed. Several small children cried out, sensing the distress of their parents.

The older of the four men who'd come to hold council that morning, crawled forward. "There, there is a cave on a cliff not too far from here. It is where our ancestors left offerings in the past."

"You will take us there. _Now_."

* * *

High on an exposed side of the mountain, the cave appeared as nothing more than a dark depression in the wall. A narrow ledge offered a ready grip for a grapple and rope.

Of the villagers, only Gendou and Taka were allowed to come and show the way. The rest were to wait at the village. Diasuke trailed behind them, looking lost and numb.

The basket procured from behind a set of bushes, contained a rope ladder. After several halfhearted attempts, the two villagers secured it to the ledge.

"The two of you will remain here." Ietsugu said. Mitsuo watched them coldly, his hand resting on the pummel of his sword, making a promise of what would be their reward if they decided to disobey the order. Both men stared only at the ground.

Ietsugu took hold of the ladder, and after testing it, climbed up. Mitsuo and Daisuke followed.

Sunlight only penetrated a foot or so into the cave. Cold air emanated from the interior. Mitsuo lit a lamp and handed it over to Ietsugu. Making sure the sacred papers his father had obtained for him before his journey were still safely tucked within his sleeve, Ietsugu held the lamp before him and turning sideways, shuffled inside.

Daisuke followed him, with Mitsuo remaining to guard the entrance outside.

The cave was narrow for several arm lengths then widened. The cold rose in intensity and the stench of rotting flesh grew cloyingly close.

The diffused light parted the darkness. An ancient shrine sat on the left, hasty repairs and more recent offerings of food and incense evident.

The back of the cave went deep. Yellowed, brittle bones and bone dust covered the floor there like a bed. Nestled in the middle of it lay the decomposing body of a young woman. Bindings were tied around her ankles and wrists, dried blood staining them from her struggles to get loose. A gag was set firmly in her mouth.

Ietsugu frowned, knowing this to have been a dishonorable and agonizing death. Worse, it was done to her by her own people. The anger he'd been holding back so fiercely glowed a little brighter. His knuckles turned white on the hilt of his sword.

"Haruka!" Daisuke lunged past him to fall on his knees beside the decaying body. "Oh, my beloved Haruka!"

The already low temperature plunged. Their breaths frosted before them.

"Daisuke..."

A cloud of mist formed above him, taking on the shape of the dead woman on the floor.

"Haruka-chan!" Daisuke's gasp was filled with both exhilaration and horror.

Moving incredibly slowly so as to not attract attention, Ietsugu set the lamp on the ground behind him.

"Beloved... You've finally come for me." Her ghostly arms extended toward the young man. "I've waited so long." Her face peeled back into rows of jagged teeth. "You've come just in time to join me in death!"

Daisuke screamed as he was bodily picked up off the floor and flung the length of the cave. Ietsugu rushed forward and slashed at the apparition with his sword to no effect. The blade slid cleanly through Haruka's floating body, not slowing her in the least.

"Come, Daisuke, prove your love to me. Give me your life." She glided forward affection and hate warring over her features.

The traveler struggled to stand, holding his right arm tight to his body.

"Stop! He is not the one who did this to you!" Ietsugu tried to get between them.

With only a flick of her wrist, Haruka sent him flying back onto the bed of bones. Something sharp and hot pierced Ietsugu's hip, making him grimace with pain. The scent of blood wafted around him.

"Beloved. Please!"

The ghost enveloped Daisuke. His eyes bulged, his left hand rising to his throat.

Ietsugu used his sword to pull himself up to his knees. He reached inside his sleeve for one of the folded papers with the almost unintelligible cursive script.

As if sensing the item in his hands, a shrieking wind swirled in the space with brutal torrential force, pushing Ietsugu to the floor and sliding him back toward the entrance.

Flailing for purchase, he stabbed his katana into the ground to keep from being pushed away farther. With gritted teeth, he removed his wakisashi, keeping the ofuda pressed tightly between his hand and the short sword's hilt.

Struggling against the wind, and grimacing at the use he was putting his swords to, Ietsugu used the blades to drive them ahead of him into the dirt and loose shale to pull himself back toward the dead woman's body.

Risking a glance in the ghost's direction, her entire attention appeared to be riveted on her strangling lover. Ietsugu pushed to move faster, knowing she wouldn't be diverted forever.

By the time he made it to the corpse's side, his arms and body shook from the strain of fighting the wind.

Sending a prayer to Buddha and Amaterasu, he let go of the wakisashi and slapped the blessed papers onto the forehead of Haruka's physical body.

Her ghost form screamed as the two made contact, light flashing from the corpse. Her keening wail forced Ietsugu to cover his ears in pain.

Haruka's form expanded and expanded until she seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the cave. With a final shriek, there was a sudden release of pressure, and she was gone.

Daisuke dropped to the ground, coughing. As Ietsugu labored to stand upright, Daisuke seemed to realize the ghost was truly gone. His face scrunched up in pain and unashamed tears poured down his cheeks. " _Beloved_!"

"Asaka-sama!" Mitsuo squeezed into the room, his sword drawn. Spotting him, the weeping Daisuke, and no one else, he hurried to his master's side confusion warring with the need to make sure his young charge was well.

"I'm all right." Ietsugu waved him off. "We should leave this evil place."

* * *

Ietsugu stared at where the cave entrance had once stood, full of satisfaction. For four days the villagers were pressed into service to mine rock from the mountain so the cave could be filled and then sealed.

Taka had been sent back to the city with a note to summon a priest and monk. For the last day, the Shinto monk and Buddhist priest had done their best to lay those within to their proper rest and also make sure no demons or spirits were still tied to the place.

Every villager would go through rituals of purification and pay penance through prayer for their part in the misdeed and also help build a proper shrine and housing for a monk. The errors of the past would not be repeated.

Ietsugu removed his gaze from the thick woven rope and lightning shaped papers draped about the closed entrance and stared with some pity at Daisuke. The young man no longer looked quite the same. Lines of sadness and of the things he saw marked him.

The samurai had already decided the young man would go back with them. The sooner he left this place, the faster he might become himself again. Perhaps one day Daisuke might even forget Haruka and the betrayal perpetrated on her by her own people.

<http://podiobooks.com/title/in-the-service-of-samurai>

Good Luck

Casey S Townsend

The sky lit up in a soft glow from lightning exploding through the dense clouds a few miles away. It flashed in stereoscopic strobe effects, some bursts lasting longer than others, some brighter, some dimmer. The storm was all around. The rain beat the reinforced metal chassis of the helicopter as violently as any weapon fire, then collected and ran off the sides, dripping in long streaks to the earth far below.

Corporal Greg Covey sat in the back with five other soldiers, half of his squad. The other half was in the next helicopter, cruising a hundred yards to their left. They were getting dropped somewhere in the pine forests of southeastern North Carolina where a small Roth base was set up. It wouldn't be a difficult mission, but the rain put everyone in a bad mood. It would be a long couple of days.

Covey was the poster image of a rebel soldier: thick, stocky and muscular with crew cut sandy-blonde hair. At thirty-eight, he should have still had a young, vibrant look to him. Instead, he was aged and worn considerably more than someone his age should be. He was homely and unattractive anyway, but this war was like a hot cattle iron on his body, claiming him as its own.

His T4 assault rifle was resting butt-down on the floor and he twirled the weapon mindlessly in his hands. His right hand held the top of the barrel and he stared at the nubs where his fingers used to be. He was grateful to still have his trigger finger and thumb, as well as the middle for wordlessly expressing displeasure, but he hated how the loss of the other two made him look. He tried not to focus on it. The missing fingers were a constant reminder of things he'd much rather not think about. As long as he could fire a weapon, nothing else mattered anymore.

And at least he couldn't see the worst of his disfigurations as long as he stayed away from mirrors. A narrow miss from a shotgun blast had left several gashes and holes on the right side of his face. He stopped spinning the rifle and put his two remaining fingers from his right hand against his face and felt the scars. They felt like a hideous, fleshy mountain range of peaks and valleys complete with his own personal Grand Canyon. That had been over five years ago now. Back before this was a war. Before his whole life went straight to hell. Before...

The private next to him was singing.

"Ay, ay, ay, ay, Canta y no llores,

Porque cantando se alegran,

Cielito lindo, los corazones."

"Would you kindly shut the hell up, Sanchez?" Covey yelled over the roar of the helicopter blades thumping and the crashes of thunder in the sky overhead. His voice sounded particularly gravely and rough when he had to raise it.

"What?" Sanchez shrugged at him. "Singing is good luck. You should try it. I bet you have good singing voice, Corporal."

The other privates chuckled softly and looked away to hide their grinning faces. Sanchez just beamed.

Covey utilized the surviving finger on his right hand. "I can make this mission a lot more miserable than it already is, Private," he growled at Sanchez.

Sanchez put his hands up in surrender, but he was still grinning mischievously. Covey broke his threatening gaze and went back to mindlessly staring at his weapon. Sanchez waited a few seconds, then began singing again a little softer.

"Ay, ay, ay, ay, Canta y no llores,

Porque cantando se alegran,

_Corporal Feo_ , los corazones."

Another of the soldiers let out a single explosion of laughter and quickly slapped his hands on his mouth to stifle any more.

Covey glared first at the private who laughed then at Sanchez. He had no idea what was so funny, but he suspected it was at his expense. "If you sing one more word I'm going to kick you in the throat."

Sanchez mocked a hurt look. "I tell you I sing for good luck. Don't you want good luck?"

Covey's teeth clinched and he looked down at the rifle again.

"There's no such thing as good luck."

* * *

Covey walked in the front door of his home and closed it behind him.

"I'm home," he called.

He set a black, cloth duffel bag down on the floor in the living room, collapsed into an easy chair, and began unlacing his boots.

Covey's wife, Leigh came into the living room. He looked up at her and smiled. She had short, styled auburn hair and a smile that lit the world on fire. She was thin, sometimes Covey thought, too thin, but she could keep up with Covey at the gym so she must be doing something right. He knew he was lucky to have her because what free-thinking, elementary school art teacher would ever marry a cop?

"Hey Babe," Covey said.

She strode over and wrapped her arms around his neck and sat down on his lap. He hadn't finished taking his boots off, but he didn't care. She kissed his smooth, unblemished face.

"Hey yourself," she said.

Covey held her with his left hand while he reached into his jacket with his right and pulled his pistol out of the holster and set it on the table.

"You're not going to leave that there are you?" Leigh chided.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Covey said. "I was just tired of wearing it."

"Rough day?" she asked. "You're late, even for you."

"I got called in to see the Captain," Covey said, a little irritation at the memory coming out in his tone. "I might end up getting suspended."

"What happened?"

Covey patted her, indicating that he wanted to stand, and she obliged. They both moved to the couch and sat down.

"We got a call just after lunch to check out some kind of anti-religion group meeting, only about five or six guys. A couple other cars were already there when me and Tommy pulled in. We must have got there right when it was all starting to hit the fan. I couldn't tell that any of them had done anything wrong, but the other cops were beating the hell out of... Sorry, beating the heck out of one of the guys." He stopped talking and seemed to fade into an alternate reality of rage.

Leigh just listened, letting him get the story out but nodded to him when he paused. "What did you do?"

Covey came back to the present. "I did what any normal person would do. I tried to break it up. I pushed him – it was Jamerson – and he took a swing at me. I dodged and he missed, but I was so pissed off I swung back. Broke his nose."

"Didn't you explain it to the Captain?" Leigh asked.

"Yeah but he said it didn't matter; you can't assault another cop. Plus," he paused again and shook his head in anger. "Cap said he's already got a lot of brass breathing down his neck about this whole rebel bull crap. They're afraid of terrorist sleepers in the police force, that sort of thing. The way he explained it, this just looks like I'm one of the bad guys. Like I'm one of the rebels."

"Oh Greg," Leigh said softly to comfort him. "They can't really think that. You're one of the hardest workers and loyal men on the force."

"I've got this feeling that he's going to make an example out of me," Covey spat. "He actually advised me to talk to a lawyer today."

"That means he cares about you right?"

"No, that means he's covering his ass," Covey said and winced at his vulgar slip. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said.

"That's why I was late," Covey continued. "I spent an hour on the phone talking some lawyer named Craig. He's making notes in case they throw the book at me, but he just advised me to keep my mouth shut for now. It took that jerkoff an hour to tell me to not say anything. Can you believe that?"

"Hey," Leigh said, moving closer to him on the couch and kissed him on the cheek. "It's going to be alright. We've got enough saved up and I've still got my job. We can make it through anything together."

Covey's expression softened and he turned to look at her. She was so beautiful. Somehow, just looking at her brought peace back into his violent heart.

"You know you're the most beautiful girl I've ever met?" Covey asked in a low gravely whisper.

She beamed at him and nodded once.

"Why would you ever want to be with a hateful, ugly monster like me?"

She grabbed his right hand, intertwining her fingers between all five of his and squeezed. "Because you're handsome to me," she said. "I love you, Greg."

"I love you too, Leigh."

She hugged him tightly. "We've got nothing to worry about. We've got good luck on our side."

* * *

An alarm blared a rapid, repetitive beat that was so loud it could be easily heard over the thumping helicopter blades. A red light in the cabin flashed and cast crimson highlights and shadows on everything it fell upon.

Covey snapped to attention. He clutched his rifle between his knees and used both hands to pull the safety straps over his shoulders and around his waist. His mangled right hand was clumsy and the straps slipped away from his grasp and he was forced to reach a second time.

"Alright boys, strap in and hold on!" Covey shouted. "Don't let your weapons out of your hands. I don't want a rifle flying and hitting me in the face because some dumbass has butter fingers."

Private Sanchez was through singing and his jovial expression was warped into a serious frown ready for combat. The other four soldiers shared similar facial distortions as they strapped themselves in for what would no doubt be a bumpy ride. They all knew what the red light meant: Incoming missiles.

Without any more of a warning than they had already, the helicopter banked sharply to the right at a near forty-five degree angle. The well-trained soldiers were ready and didn't react instinctively to grab for a better hold on the seats as one might expect. They knew they were strapped in and focused on holding their gear to keep it from flying about the cabin. They sat as solid and immutable as statues as the chopper rolled back to the left and began a nose dive.

Explosions lit the sky much brighter than the lightning had and each sent a tremor that rippled through the bones of every soldier in the helicopter. Covey closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the blasts in the sky that were so close to them. One way or another, he knew it would be over soon and there was nothing he could do to affect the outcome.

Suddenly, the whole world seemed to rock and whipped Covey's neck violently. His body was pulled against the safety straps as if he was being constricted by a giant python. A missile had hit the back of the chopper right where the tail met the body and tore the entire back section of the flying machine off.

Covey watched in stoic shock as the metal peeled back and flew away. Then the three seats holding Sanchez and the other two privates were sucked out and disappeared into the darkness.

With the tail rotor gone, the helicopter began to spin out of control. The unstoppable power of centrifugal force pulled painfully on Covey and the remaining two soldiers next to him. They were going down. They fell so hard, Covey didn't even know when they actually hit the ground. He didn't feel the impact, he didn't feel the heat of the burning jet fuel. Everything just went instantly dark.

* * *

Greg Covey hadn't just been suspended. He was fired. No severance pay, no letter of recommendation, no more retirement, just fired.

A notepad of torn-out pages with scribbled phone numbers and contact names lay sprawled on the table in front of him on the kitchen table where he sat. The last two days had been filled with nothing more than sitting at home and checking want ads in the paper and on the internet. Everything required a Master's degree now and Covey had barely even finished high school much less any kind of college education. He was dumb as a brick and he knew it. He had gone straight into law enforcement at nineteen and that's all he knew.

The days were getting shorter as they moved into December and it was already getting dark outside. He checked his watch. It was after five now and any recruiting personnel would have gone home for the day. There was one more number to call: the county jail. They had an entry-level guard position open. Fourteen years on the force should have earned him something better than 'entry-level' but right now he was willing to take anything he could get. The best part of it was that it didn't require a degree. He might actually have a chance. The HR guy would be gone, no doubt, but he could leave a message and at least make contact.

Covey dialed the number and listened to the phone ring through the tiny speaker. With a small burst of excitement, he heard a click on the other end.

"County Jail, Peters," a woman's voice said.

Covey was caught unprepared. He hadn't expected anyone to answer and he scrambled to get his notes together. "Yes, I'm calling about the guard position you have," he said. "My name's Covey. Greg Covey."

"Okay," Peters said, "give me your social so we can do a background check and if you clear we'll bring you in for an interview."

"That's great," Covey said and gave her his social security number. "I think you'll find I'm very qualified for the position. I've been a police officer for more than a decade."

"Mmm hmm," Peters absently muttered. Covey could hear typing in the background. There was a long pause.

"I'm sorry Mr. Covey," she said. "We can't hire anyone who is currently under investigation by the Roth International Militia."

Covey's teeth clinched and he slammed his fist on the table. "Under investigation?" he growled at her. "I'm not under investigation. I was let go from the force but no charges were even filed. That's just not possible."

"No, I'm afraid it is. I've got the information right here."

Covey took a breath and tried to calm himself. "What am I under investigation for?" he managed to squeeze out in a barely controlled tone of voice.

"Collaboration with and assistance to known terrorist groups and anti-religious movements," Peters replied as cooly as if she was reading an ingredients list for a recipe.

Covey stood up suddenly from his chair and it clattered to the floor behind him. "I'm not collaborating with any terrorists, dammit!" he roared into the phone.

"That's for RIM to decide," Peters said.

"Go to hell." Covey pitched the phone across the room where it shattered against the wall and left a small divot in the drywall. He stopped and leaned over against the table and panted heavily until the red faded from his eyes. He felt a little calmer, but his heart was beating so hard and fast and pumped angry blood to every muscle in his body.

Finally he looked up. Leigh was standing in the doorway coming from the bedroom. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

Covey shook his head and looked back down at the table trying to contain an outburst in front of his wife. "That fffff..." he bit his own lip to squelch the expletive and hit the table once with his fist. "Captain reported me to the Roth International Militia as a potential terrorist threat."

"I'm sorry," Leigh said.

"Me too."

"What do we do?"

Covey took in a deep breath and straightened up. "Let me borrow your phone," he said more calmly. "I've got to call that Craig lawyer and see if he can get me out of this."

Leigh dug into her pants pocket to pull out her phone.

All at once the front door crashed open and broke off the hinges, tumbling to the floor. The splintered pieces of the frame spun and landed random patterns on their new beige carpet. Four men dressed in black SWAT gear poured into their living room brandishing short-barreled, military-style shotguns. On their jackets were the embroidered initials: R.I.M. Roth International Militia.

Covey stood between the enforcement soldiers and his wife and he immediately moved toward them. He knew there was no sense fighting it right now. The men had come here expecting a fight, because they probably believed he was a terrorist and they had brought some serious firepower with them. If Covey resisted in any way, he was afraid they would shoot him or his wife without a second thought. As he stepped toward the living room he put his hands up next to him to show surrender.

As soon as he took one step toward them the enforcer closest to him raised his shotgun and pointed it right at Covey's head.

Covey stopped on a dime and instinctively put his right hand out in front of him. "No wait, I'm not..."

He never finished the sentence. The soldier fired. The bulk of the buckshot hit his hand, blowing off his ring and pinkie finger. The rest spread out along his arm and his face. Blood went everywhere and Covey was overwhelmed with the most extreme combination of pain and vertigo he had ever experienced in his life.

Covey fell to the ground backwards and hit his head hard on the floor. He couldn't see anything but a blurry pinpoint of light out of his left eye and nothing at all in his right. He could hear Leigh screaming somewhere behind him. He tried to move, but couldn't get control of his muscles.

A second shotgun blast roared through the pervading darkness. He couldn't hear Leigh screaming anymore.

"Ah hell, he's still alive," he heard one of the soldiers say.

"Got it," another one closer to him said.

Covey blinked to try to clear the fog and blood from his eyes. He gained a little sight in his left eye but only enough to distinguish shapes like looking into a mirror after a hot shower. All he could tell was that one of the enforcers was now standing right over him, holding his shotgun point blank at Covey's face. Covey closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. The gun fired.

* * *

Covey came to with a start. Every sensation was painful and the hard rain hitting his face felt like thousands of tiny needles tenderizing his flesh. He lifted his right arm to wipe the blood and rain out of his face, but something was wrong. He tried again. There was no feeling in his right arm. He tried his left and was able to wipe a little vision back in his left eye. When he touched the right side of his face he felt nothing but raw meat and when he drew his hand back, it was covered in blood and flakes of black ash. The whole right side of his face had been burned. It was no doubt a third-degree burn and if he didn't get to help soon, it could kill him.

Clinching his stomach muscles, Covey tried to sit up but the pain was too much. He collapsed back down and rolled his head to look at his right arm.

The arm was gone. The skin was ragged at his shoulder and a gruesome hole was left where the socket had been. Somehow in the chaos of the crash, his entire right arm had been ripped clean out.

His emotions buckled as if they were a physical weight he was trying desperately to keep held above him. Covey gritted his teeth and beat the earth next to him with his left fist. Something in his left arm was broken and the pain shot through him like the lightning shot through the clouds above him but he didn't care. He hadn't cried in five years and he would be damned if he was going to cry now or ever again.

He had to get to help. The blood was pouring from his right shoulder and the burns on his face were cooking their way deeper. It was sink-or-swim time. Move or die.

Screaming to mask his own pain, Covey pushed himself to a sitting position with his broken left arm. Once he was certain he wouldn't fall back over again, he stopped and caught his breath. The effort had taken almost every ounce of energy he had and he knew he would need a lot more to get to his feet, much less walk to the nearest base where he could get medical attention.

He looked around to try to find any kind of assistance to help him get up: a tree, a stump, even a large piece of the helicopter he could lean against would be nice. Anything to keep from having to push himself up with his left hand again.

That was when he saw it. A four-foot-long, jagged piece of the helicopter had pierced his right thigh and continued deep into the earth, pinning him to the ground. Just by looking at it Covey knew it had cut right through the bone. Even if he could get the metal out of the ground or even out of his thigh, it would be impossible to walk. He would have to put all his weight on his left leg and with no right arm, he would be off balance and would have nothing to prop a crutch against.

The blood was still pumping out of his leg. He could see it exiting in steady, rhythmic bursts of red into the muddy puddles around him. That was when Covey truly grasped the hopelessness of his situation. He could feel the darkness closing in on him. It felt different than just slipping into unconsciousness. He was dying.

Covey let himself fall backward again and rested his broken body in the mud. He was foolish to have thought he could make it. He wouldn't have made it ten feet before he dropped dead. Even now, he could feel death wrapping him up like baby in swaddling clothes. It almost felt good. Relief from the pain was finally here.

* * *

A gun fired, but it wasn't the enforcer's shotgun. The weight of the two-hundred-plus-pound man fell hard on top of Covey and knocked the wind out of his lungs. But he was alive. He had no idea how, but all that mattered was that he was alive.

Covey opened his eyes and peered over the fallen soldier on top of him. The image was still blurry but he could see something happening.

A new man had come in through the front door brandishing two pistols, one in each hand and was ducking through the living room, firing at the soldiers who had invaded the Covey's home. The man was so fast that only one of the enforcers ever got a chance to get a shot off and that one went wild. The next second, the enforcer was dead on the floor with his comrades.

The next thing Covey knew, he was being picked up by the stranger with the pistols, heaved over his shoulder and carried out the front door. He tried to speak, to call out not to forget about Leigh, but his body was in too much shock and the words wouldn't come. Instead, he went completely limp as he went unconscious.

He came and went several times over the next few hours. First he was in a car, then he was in some kind of warehouse, and when he woke up the final time, he was lying in a very comfortable twin-sized bed.

As he blinked the fog away, Covey realized he could finally see clearly out of his left eye, but his right eye was dark. He looked at his right hand. It was neatly bandaged and he could tell from the form of the wrapping that he had definitely lost his two outer fingers. His right eye had also been bandaged, but he had no idea if he had lost the eye or not.

"Glad to see you're awake," a voice said.

Covey turned to his right to get a view of the rest of the room and see where the disembodied voice had come from. The room was simple and plain with no other furniture but the bed and a single wooden chair. Sitting in the chair was a man in a three-piece suit. He was about six feet tall, built but not overly muscular with short, dark-brown hair.

Covey sat up in the bed. "Who are you?" he choked out through his parched throat. "Where am I?"

"I'm Jacob Craig," the man said. "And you're at a safehouse."

Covey blinked, a little stunned. "You're Craig?" he asked. "My lawyer? What are you doing here?"

Craig smiled at him. "Practicing law is my day-job," he said. "I've been watching you closely for the past couple of days. I was afraid something like this would happen. I'm just sorry I couldn't get to you faster."

"Wait," Covey stopped him, confused. "Are you the one who shot all those soldiers?"

"Yes I am," Craig said. "And I've brought you here for a very specific reason."

"What's that?" Covey asked, caution coloring his tone.

"You're a fugitive of the law," Craig explained. "The Roth have orders to shoot you on sight. You're a rebel terrorist in their eyes. So you can leave here if you like when you get well enough to walk, or you can join us."

"And who exactly are you?"

"We're Red Horizon," Craig said proudly. "An underground movement to bring down the Roth Empire. And we'd love for you to join us."

"Why me?" Covey asked.

"Because we need men like you who have experience in law enforcement to help build the army we've started. We also need people who are completely out of the public life: fugitives like yourself who can devote their whole life to the movement. I have to keep up my façade as a lawyer and stay hidden among the Roth for the sake of my family. My wife and I have a nine-year-old son and we want him to get a good education while we still can before we're forced to disappear."

The mention of Craig's wife brought a sickening realization to Covey. "What about Leigh? Where is she?"

Craig looked away and swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, I thought you already knew. She's dead. I'm so sorry, there was nothing I could do for her."

Covey's jaw tightened and rage filled his eyes. He looked away from Craig and clenched the sheets of his bed in his fists.

"Look, I don't want to burden you with anything else. I shouldn't have even brought up joining Red Horizon right now. I'm going to..."

"Tell me more about it," Covey interrupted.

Craig looked at him with a sympathetic expression on his face. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Tell me about Red Horizon."

Craig nodded. "Right now we're building our numbers. Trying to get as many people sympathetic to the cause as we can. We've established several warehouses outside of major cities in the southeast United States where we've been training soldiers. We want to build an army. We want to take down the Roth once and for all."

Covey nodded vigorously. "I'm in. I'll do it."

Craig didn't know what to say. "That's great. We don't have too many people with your kind of experience in our group right now."

Covey looked down at his bandaged right hand. He had been permanently changed; the missing fingers were just a physical reminder of how true that really was and he would live with it the rest of his life. His disfigured body was a hideous tribute to his beautiful Leigh. She was gone and he was here, uglier than he had ever been before.

"I think I'm going to try to get some sleep," Covey said. "I still feel pretty weak. But I want to hear more later."

"Absolutely," Craig said as he stood. "If you need anything, just hit the buzzer by your bed. Someone will be right in to get you whatever you need."

"Thanks," Covey said and lay down on his back.

He heard steps as Craig walked to the door, the slow swing of poorly-oiled hinges and the soft connection of door and frame as it closed. Then silently, but with the violence of a river rapid, Greg Covey cried.

* * *

"Greg?"

Covey opened his eyes. He was in his living room. Everything was just as he remembered it from the last night he had ever been in that home. He was sitting on his couch and it hadn't changed a bit since the last time he had been here. Even the old smells were the same and floods of memories came pouring back.

He turned to look next to him. Leigh was sitting on the couch right beside him. She held his right hand in hers. He had all five fingers again. He was so overcome with happiness, but even in the midst of it he knew something was wrong. He didn't want to think that something could be wrong, but it couldn't be avoided. He hadn't been in this home for five years. Not since the night that Leigh had died.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he asked the question he wanted more than anything to keep inside. "I'm dreaming aren't I," Covey asked.

Leigh shook her head and smiled. "No, this is real. You've died."

Covey let out a small laugh. It came from an abundance of joy like he had never felt in his life. He felt like all the weight of the pain and emotional turmoil he had been going through was ripped off like a band aid and underneath was brand new skin so excited to see the sun again.

"But you can't stay dead," Leigh finished.

Covey's smile wilted. "What are you talking about?"

"I've only got a minute before you're going to wake up and be back at the helicopter crash."

"No!" Covey shouted. The joy was gone. "I've done my time! I want to be with you again!"

"But that's the good news!" she said still smiling. "You will. But not yet. You've still got a tough job ahead of you. You've got to look out for Jacob Craig's boy. He really needs you right now, a lot worse than I need you."

"But I need you!" Covey said.

"And I'm here for you," she said. "I can't wait to see you again. I love you, Greg."

Covey coughed out a sob. "I love you too, Leigh."

"Don't worry," she said with a smile bigger and more beautiful than any Covey could remember from life before. "We've got good luck on our side."

"COVEY!"

Rain like needles was pummeling his skin again. Pain roared through his whole body, and the world was grey and blurry again. Several men were standing over him. It was the other half of his squad from the second helicopter.

His mind felt like it was caught in a tornado of emotions. All he had ever wanted in the world was placed in front of him and then as quickly as it had come it was snatched away again and replaced with an agony worse than he had known before. The joy he had felt was gone. So was the sadness and despair. All that was left was anger; an eternal bitter seed that finally had all the resources it needed to grow. But in spite of the emotional turmoil, Covey felt remarkably lucid. The pain was excruciating, but his focus was back.

One of the men from his squad, Private Morrell, came running over to him and knelt beside him in the mud, surveying Covey's wounds.

"Can you hear me?" Morrell asked.

Covey spit blood from his mouth but didn't try to move anymore. "Yeah, I can hear you," he reluctantly said.

"Damn, Corporal," Morrell said as his eyes moved from face, to missing arm, to missing leg. "The whole right side of you is shot to hell. I can't believe you're alive."

"That makes two of us," Covey muttered.

Morrell pulled a small metal device out of his jacket that looked like an egg on the end of a stick and moved it toward Covey's shoulder.

"I've got to cauterize your wounds, Corporal. This is gonna hurt like hell but it's gotta be done or you'll bleed to death before we can get you out of here."

"Just do it," Covey said.

The process took less than two minutes and Morrell wasn't exaggerating about the pain. The device heated and cooled to extreme temperatures simultaneously. As he gently touched every square inch of Covey's damaged skin, scar tissue instantly formed, creating a shield for the nerves and muscles underneath and stopping any additional bleeding. Covey had to hold his breath as Morrell yanked the large metal piece out of his leg and quickly burned the wounds shut with his cauterizer. So much pain. It was almost more than he could handle. But then it was over and Covey let a long breath out.

"Our other unit is already taking out the anti-aircraft guns that shot you down so they'll be flying you out of here in about ten minutes."

"Great," Covey barely breathed out. He could feel the darkness coming back in over his eyes again. But he knew this wasn't like last time. He wasn't dying this time even though he wished he could. It was simply his brain shutting down from the shock of pain. His eyes fluttered and closed.

"Hey, stay with me," Morrell said and patted the left, undamaged side of Covey's face. "Don't you die now after surviving this long. Did you know you're the only one on that chopper to live? Everyone else is dead. You've got some serious good luck, you know that?"

Covey grunted but didn't open his eyes. The sleep was coming and he couldn't stop it. It was better not to fight it. He'd rather not remember much of this anyway. He spat once more to get the rest of the blood out of his mouth before consciousness slipped away.

"There's no such thing as good luck," Covey said and fell asleep.

<http://www.podiobooks.com/title/eternity/>

**Fleeting Time**

Keith Hughes

Wednesday, September 03, 2008 8:14 PM

The desk of Dr. Francis Bertrand was a study in the paradox his life had become. Upon it lay a small electronic personal digital assistant and a simple letter. In these two things he beheld the contradictions of the fleeting span of his time on earth, and the virtually limitless supply at his disposal.

The aging scientist had a friendly face that normally held bright, cheerful eyes. Now they carried the weight of pain and sadness. His thin, nearly white hair provided an unmistakable reminder that the pale scalp had probably been covered in his younger years. Despite his age a steady hand plucked the letter from the desk's worn wooden surface. As Francis read, his lips became a thin line and he squinted a little, causing his laugh lines to appear in stark relief. His eyes moved rapidly as he scanned the letter again, but the words led to the same result. He felt as if the claw of Death gripped his shoulder, and the hand that held the letter shook as sadness and not a little fear tore through him. He carefully placed the letter back on the desk next to the PDA in an effort to still its trembling.

While both items had the ability to encompass his doom, only the paper document sounded a certain death knell. When the platitudes were stripped away there remained only a few key words: cancer, prognosis, and months. A range of single digits before that last term sealed his fate by the end of the year.

Francis pulled his gaze from the desktop and turned to look out the window. The dim, pink glow of the fading sunset invaded the few spaces left by the many trees in his front yard. It had been an unseasonably warm week, and was undoubtedly summer's last hurrah before acquiescing to the looming fall and winter months. His Louisiana roots appreciated the respite from cooler weather.

He turned his gaze away from the window, trying to fight the maudlin feeling that was creeping over him. Picking up the letter again, he opened a desk drawer and placed it inside. Francis slid the drawer shut, hiding it from view. The document had done its damage and could harm him no further.

Now he picked up the PDA and inspected it. While he had not created the device itself, indeed it was an off-the-shelf consumer item, he had irrevocably modified it. The product of years of research and experimentation, the PDA contained the supreme achievement of his career: a time machine.

"My greatest work," the scientist said softly, his Louisiana accent still present, as he stroked the smooth metal. He had already taken it on one short trip, a matter of a few hours into his past to talk with himself. The device had performed well, but further testing was needed. For reasons he could not consciously define he had not been comfortable doing that work in his lab. So in clear violation of Intellisys policy he had smuggled his invention home.

The pain of old age and disease punctuated his movements as he slowly stood, still holding the PDA. This room was where he had always felt the most comfortable. It was meant to be a dining room, but he had converted it to a home office. The wall behind his desk was lined with pictures of famous and powerful people he had met during his life, meant to impress his visitors. But the only picture he cared about was hung on the wall opposite, where he could see it from his desk. Now his eyes were drawn to that fading image of his younger self and his new bride. The woman he had built a life with, until she had received her own letter years ago. With careful steps he left the security of his desk to stand before the photo. Inscribed below the beaming couple was a date: June 23, 1962.

The doctor's eyes danced across the image of his young bride once more, and he smiled. His invention still needed a thorough shakedown, and given his current medical condition he was the best person to do it. Francis had nothing to lose, and he could not deny himself the joy of seeing the results of his work. He lifted the PDA and turned it on. He tapped on the screen a few times, then pressed the button to start his journey. He had a wedding to go to.

* * *

Sitting in the back of the small church Francis watched as his younger self, a mere twenty-eight years old and new to his professorship at Western Michigan University, promised to love, honor, and cherish the equally youthful woman who held his hand.

When Francis had arrived in 1962 he had taken the bus from Detroit to Kalamazoo, staring enraptured out the window at the billboards, cars, and buildings. So much had changed in the last forty-six years; more than he had realized.

"...so long as we both shall live," his younger self said loudly at the front of the church, returning the elder's attention to the ceremony.

_I tried, Evelyn_ , Francis thought to his long-dead wife, although he wasn't sure if his thoughts were directed at the woman he had buried or the younger vision that took her vows before him.

God knows I tried to love you as best I could, every day.

He felt tears on his cheeks and a pang of embarrassment, then a wave of relief as he realized that he was not the only one crying. It was a wedding, after all. Nonetheless, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks. He watched as the ceremony came to an end, and the happy couple stood before the crowd of witnesses.

"It is my great pleasure to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Francis Bertrand," the pastor said with a wide smile, and the chapel filled with applause.

Francis gave a slight start hearing his name without the appellation of "Doctor." It had been so long since he had earned that title, but it was still a couple of years in the future for the young man now leading his bride down the aisle.

He joined the line of people waiting to congratulate the couple, and before long was shaking hands with his younger self. The full head of hair on his doppelganger was to be expected, but the fact that he was two inches taller came as a surprise to the older man.

"Do I know you?" the groom asked. "You look familiar."

"We are related on your mother's side," the doctor answered. "and we happen to share the same first name."

"Well, I am glad you could make it," the young man said with an easy smile.

"Take good care of her," Francis said with feeling, and then moved to stand before Evelyn.

He was momentarily stunned at the sight of the young woman up close. Her auburn hair glowed softly in the light, which seemed to match the twinkle in her soft brown eyes. Her cheeks were slightly plump and so very smooth, with pale skin that seemed made of cream. So much time had passed he had almost forgotten how beautiful she had been, especially today. Francis bent to give her a quick hug, resisting an impulse to cling to the new bride. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek as he pulled away.

"Congratulations," he told her.

She gave him a smile of utter happiness. "Thank you," she said, joyfully content.

Then he moved on and the moment was over. Seconds later he was walking out the door of the church. He stopped on the sidewalk and wiped another tear from his cheek.

_I am turning into a sentimental old man_ , he chided himself as he watched a car drive by that in his time would normally only be seen at the annual Woodward Dream Cruise.

"Enough with visiting my past," Francis said firmly. He stepped around the side of the building, and stood in a recessed doorway that gave him some privacy. Taking out the PDA, he turned it on and entered a new destination in the Borrowed Time screen, the same date in 2018. This was ten years in his future, a time he would never be able to see in the normal course of his cancer-shortened life. He tapped the button and watched as the time of his youth faded away.

In what seemed mere moments Francis was standing in the same place, but the world around him was totally different. For a minute all he could do was cough and wait for his heart to quiet down. His body's reaction to time travel was hardly pleasant. When the effects had subsided he stepped out of the doorway, returned to the street, and took in the changes.

The windows and doors of the church building were covered in aging plywood. A faded sign on the building declared that it was for sale, as it had obviously been for some time. The lawn was unkempt, full of weeds and overgrown. The church looked like he felt, old and waiting to die. It was not the only building in this condition, as the entire area seemed desolate and forlorn.

The roar of an engine drew his attention to the street. At first the Hummer that sped across the cracked pavement seemed quite ordinary, but then the olive-green paint job and the machine gun mounted on the roof registered in Francis' mind. A man was standing behind the machine gun, his head, shoulders, and torso emerging from a hole in the roof. He clutched the controls of the weapon, and seemed ready to shoot anyone who got in his way. Francis stared at the man in shock, and the soldier regarded him briefly as the vehicle sped past. It turned the corner with a squeal of rubber and was gone. Seconds later the sounds of gunfire could be heard.

"What has happened here?" Francis wondered aloud. He pulled out the PDA and double-checked the date. He was in 2018 as he intended, but he was perplexed at his surroundings. It felt like he had arrived in 1980's Beirut.

Francis walked up the street, toward where the business district used to be. He saw more buildings covered up with wood and realtor signs as he went. Apparently hard times came to this area some time ago.

_Just how hard have the times become?_ he mused, as more gunfire could be heard in the distance.

Francis eventually came to a liquor store that had managed to stay open. Against the front of the building where he would have expected to find a newspaper box was a battered news kiosk. He immediately recognized the USA Today logo that was printed on the box, and almost smiled at seeing something that survived into this bleak future. But the illusion of normalcy was shattered as he noticed the line below it that proclaimed "The Official News Center Of The Martial Government." The screen that was mounted below the logo showed a constant cycle of the stories of the day. It kept returning to a bright blue headline that shouted "NEW CIVILIAN LEADERSHIP!" When he got close enough to see the details in the picture that appeared below the declaration, Francis froze in shock. He felt fear seep into his body as he looked at the smiling image of someone he never expected to see in such a context. The hair was grayer, and the face held more lines, but it was undoubtedly the CEO of Intellisys and his boss, John Felch.

He recognized the backdrop of the photo as the front of the White House, and John stood on the perfect lawn with a large smile and a hand upraised. The caption read "John Felch waves to citizens after being appointed chancellor." Instructions printed on the kiosk told him to tap on a headline to read the story. His fingers hit the blue letters, and further instruction appeared over the picture. He could read it on the kiosk for twenty-five cents, or receive a printed copy for twice that.

Francis searched his pockets and found a quarter to slip into the slot provided. Apparently coins had not changed much in the last ten years, as the machine accepted his money. The headline and picture shrank and text appeared below it. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from a coat pocket with a trembling hand, perching them on his nose before he began to read.

"In a move that has been long promised by the military government, John Felch was appointed as the first civilian leader since the inception of martial law. Mr. Felch is well known to the Joint Chiefs, as he has worked closely with them over the years in the private sector at various defense contractors and research firms."

Cold dread settled over the aging scientist as he read. It was too much of a coincidence that John Felch should rise to power scant years after his creation of the time machine. The fear that Francis felt began to grow as the article related the history of the civil unrest that began in 2009, eventually leading to the assassination of the president and vice president in 2015, and the disbanding of Congress in 2017 when the military asserted control.

"Hey, Pops!" said a loud voice from behind, drawing his attention away from the story. He turned to see a man in his early twenties wearing an Army uniform and brandishing a machine gun. The weapon was not pointed at Francis, but he realized it could be very quickly. The soldier looked wary and was clearly suspicious.

"It's almost curfew. You got your papers, old man?" he said with a scowl.

"Y-yes, of course."

_Papers? Curfew?_ Francis thought in growing consternation.

He considered pulling out his wallet, but his ID would be many years out of date. Instead he slowly slid his hand into his jacket pocket. The gun rose slightly as the soldier carefully watched Francis' movements. Gripping the PDA, he pulled his hand out in a deliberate, smooth motion intended to keep the soldier at ease. The man frowned when he saw the device come into view. It was clearly not what he was expecting.

"I have it right here," Francis said as his thumb pressed the power button.

The screen lit up with the Borrowed Time display.

The soldier narrowed his eyes as he looked at what Francis held, and the scowl deepened. The gun rose a bit more, and the barrel began to swing toward the older man.

"I don't think that's..."

The aging scientist didn't wait but pressed the button that would return him to his home time. A moment later the disturbing vision of the future faded, and he found himself back in 2008 standing in his home office. He sank gratefully into his desk chair while his heart pounded, and for a little while he thought he would be sick. As he coughed and tried to recover, the scientist wasn't sure if his reaction was from the effects of his device or from the horrific future he had experienced.

For a few moments he could only sit and try to assimilate what he had seen. Over and over his thoughts kept coming back to John Felch being named chancellor. It was a very odd title for a leader of America.

_And martial law_ , Francis reminded himself, _not to mention gunfire in the streets. How could events have gone so wrong?_

Yet, John's rise to power remained the most surprising to him. While Francis had known from the many times they had met that the CEO was an ambitious man, he had no idea that Felch held any interest in government.

He pulled a laptop computer out of a desk drawer. A few minutes later when he was able to get online he searched for "John Felch." Francis found his LinkedIn page and some articles that chronicled the executive's rise through the corporate ranks. As far as he could see, John had never taken any form of public office, not even on a small scale.

Francis frowned and connected to the Intellisys network. He logged on and started a search with the keywords "John Felch, Leader, Military." Even though he searched all areas of the network he had access to, nothing was returned.

Francis sat for a moment and considered his options. As he mulled over different solutions, his mind went inexorably to one he purposely had not thought of in a long time. It was another invention of his; one he had never been entirely comfortable with.

His first task at Intellisys had been the creation of a robust and secure computer network, and he had done his work well. Yet a small, vocal part of him had advised caution. This had driven him to create a deeply buried, secret ID called _Balrog_. It gave him god-like rights to everything on the network, including supposedly personal files. Like the dread creature he had named it after, Francis feared rousing it from its slumber, and he had long resisted the temptation. Such power could be intoxicating, and he always intended it as a final resort. He thought again of the letter hidden in his desk, then of the future he would never see. The future he hoped no one would ever have to see.

"It appears the time has come," the aging scientist muttered in the quiet room.

Francis logged off his normal ID, and then logged in as _Balrog_. He started another search with the same keywords, which quickly returned a number of results. Most were funding documents for various projects. He saw his own name on one and opened the file. It showed that the Department of Defense had been bankrolling his research that had produced the PDA. Apparently John did have close ties to the military, as a few more minutes of searching revealed that most of the projects underway at Intellisys held secret military funding.

Francis grunted to himself as he scrolled down past endless minutiae until another entry caught his eye. It was simply labeled "Plans," but what stood out was the file's location. It was the sole item found in John Felch's personal directory. The scientist hesitated, weighing the consequences of snooping in the CEO's private document. Then he remembered his appalling glimpse of the future and he double-clicked on the file.

The computer took a few moments to retrieve the file from the network, and Francis could tell it was a large one. It took almost a minute for the first pages to display. While the document continued to load he perused the table of contents. He saw entries for "Organization," "Obstacles," and "Milestones," among others. He clicked on the latter item and was presented with a bulleted list.

"Balance the parties in the Senate and House to increase government stagnation," Francis muttered, reading aloud one of the first entries from the page. As he read he saw the developing trend of a government that was more and more ineffectual, while Felch was causing increasing destabilization through several terrorist-like cells spread across the country. He stopped when he saw the part of the plan that indicated the inception of martial law in the United States, followed shortly thereafter by the United Kingdom. He already knew what came next.

Returning to the table of contents, Francis clicked on the entry for "Obstacles." There was a simple list of people and planned elimination dates. The names were familiar as many of the people held public office. As in the previous list, John plans apparently spanned the globe. It also didn't escape Francis that many of the elimination dates were actually years in the past. Some of the names were of people he recognized, that he knew were alive today. That pointed to John sending assassins or saboteurs into the past.

_With my time machine_ , the scientist thought grimly.

He felt equal parts dismay and anger as he scanned the list. Part of him wanted to throw up in his wastebasket as he read through the plans for the utter corruption of the world's governments. The rest of him boiled with rage that the executive would use his device, _his device_ , to achieve such ends.

_Not with_ my _work_ , the scientist thought vehemently.

Returning to the beginning he clicked on the link that would take him to the organizational details. Not surprisingly, John Felch was listed first with the simple title of "Leader." Below him was Paul Robbins, the security chief at Intellisys. Francis knew of Robbins, but they had only met once in passing. He was a large man with an equally large reputation, one that hinted at much with little of it being good. If half of what was said about him was true, Robbins was an extremely dangerous man. Assuming he was the student of cruelty everyone thought him to be, he seemed the perfect candidate for head of a secret police force. According to the document, if John Felch had his way that would be Paul's next job title.

The sound of his front door opening pulled Francis' attention from his sickening research. A frown crossed his face as he was expecting no visitors, and no one had a key to his home. Had he missed a car coming down his driveway? It wouldn't be the first time that he ignored the world around him as he performed his work. Francis' frown deepened, knowing this intrusion could only harbor ill for him.

He closed the laptop and quickly put it back in a drawer. Then he picked up the PDA and set it for a jump two weeks in the past. The scientist only had time to place his hands in his lap, concealing the PDA, before Paul Robbins walked in as smoothly as a shark sliding through calm waters. Francis' imagination supplied an image of the big man in a black uniform, not unlike that which the German SS wore. He blinked and the chilling garment disappeared, for the moment just a dark flight of fancy. Another man, thin with close-cut gray hair, followed Robbins into the office but remained standing near the door.

Francis realized he could escape into time, but only if he didn't return to this moment. Eventually he would run out of borrowed time and die. He would have to sacrifice himself to prevent these horrible men from accessing his work. His mind went back to the letter that lay concealed in a drawer, no longer the sole harbinger of his doom.

_Apparently my time was more fleeting than I had known_ , Francis thought ruefully, but then was struck with a firm resolve.

I will do what I must to protect the future.

Feeling no small amount of guilt that his success had made possible this distortion of the time line, Dr. Francis Bertrand straightened in his chair, ready to shoulder this burden for a future he would never see. His finger hovered over the button that represented his escape and his sacrifice. He glared into Paul's dead, black eyes and prayed he would have enough time and strength to prevent the forthcoming reality that his work had brought into being.

<http://podiobooks.com/title/borrowed-time>

Blind Curve

Dave Donelson

Benon Otema was a good man and proud, so when the village drunkard offered to tell him how a man in Kicheri became instantaneously wealthy, Benon wasn't sure he should listen. It was beneath him to be seen even talking with a drunk like Joseph Mkala, although everyone knew the man was one of Benon's best customers. In the end, Benon gave in and listened to the tale--even giving Joseph a free glass of banana gin to lubricate his tongue--but afterwards he regretted it.

Benon's trouble started a few days after the conversation, when four screws turned up missing at a particularly inopportune time. Benon had opened the twist of paper that should contain six wood screws but found it now held only two. He groaned when he saw the ragged tear where the others had rubbed their way through the paper packet while his son was carrying them home. The screws were lost forever, Benon knew, dribbled out along the three-hour walk from Bugota, where he had purchased the metal door the screws were meant to mount, to Rwenkagi, the tiny community where Benon was proudly building his newest house. He had trundled the heavy metal door over the rutted dirt road lashed securely to his bicycle while his son Dennis straggled along behind carrying a banana leaf wrapped around a fistful of nsimi for their lunch and the scrap of newspaper containing the six precious screws. Benon felt a flush of anger, then a deeper stab of self-reproach at his own foolishness in expecting the four-year-old to complete the simple but important task.

Dennis was a darling toddler with a chubby belly and a quick mischievous grin that never failed to bring a chuckle from Benon, who often marveled that the boy was unlike his other children. They loved and respected him too, of course, but they never tagged after him like Dennis did, singing a nonsense ditty to himself as if he didn't have a care in the world, kicking up the dust with his toes and stopping now and then to pick up a pebble or a twig that caught his eye. When he was with his father, he was as happy as a little boy could be. It made Benon happy to have the tiny fellow by his side.

Now, though, the boy had let him down. Without the screws, Benon could not put the new door in its frame. His house would be incomplete and the raw admiration of his neighbors would be tempered.

This was Benon's third house. Even without the new door, it was unquestionably the finest in the village, made of fire-hardened brick rather than the cheaper sun-dried ones Benon had used to build his second house. That one had been admired by his neighbors, too, because its rough, soft brick walls were a big step up from their own mud-and-wattle huts which were just like Benon's first house. Also, the second house had been roofed with corrugated tin scraps Benon had salvaged from the abandoned soldiers' quarters across the river, a marked improvement over the thatch above everyone else's heads.

That sun-dried brick house with the tin roof had been the first of its kind built in the village, something that gave Benon great satisfaction. He started it with bricks he made himself and finished it later with more bricks bought with the earnings from his work as a porter for the tourists in the mountain gorilla reserve. It was hard to both work his farm, build his house, and carry the tourist backpacks up the steep trails through the misty mountains, but Benon had done so for several years. Felicity, his wife, did much of the field work that put food on the table while Benon worked for cash that bought the bricks, course by course, and the mortar, load by load, until the second house was built. Timber for the roof joists Benon cut himself in the forest, waiting until he knew the rangers were elsewhere. If they caught him, he would have to pay either a heavy fine or a bribe; either way, it would be expensive.

The only complaint about the second house came from Felicity, who objected to its location near the dirt road that ran through town. Every vehicle that passed raised a cloud of dust, she said, and much of it drifted into the new house. It was farther away from the fields, too, so that she had a longer walk to and from work every day.

Felicity stopped complaining when, not long after the house was done, Benon's neighbors elected him to the village council in recognition that a man of his seriousness and accomplishments would be likely to give good advice to the headman. The appointment fueled Benon's ambitions, although he was careful to keep any trace of swagger out of his walk and to remain deferential to his seniors on the council. He also worked hard to keep both his houses in good repair. Soon, several others in the village started building sun-dried brick homes of their own.

His neighbors also followed Benon's footsteps to the tourist camp, swelling the rota of available porters and reducing the number of treks Benon could work each week. Benon was resourceful, however, and turned the oversupply of labor to his advantage by mounting a double seat on the back of his bicycle so that he could earn a few shillings taxiing his weary fellow porters back and forth between the village and the tourist lodge. He could have earned more on any given day as a porter, but there was no assurance that he would work each day. The bicycle taxi business, though, had customers every day, so his total earnings were greater. Besides, while the porters were tromping up and down the mountainsides, Benon could attend to his other affairs, returning only at the end of the day to pick them up again. A motor scooter would have been even better, but Benon couldn't possibly save enough money to buy one. Unlike a new house, which you can buy a brick at a time if you need to, the entire purchase price of a motor scooter was expected at once.

When the first neighbor completed a sun-dried brick house just like his, Benon decided it was necessary to start building a grander home. Fortunately, Felicity had provided the means, albeit unwittingly, by bearing two sons in two years, then two daughters before she had Dennis. The two boys were now old enough to not only work the field, allowing Benon to run the bicycle taxi service full time, but they could be trusted to tend a still Benon built to make banana gin near his old mud-and-wattle house where the boys now slept. He had put it there so the smoke from the constantly-burning wood fire under the drum of slow-boiling banana wine would blow away from the new house. It was also close enough for the boys to keep an eye on the simmering still but far enough so that if it exploded, Benon's new house would not be destroyed.

Felicity also gave him two daughters. The younger of them had a twisted leg but she got around fairly well. Now she was old enough to sell tomatoes and yams at a table by the side of the road. She also sold the banana wine and gin made by her brothers.

Felicity lost a baby after the girls were born and Benon assumed his family was complete. But, three years after the birth of the girl with the twisted leg, Dennis came along, a big surprise to everyone. His mother treated him like found treasure; his sisters like a doll. Even Benon, ambitious and busy as he was, often found time to scoop him up and nuzzle his bare belly, which always sent the baby into gales of squeals and giggles. Dennis was now sturdy enough to be helpful around the house like the other children, although the loss of the screws had shown Benon the little boy wasn't good for much yet.

The older girl was the real prize. She was a beauty even at fourteen, with long, lithe legs, wide hips that promised easy childbearing, and a perky upturned nose above full lips that spoke of sweet nuzzlings in the night for her lucky husband. Her face made the newest house possible when a wealthy man in a neighboring village paid a spectacular bride price for her--sixteen cows!

Benon bartered the cows for enough fire-hardened--not sun-dried--bricks to build his newest house. He should have kept at least some of the cows so his sons would be able to buy brides when their time came, but Benon figured they could fend for themselves as he had done. He had received no help from his own father, why should they? It would be good for them to show their mettle by earning their own brides just as Benon had done. Besides, he needed every shilling from the cows to buy enough bricks to build a house. Those bricks were much better than the sun-dried ones he had used in the house by the road. They were harder so they would last much longer and more uniformly shaped so they could be set in neater, more compact lines with less mortar making a stronger bond. Above all, they spoke of richness, of accomplishment that put the owner of such a house apart from his fellow villagers. Benon set the newest house back from the road on a little hillock that raised it above the surrounding fields and made it clearly visible from nearly everywhere in Rwenkagi. When the new house was completed, the older one would become a store or perhaps a tavern by the road.

The missing screws were delaying the whole project, though. Benon carefully folded the two remaining screws into the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He contemplated the sturdy door with its sheet metal panels welded to two rails and three stiles and crisscrossed by steel bars for extra stiffness. He had already painted the outside a brilliant cobalt blue and the inside gunmetal gray using left-over sign paint he had found in the dump near the gorilla camp. The hinges were riveted to the door ready to be screwed to the wooden frame around the opening in the brick wall. Now, that step would have to wait until Benon had the hardware to complete the job.

The door wasn't to be the ultimate glory of the new house. Benon hadn't told anyone yet, but he intended to roof his newest home with kiln-fired clay tiles like those atop the headman's mansion in Bugota. Such a roof would be wildly expensive, but that would also make it utterly out of the reach of any potential rivals. Benon thought it might be just the touch he needed to cement his own selection as headman of Rwenkagi, a position that would be open once the current village leader died without an heir. As the most prosperous man in the village, Benon would be the logical choice. A roof of kiln-fired tiles atop walls of fire-hardened bricks and a shiny cobalt blue metal door would surely ensure his selection.

Benon told Felicity he would be home late because he had to return to Bugota to replace the screws. As he mounted his bicycle, she meekly suggested that one of their neighbors might have a few screws on hand that he could buy, but he dismissed her and pedaled away. What did a woman know? To beg hardware from his neighbors would be revealing to them a weakness. What would they think?

He pedaled past the shops selling carved gorillas and small baskets woven from tough-stemmed grass, the tea shed where his least-capable neighbors brought their bags of freshly-picked tea leaves to be sold to the company buyer for a pittance despite the painstaking hours spent gathering them, past the houses where entrepreneurial neighbors operated beauty parlors, vegetable stands, and even a pool hall with one moth-eaten table, two warped cues, and sixteen nicked and beaten balls. On Sundays, Benon took a few bottles of gin to the pool hall to sell.

As Benon coasted to the bottom of the hill past the pool hall, he was nearly knocked over by a truck full of tourists rounding the curve from below. Benon jumped off his bike just in time to drag it safely into a ditch, but the call was a close one. The truck didn't slow as the driver wove furiously back and forth across the dirt road to avoid the worst of the ruts and washouts. Pedestrians--and bicyclists--weren't visible to him, although a white woman with an expression of horror on her face looked out the side window to see if Benon was all right. As Benon caught his breath from the close call, he remembered the story Joseph Mkala had told in the pool hall after a glass of Benon's banana gin.

"Did you hear of the good bad fortune that a man in Kicheri had last month?" Joseph asked, his words only slightly slurred by the gin.

"What man?" Benon had replied.

"I do not know his name, but everyone there knows him. He became very wealthy in an unfortunate way. That's why I said he had good bad fortune."

At the mention of wealth, Joseph had Benon's full attention. "What did he do?" Benon asked.

"He did nothing himself," the storyteller answered. "His child--I do not know if it was a boy or a girl--brought him a fortune by running across the road." Sensing Benon's interest, Joseph fell silent.

"What? I don't understand," Benon said.

"I said I do not know if it was a boy or a girl, but there was money involved." Joseph glanced nonchalantly at his empty glass, but did not touch it. Benon took the bait and filled it anyway, then leaned forward.

"What happened?"

"A truck carrying a rich tourist and his wife to a game drive in the Lake Virunda circuit ran over the child. It was killed instantly right before its father's eyes."

Benon sat back in his chair, horrified at the thought, while Joseph drained the glass. Benon could imagine his own despair at seeing the mangled flesh of a child, blood seeping from the eyes as he had seen in a goat struck by a speeding truck one time. His stomach wrenched as he imagined Dennis suffering such a painful death.

Joseph Mkala cleared his throat as he put his glass on the plank serving as a bar. "It was very sad," he said, "but also very fortunate." When puzzlement replaced shock on Benon's face, Joseph pushed the empty glass toward him. Benon regarded it, weighed the price of the rest of the story, then reluctantly gave in and dribbled out a few drops more.

The old man sipped again before he continued. "A policeman was summoned, of course, but the driver claimed the child ran in front of him so fast he could not stop. The people of Kicheri raised an uproar, however, and the policeman ordered the driver to surrender his license. It was then that the rich tourist took the policeman aside and spoke quietly to him. They stepped behind the truck for a moment, then the policeman came out and summoned the man whose child had been killed. The policeman talked to him behind the truck with the rich tourist. When they came back, the man carried away his dead child without a word and the policeman told everyone to go home. The matter was settled. The next week, the man bought a motorbike and everyone knew what had happened. It is a common thing. I thought everyone knew of it."

When Joseph Mkala said it that way, Benon dismissed the story as an unreliable rumor on its way to becoming a legend, embellished in the telling, repeated with just enough detail to sound true but not enough to verify. He regretted the two glasses of gin the story had cost him. It was probably no more true than the tale he had heard the rangers tell the tourists many times on the gorilla trek to scare them into following the rules. In the rangers' fable, a visitor just the week before violated the rules and slipped away from his tour group to get a better photo of the silverback. The poor fool fired his camera's flash in the massive male's face, the rangers always said, and lost not only the camera but his arm, which the gorilla ripped right out of its socket. The story wasn't true, but it excited the tourists while helping to keep them in line during the trek.

Now, Benon tasted the dust from the truck as he got back on his bicycle and continued toward Bugota. He tried to shake off Joseph's story, to bury it again deep in his mind where it had lain festering since he first heard it. What a horrible thing for a man to do, accept money for the death of his child. Such a thing was as bad as the stories Benon had heard of people who sold their children into servitude. At least the man in Joseph's story didn't purposefully push his child in front of the tourists' vehicle--or did he? Benon wondered.

He also wondered whether it was a boy or a girl child who was killed. Each would have different value. A boy would work for his father until he became a man and set off on his own. You had to feed him and clothe him, of course, and there was the cost of his education, which was now mandated by the government, but a male child was generally a money-making proposition. A girl, though, couldn't do as much work. She still had to be clothed and fed, too, although school was optional. A girl became prohibitively expensive if she didn't bring a large bride price, which was much more common than not. Benon knew he had been very, very fortunate to receive the high price he got for his older girl. They young one might well not ever marry, which meant she would be a burden for the rest of her life. Unlike a boy, you couldn't just push a girl out into the world to fend for herself when the time came.

The man at the building supply lot where Benon had bought his door that morning was getting ready to leave when Benon pedaled into his lot. He paused, his hand on the padlock already threaded through the hasp on his shop door.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked.

"I need some screws," Benon answered as he stepped off his bicycle. "Like these you sold me this morning." He pulled the twist of paper out of his pocket and unwrapped it to show the screws to the man. "I need four more."

"I remember you," the man said. "You gave the screws to the little boy, didn't you? Did he lose them?" Benon nodded sheepishly. The man didn't say anything else, just pulled the padlock out of the hasp and went inside. As Benon started to follow, he came back out with four screws in his palm. "You were lucky I hadn't left yet. Anything else?"

Benon started to shake his head as he twisted the screws into the paper and put them in his pocket, then thought of something. "How much do you charge for kiln-fired clay tiles? Like the ones on the headman's house?"

The man didn't answer right away, and Benon thought he was sizing him up to see if he could afford such extravagance. Finally, the man named a price that was higher than Benon had imagined. He did some quick calculation and realized the roof tiles would cost more than the rest of the house. The only way he would be able to afford them would be though another windfall, although he didn't say that to the merchant.

Benon kept his expression neutral as if he shopped for such luxuries all the time. "I'll figure out how many I need and get back to you," he said.

"Of course," the merchant said. Benon felt the man's gaze on the back of his neck as he pedaled away. At least he doesn't live in Rwenkagi, Benon thought. With luck, no one from the village would come into the shop before the man forgot how Dennis had lost the screws.

Anger at the boy again bubbled up as Benon pedaled down the rutted road. He pulled over to let pass a truck loaded with plantains. It wasn't a close call, but the sound of the huge tires crunching on the road was scary. He imagined what they would feel like rolling over a leg stretched on the ground. How they would grind it into a mangled mess.

Benon's younger daughter was in no pain from her twisted leg, although it slowed her considerably. Unlike her older sister, the girl would never marry, of course, and Benon frequently complained to Felicity that the girl was likely to become a burden. She retorted that at least he didn't have to pay for an education for her like he did for the boys. What's more, she reminded him, the girl would be around to care for the two of them when they became old, so he should be grateful to have her. And he was, most of the time. Still, it would be nice to get a bride price for her or some other ready cash.

About half way home, Benon had to swerve around a stalk of plantains that had fallen from the truck. He started to stop, but realized the edible ones had already been stripped from the stalk. As he passed, he remembered Dennis tagging along behind him in the banana grove behind their old house. Like he always did, the boy was imitating his father's every action: as Benon stacked the spent banana stalks to dry so they could be burned, Dennis made his own little pile of dry fronds; when Benon stopped working to wipe the sweat from his face, Dennis rubbed his grubby hand over his own forehead. Benon bent over to yank a particularly stubborn stalk from the ground but didn't get it on the first pull. As he straightened to gather his breath for another try, Dennis darted over and wrapped his stubby arms around the thick trunk. He pulled up with all his tiny might and the stalk, looser than Benon thought, popped free. Dennis toppled backward rolling head over heels. The thought of it made Benon laugh.

It was almost dark when Benon pedaled past the pool hall. Joseph Mkala was leaning in the doorway. His head turned to follow Benon but his eyes weren't focused so Benon figured he probably didn't recognize him. What a disgusting waste of a man, Benon thought. What a horrible story he had told, a lie no doubt.

Benon chained his bicycle to a porch railing on his sun-dried brick home. Tomorrow is Saturday, he remembered. It is market day in the village and a new wave of tourists would be arriving as others depart, clogging the road with their vehicles. He thought it would be a good day to set up a stand by the side of the road where his daughter with the twisted leg could sell yams and bananas and perhaps a few bottles of gin. Dennis could help her; he was big enough now. The perfect spot would be at the bend in the road where the tourist trucks slowed to make the blind curve.

<http://podiobooks.com/title/heart-of-diamonds>

Holy Rites

Emerian Rich

"No! Papa!"

Sandro's life had been rich before that scream. It had been joyous and full of happiness. He had a wife, a daughter, and a profitable tile business in Sora, Italy. Every Sunday, he attended Mass, tithed to the church, and believed God cared for him.

But he never really understood God's true ways until that night.

"No! Papa! Help!" His daughter's last words tore at his heart like a dull blade, leaving pieces of heartache in every part of him.

His wife shot up in bed beside him. "Sandro!"

He grabbed his knife from under the bed and ran towards his daughter's room. Two men stood in the hall, one holding his daughter. They wore robes, with hoods hanging low over their faces.

Sandro raced forward, attempting to knock down the one with his daughter as his wife struggled to free her. Arms from behind him, held him back as another man took hold of his wife. Sandro's knife fell to the ground.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he screamed. "I'll give you whatever you want, just let them go!"

They said nothing. Dark looming figures, they moved mechanically, slowly, but with force. A hand over his mouth obscured his vision and soon he didn't hear his daughter or wife scream anymore. In fact... all sound was gone. He fell to the floor as his assailant dropped him and joined his brothers in the bedroom. In the dim light, Sandro could see the outline of his two girls, eyes open, necks slacked, piled on the floor like forgotten dolls. Blood pooled beneath their heads and Sandro's breath left him.

* * *

Sandro woke in a dungeon with his hands and mouth bound. The smell of damp earth overwhelmed him. Alone in the small cell of stone, he sat up. Straw covered the floor and very little light came from a candle in a rudimentary sconce affixed to the wall. There was a door, but he could no more open it than move.

Sandro spent hours crying for the death of his loved ones. He fell back to the cold stone floor, exhausted from grief. A tap and click came from the door. Two boys not more than ten years of age came in with water buckets and washed his face and chest. Sandro's eyes pleaded for help, but the boys would not make eye contact. When they left, a man in a robe – the same sort of robe as the men who killed Sandro's family – came into the cell. Though bound, Sandro scooted back as far as he could, his back flat against the wall as his mind swam with visions of torture.

Pushing his hood back, the man inspected Sandro with a sympathetic gaze.

"I know, it has been horrible for you," he said. His dark eyes, deep set into his face, were ringed in yellow topaz. Skin white as the Alps, his hair gray and cropped close, revealing a balding pate.

Sandro blinked back tears as he thought of his family.

The man frowned, stepping away and took a seat on a wooden crate by the door. "Sandro. Your name means 'Defender of Man'. Not a more befitting name could have been chosen for you. For God, in his infinite wisdom, has selected you to be his personal Defender of Man."

Unable to comprehend what the man said, Sandro wiped his bound hands against his face to move hair that hung in his eyes.

"I am Father Rafael and I was brought here much the same as you. I shall tell you what my mentor told me.

"Your family was precious, a gift from God to make your mortal life as pleasurable as possible, but now, the Lord has need of you. You shall be his servant on Earth, a protector of innocence, a warrior of the church. Your family did not suffer. They wait for you in heaven while you serve your holy purpose. One day, you will meet them again as a reward for your service to the Lord. So, don't mourn them. They are with God and the angels, praising your name."

Sandro felt a glow of happiness encircle him. Father Rafael came towards him. Sandro smiled behind his gag.

"Let us remove these vile bindings and go begin your service to God."

* * *

Candlelight flickered behind Father Rafael as Sandro knelt at an altar in a dungeon ceremonial room and looked up at his new mentor. There were five other men in attendance, all dressed in robes similar to Father Rafael. One, Father Rafael had called Monsignor, donned a red, intricate brocaded sash around his neck. He was a large, bear of a man and a little shorter than Father Rafael who stood tall and thin next to him.

"Sons of God and servants of heaven," the Monsignor said. "Let us observe the gift before us with unsullied eyes. Let us bless him with our compassion and praise God on high for such a perfect and holy child. Let us become his teachers, his mentors."

"Let it be so," the priests said in chorus.

The Monsignor spoke to Sandro. "What is your name, my son?"

"Sandro Gabrielli," Sandro found himself saying in a monotone voice.

"Sandro Gabrelli, do you believe in the power of God to work in your life?"

"Yes."

"Then repeat after me. Dear Lord, remove from my mind..."  
Sandro repeated each sentence as an echo after the Monsignor.

"Every thought or opinion which You would not sanction. Every feeling from my heart which You would not approve. Grant that I may spend the night working for You, according to Your will, according to Your wish for peace. Grant that I may wield the strength and power You have given me to destroy Your foe. That I may grant security to Your followers here on Earth."

Once Sandro repeated the last sentence, the Monsignor smiled.

"Let us begin The Rite."

Father Rafael stepped forward. "Sandro, my son, we shall now offer up to the Lord, your body and soul. If it is deemed worthy, you shall be now and forever His servant of justice. Lie on the altar."

Sandro lay on top of the altar, a chalice and knife above his head. In a normal state of mind, the knife might have scared Sandro, but he had such an overwhelming feeling of euphoria, it didn't occur to him to fear.

Father Rafael bent over Sandro, his ear to his heart. As he pulled back, Sandro saw Father Rafael's fangs for the first time. Before Sandro could even blink, the fangs sank in his neck. Not pain, but a state of higher consciousness came over him. It felt as if he were outside of his body looking down on the scene. He watched as one and then another of the priests took a turn drinking from his neck.

"Papa!" His daughter's voice called to him. He turned towards her voice and saw his beloved daughter and wife in a glowing white light.

"Sandro, my love!" his wife called. They smiled, waving at him to come be with them in heaven.

"It's true, then," Sandro said. "You are in heaven after all."

"Come, Papa!"

Sandro drifted forward into the loving arms of his two heavenly girls. He felt his wife's kiss on his cheek.

"Oh, Ines, I thought I'd lost you," he said, squeezing them to him with all of his might.

Suddenly the light around him plunged into darkness as if he was attached to an infinite rubber band that snapped back into place. He tried to grasp at his wife and daughter, but they vanished. The slam of his spirit back into body sent him into spasms. Something was being poured into his mouth. He couldn't breathe. Coughing and sputtering, he found himself back in the ceremonial room, his body throbbing in pain.

He heard Father Rafael's voice in his ear. "Drink, my son. Let the blood of the Lord fill you and make you His creature."

Although he fought it, they forced the liquid down his throat even as he gasped for air. Nothingness consumed him.

* * *

When he awoke, Father Rafael stood over him, a proud smile on his face.

"God has found you worthy of His gift of eternal life."

Sandro blinked, breathing in what seemed like fresh ocean air. He had never felt as good. He was weak, to be sure, but all aches and pains were gone.

"Now sleep, my child." Father Rafael placed a hand over Sandro's eyes, making them close. "This evening we will begin your spiritual journey."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Sandro learned the customs and rituals of the holy sect of vampires. According to Father Rafael, God had chosen him to be a warrior against evil. Soon, Sandro would be parish priest at an outpost in Brazil. He would guide others into the life of killing for God. To teach Sandro more about other parishes and get him involved in the leading of Mass and communion, Father Rafael took him to see many parishes in Italy.One night, Sandro asked, "Father Rafael, may I ask, what is that necklace you wear under your robes?"

Father Rafael smiled. "Even in immortality we are creatures of habit." He pulled on the silk cord around his neck, causing the silver charm to fall into his palm. "This is called an Ankh. It was given to me by my maker."

"What does it symbolize?"

"The Egyptians held it as a power symbol meaning life and energy. It brought Solan great comfort in his last days."

"Did he make you as you did me?"

"Things were a little different then. I was one of the first. The ceremony and rites were not as formed. Unfortunately, Solan lost his faith in the end. He was our leader, but only in title. The Monsignor had taken over long before, he claimed, by Solan's granting. As the Monsignor became the one to commune with God, Solan became more removed from us. A couple of weeks before his death, he came to me. He asked where he was and where his family had gone.

"I said, 'You are a servant of our Lord, made before any of us were born, what family could you have left?'  
"He said, 'No, just yesterday I was with my family. We ate and then slept. Then I woke here. Why am I here? And why do I thirst for blood?'

"I don't know what happened. Was he simply a mad vampire, living beyond his sane years? Had his spirit spoiled? Or changed? I will never know, but in his last days, as I sat with him for nights on end as his body rejected any sort of blood we tried to feed him, this object brought him comfort." Father Rafael admired the necklace, running his thumb over the silver metal as if it might hold some secret he had to puzzle out.

"Father," Sandro paused, wondering how to phrase the sentence so it did not sound heretical.

"What is it my son? You may ask me anything. We have no secrets between us."

"Have you ever thought of leaving the church? You have been serving for so long. Do you not yearn for an easier life?"

Father Rafael smiled. "Yes. I have, but every time I think I will retire, God brings me back into his service."

"Back in? What do you mean?"

A knock at the door silenced their discussion.

"Father Rafael?" An altar boy stood by the door, bowing his head slightly as he spoke.

"Yes, my son?"

"We are ready to begin."

"Of course, we'll come anon." Father Rafael waited until the door closed again before he spoke to Sandro. "You will know what I mean when it happens to you. God has a grand plan, and we are but dutiful pawns."

* * *

Sandro's apprenticeship took him many places he'd never been. The cathedrals they visited were landmarks of finery, with large marble halls and intricate stained glass windows. When they reached Genoa's border, Father Rafael held a hand to Sandro's chest.

"Wait. There is something wrong."

He led Sandro around the city, coming to the cathedral the long way, entering a side entrance. As soon as they stepped into the building, a cold dread crept up Sandro's spine.

"Blood Warriors," Father Rafael whispered with fear in his voice.

"Who are..."

"Shh." Father Rafael led him silently under the rib-vaulted arches running parallel to the great nave, to a row of pews. "Stay here, stay down."

Sandro hid between the pews, fear causing his fangs extend and his vision sharpen. He peeked around the pew as Father Rafael crept forward to the confessional. From inside, Sandro heard a faint human heartbeat. Father Rafael swung the door open, revealing an altar boy from their home parish at Sora. The boy screamed and then ran into Father Rafael's arms.

"Father! I'm so happy to see you! We thought you were..."

"Vinicius, whatever are you doing here?"

"I came with Sergio and Aldo to warn you. The vampire army is coming after you. They have killed the Monsignor and all the other priests. They plan to kill us all. Why does God allow it, Father?"

Father Rafael did not hide his horror at the facts before him and he looked about the cathedral suspiciously as if the walls had ears. "Where are Sergio and Aldo?"

From the look of loss on the boy's face, Sandro knew they were dead. He'd not been in their family long, but the impact of the death of so many at once chilled him to the bone. Sandro closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and allowing the grief to pass over him rather than deal with it at that moment.

"I heard them coming. I hid in the confessional, praying they would not find me."

"Come." Father Rafael led the boy back to where Sandro hid. Speaking quieter, Father Rafael said, "We must leave this place. They don't know we are here, we can leave and regroup before confronting them."

"No, Father! They know you are coming. They don't know about Father Sandro, but they found your itinerary in Aldo's pack. They had to feed, but they will be back. They said you are the last one. Only after you are dead, will they head home.

Father Rafael took the information in. He nodded. "I see. Very well." He took the ankh from his neck and the small prayer book he kept in his inside pocket. "Sandro, it is up to you, my son. You are the only one to carry on God's work. Vinicius, here, will assist you, yes?"

"Of course, Father," Vinicius said.

"But Father, I am not ready. I don't know all the..."

"You must be ready. I'm sorry to place such a great burden on one so young to our life, but this is how it is." Father Rafael's head snapped up, towards the front door of the cathedral and then he looked back at Sandro, a hurried look in his eyes. "It's God's plan, remember? You shall be blessed." He kissed Sandro on the forehead, shoving the prayer book and necklace into his hands. "Now go!"

Sandro and Vinicius left Father Rafael as he stood and walked to the altar. He knelt, crossed himself and looked up at the massive crucifix hung above the apse, inlaid with gold. "If it be in Your infinite wisdom, oh Lord, grant me thy protection. May Your Angels guard and keep me the way I must travel, till my earth days are done..."  
As Sandro walked to the door, he could feel the evil presence near. He could feel the hatred and animosity that bubbled in their souls.

He turned to Vinicius. "Go. They may hear your heart."

"But they didn't hear it last time and Father Ra-" Vinicius said.

"Go! I command you. Disguise yourself, remove your robe if you have to. Find other coverings. Wait at the end of town. As soon as it is done, I shall come for you."

"Yes, Father." Vinicius ran out the side entrance.

Sandro hid behind a large statue and prayed he stayed concealed. The doors of the cathedral slammed open, revealing three tall figures dress in black armor. One was a young woman who had black curly locks, tied at her neck, but flowing down past her waist. A man of perhaps middle age with crimson red eyes and battle scars across his right cheek stood beside her. The last, and perhaps the most impressive, stood in front. He had a strong build and long ebony hair, straight and shiny in the dim light.

Father Rafael stood and faced them. He had no weapon in his folded hands and no means to defend himself. Sandro closed his eyes, unsure he could watch his Sire die. His instinct was to rush the warriors, fight to his death to protect Father Rafael. But he had no weapon and no hope of overcoming the stronger vampires.

"So, we meet the elder, Rafael Donato, at last," the lead warrior said, smirking as his companions chuckled. "It will be an honor to dispatch you to your Lord after, what? Over 700 years?"

"I am not concerned," Father Rafael said.

"Not concerned?" He laughed to his friends. "It is natural to be scared of the fatal blow. Who are you that you do not fear death?"

"Who are you that you harm a servant of the Lord?"

The warrior stood straighter and his eyes narrowed on Father Rafael. "Not a servant of the Lord. A servant of deviltry. You who tell lies to believers of the church? You who hide their true nature behind religion and ceremony? Do you think yourself beyond abolishment? Those born of the devil shall die a devil's death. We have dispatched all your brothers to Hell. You shall join them soon."

"Hell? If you kill me, I shall go to heaven."

"Let us find out." The warrior pulled his sword, a gleam in his eye telling of his lust for battle. "I have him," he said to the other two warriors. "Check the other rooms."

"We have, Commander, only altar boys were left. We've dispatched them all," the woman said.

"Well done. See to the troops. We shall leave shortly."

"As you wish," the woman said. She and the other man bowed and left the cathedral.

"Are you ready to die?" the commander asked Father Rafael.

"If that is what God wishes, yes."

"No fight left in you?"  
"Not against His will."

"Very well. I, Adrien Demos, on behalf of the Royal Blood Guard shall dispatch you in the name of our King, Domino Augustinos. You've been found wanting of moral character. So saith we!"

Father Rafael closed his eyes as Adrien sliced. Sandro turned away as his mentor's head toppled to the floor.

Sandro continued to hide as the Blood Warriors dragged Father Rafael's body into the courtyard and set it ablaze. Soon they were gone and Sandro was left alone to ponder his grief in the silent cathedral. He knelt in front of the altar, staring up at the crucifix. How could he live his life for a God that would not spare even a loyal servant such as Father Rafael?

Father Rafael's words echoed in his ears. "God has a grand plan, and we are but dutiful pawns."

Sandro contemplated his future. He did not want to serve a God who killed his family and his mentor in a matter of months, just to do the same to him after an eternal life of service. It seemed utterly pointless. And yet, where could he go? What could he do? He had little money and no home. He didn't even know how to find others like himself.

"Father Sandro?" Vinicius's voice came from the side entrance. "Is it done?"  
"Yes," Sandro said, resigned to his future of heavenly service. "It is done."

<http://podiobooks.com/title/nights-knights>

The Siege

Katharina Maimer

Wien, August 1683.

Franz sat down on the edge of the fountain while the younger Dorde stood up straight, constantly checking left and right. The Beschützer was nervous, impatient and thoroughly unhappy with the man he was supposed to protect. In Dorde's opinion, merely being a member of the royal family didn't prevent Franz from being stupid. Dorde was in his mid-twenties, tall, strong, well-muscled and assigned to protect the older man, Franz, who was a Wächter, a keeper of the secrets of coffee. It was in this rôle that he was currently sitting in the middle of Austria's capital, Wien, on this particular hot summer afternoon. After weeks over the air being unbearably hot, a fierce summer rain had fallen over Wien the previous night, cleaning the dirty city streets as well as cooling the air. The Beschützer was more nervous than Franz had seen for a long time, pacing up and down the length of the fountain, perfectly alert, but with a sheen of sweat clearly visible on his forehead.

"Dorde, we can't go back just yet. Our mission is too important, we need to stay."

"What else do you think we can do here? Almost all of Europe is at war! There are hordes of Turkish soldiers in front of the city gates. Should we go there and brew them some coffee?"

"No, of course not! But maybe we could be of help in some other way! We have lived in Turkey for such a long time... maybe we can... I dunno..."

"This is not what we came here for! We were supposed to come here and stay for a year or two, spread the knowledge about coffee amongst the people here and then return safely. We have already spent several years in Turkey and I do understand why you wanted to come to Wien, but seriously... you know as well as I that we have to go back to our world. You are ageing more rapidly here and by the time we get back to Neu Meidling you'll be an old man! Have you thought about your kids? Your wife?"

"I think about them every day, Dorde, but there is a greater goal to be achieved here. They are perfectly safe, back in our world, but the people here are suffering. This is already the SECOND time the Turks have tried to take over Wien. Our wealth comes from spreading the knowledge amongst the people here. We can't just pack our bags and leave!"

"You have been here for too long, become too attached, Franz. It is time to go, believe me."

Franz wasn't listening to his companion anymore. His thoughts trailed off, back to the time he spent working in Turkey, teaching them coffee-brewing techniques as his sister, the queen, had assigned him. It was a long-standing tradition for the members of the royal family to spend a few years in this world, teaching about coffee and working with coffee before returning to Neu Meidling. One of the reasons no-one stayed longer than two years was that Wächter aged much faster in this world than the people here did, even more than the Beschützer assigned to them. He thought back to his wife and kids; he certainly missed them a great deal, yet her also loved this new world he was in, the people and everything around him. If he were being completely honest with himself, he had already thought about sending Dorde back to Neu Meidling alone, but something deep inside told Franz that his Beschützer was not going to budge one tiny bit from his side.

"It doesn't matter now, Dorde. We need to go back to the others."

* * *

The general sat at his desk, his brow furrowed in a combination of worry and concentration as he pored over an array of maps and reports spread out in front of him.

"What's wrong?" Dorde whispered to the soldier standing closest.

"The Turks are closing in and the Emperor's army is still too far away. The general is getting nervous, King Sobiesky too. They need them to come to our aid quickly but have no idea how to get through the Turks' camps."

"Hmmm..." while Dorde was still deep in thought, he saw his companion slipping out of the mass of people, approaching the general.

"I'll do it," said Franz. "I am an interpreter, fluent in Turkish. It would be easy for me to blend in and get through the camps."

"No..." his Beschützer whispered, unheard to the people around him.

It was settled. Franz Kolschitzky, an interpreter in the king's army, was to walk through the Turkish camps and get the message to the Emperor's army that they must free the city. Dorde was so deeply worried that he could hardly speak. Living in this world had taken its toll on Franz and it was his job, after all, to protect him and get him back safely. So far, he had failed with an unforeseen perfection. He reached into his pocket, touching the cold metal of the pendant inside. Since the war began, Dorde had been carrying Franz' pendant in his pocket. The older man had given it to him for safekeeping, almost as if he didn't want anything to do with it anymore, as though Franz had passed the decision over to his Beschützer. The decision when the day would arrive that they would finally head back to their world, but that could not be far enough away for the Wächter.

For Dorde, it seemed that the pendant was much more valuable. It was the ticket back to their world, their Pass.

Traditionally, it was the Wächter who carried the Pass with him. Once it was time to travel to this world, a century-old ceremony was executed to find out what a person's Pass was. It was certainly not just any random thing, but that physical object which meant the most in the world to the bearer; something that would keep them grounded and get them back to the other world. For Franz, it was the pendant his grandfather gave him when he was a little boy. It was not clear for everyone what it was that meant the most to them in the whole world, but nobody would have needed a ceremony to figure out what it was going to be for Franz.

* * *

"I knew this wasn't going to work! What a stupid idea!" Dorde exclaimed.

The two men were bound together, hands and feet chained, sitting on the dirty floor of a Turkish army tent. They had been caught right outside the city walls, with their horse and small carriage in tow, loaded with goods that were strange and foreign to the soldiers laying siege on Wien. Naturally, they assumed that those two strange men, though able to speak to them in their own tongue, must be the enemy.

"Don't you trust me?" Franz asked, his voice completely calm.

"Hmmmm. Let me think. Instead of being back in Neu Meidling with our families, we are sitting in the middle of a war, bound together as prisoners in a Turkish tent. So, NO, I don't trust you anymore."

"I see your point," Franz replied, but his thoughts, voice and look trailed away again.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, yes. Of course I'm listening to you. I am just trying to think of how we'll convince them that we aren't Austrian. That's all. I will get us out of this. When this is all over and done, we'll go home. Okay?"

"Pf! If only I could believe you!" the Beschützer grunted.

"I told you months ago that you could go back without me."

"Yes, at the same time I told you that I don't think I can go back with your pendant. Nor could I leave you behind without a way to get home."

"I AM home, Dorde!" he insisted quietly.

"It is my duty as a Beschützer to protect you and you know that just as well as I do. If that means sitting, bound together as prisoners in the middle of a war zone on a task that is completely crazy, then so be it."

"This isn't your war. You should've gone home."

"It isn't yours, either! You are Franz Schindler-Kolschitzky, prince of Neu Meidling, brother to the queen. You are a Wächter, a guardian of the secrets of coffee. You are no translator, no soldier and no footman to some king of this world!"

Dorde was angry. He was exhausted. He was too young to be stuck in this world with this guy who had forgotten who he was, just because of a century-old tradition that made him Franz' protector and guard. If only he had his own Pass to travel back and forth. With his own pendant, or whatever it might have been, he could return home without leaving Franz stranded in this world. No matter how practical it was that more than one person, usually Wächter and their Beschützer, could travel together, it was always possible that one could go rogue. It had never been heard of but, as Dorde could see in his own mess, there was always a first time. He didn't blame Franz and he knew it wasn't done with bad intentions. The Wächter was just elsewhere; in heart, body and soul. For what it was worth, he actually admired the older man a little; he wished that one day he too would feel such belonging to a place as Franz did now. It wouldn't be THIS place, of course; he was sure of that. He made a mental note to himself that he would go to his father when he was back in Neu Meidling and ask him to talk to the queen about Beschützer getting their own Passes in the future.

Though it seemed like an eternity sitting on the dirty ground, in the end Franz Kolschitzky turned out to have been right. He was able to convince the Turkish soldiers that he was just a lowly merchant from Belgrade, travelling though and trying to trade his goods in the camps outside the walls of Vienna. Within a few hours, they were sitting together with the Turkish soldiers, chatting, laughing and keeping up their act quite well. The only downside was that Franz ended up having to sell a few of his things before he could leave the camp and continue his journey to the Emperor's army. He managed to get a few pots and pans to brew coffee from the Turks as well, convincing them that back in Belgrade people would surely love coffee and that he was planning on starting a trade in coffee as well. With a wide grin he exclaimed that as soon as they had taken over Wien, the trade would be so much easier for him.

The next day, fully loaded with new goods, Franz and Dorde were able to head off. It didn't take them long to reach the Emperor's Army. There was quite an uproar upon their arrival, because the Emperor's generals couldn't believe how easily the two men had managed to pass through the Turkish camps completely unscathed.

"We will have plenty of time to hear your story in full, Mr Kolschitzky, once we have reclaimed good old Wien."

With the help of the Emperor's army, King Sobiesky's troops were successful in defending Wien and chasing away the Turks. The people of Wien were free once again from the threat outside their city gates. Franz Kolschitzky was a hero. He was the one who saved Wien and the Holy Roman Empire from the Turkish invasion. No-one had doubted that, once they had Wien, they would have tried to take over the rest of Europe as well. Dorde was happy that the war was finally over, in his mind already going through the stories he would tell once he got back to Neu Meidling. It was as though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Now, they could finally go back home.

* * *

The Turks had left everything behind, only taking what they could carry as they fled their tents outside Wien. Many treasures were found when the tents were raided. The king was very happy with the spoils he received, so he asked Franz Kolschitzky, the man who had saved the city, to name his price. Franz didn't want much, but he had seen something in the tents that was unknown to the people in Wien: dozens of bags of coffee beans. Not knowing what to do with them, the soldiers were sure to just throw them away.

"My king, I only did it for the people of Wien! All I can ask for are the bags of beans before your soldiers throw them away."

King Sobiesky agreed to his terms. After all, he didn't care much about the bags of bitter tasting beans. So long as the Emperor didn't meddle with his price, it was fine with him. It was part of the deal that Sobiesky would only help the Holy Roman Emperor if he got to lead the army to free Wien. The king had achieved his goal, the victory and honour were his – and this translator only wanted a few bags of beans. This war couldn't have turned out better, he thought, as Kolschitzky and his companion walked away through the mud with the bags of beans loaded on a small cart pulled by their horse.

"The war is over, Franz. Let's go home," Dorde almost implored when they got back to Vienna.

"We never came here to fight a war and you know that as well as I. It's about coffee, it always was. Now we have the opportunity to spread the knowledge about it here in Wien as well. We can't just go back to Neu Meidling, not yet."

"You are kidding, right? What else?? Do you not want to see your kids grow up or spend time with your wife again?"

"Yes, yes I do. Of course," Franz said, while his hand dug deep into the bag of beans, feeling them run up his arm.

He wasn't listening anymore, just feeling the cold beans against his skin, wondering. The picture was already forming in his mind's eye... A small café, like the ones they had in Neu Meidling, but here in the middle of Wien, would be fantastic, he thought. There were no cafés in Wien yet, their work had not yet spread that far. And now, with all these bags and bags of beans he could start bringing coffee to the people of Wien as well. He thought back to the general who, before closing in on Wien and chasing the Turks away, had assured him that he would have plenty of opportunity to tell his story once they got "good old Wien" back.

"Alt Wien," he thought. "That's what I shall call my café."

* * *

During his stay in Turkey, Franz had taught them everything about coffee and they loved it. Strong, dark, bitter. But now, here in Wien, it seemed to be completely different. None of the people really seemed to enjoy coffee and Franz started to get desperate. Though he was still employed as the Emperor's Interpreter, he wanted nothing more than to be able to quit his job and just spend time working with coffee and everything associated with it. Franz simply wanted his small café to be a success.

"It just doesn't work!" Franz exclaimed.

"Maybe it's not yet the right time for Wien."

"How can they not like coffee? That's just ridiculous. Everyone loves coffee!"

"Maybe their taste-buds aren't right for coffee. Maybe they prefer tea."

"Tea? No, not Tea! Never!" the Wächter shouted, slamming his hand down hard on the kitchen unit in their café. The force made the shelves shiver, especially the one above where they were brewing coffee. It moved so much, a small pot of sugar fell into the coffee. Dorde and Franz looked at each other, then took a taste of the sweetened coffee.

"Why didn't we think of it sooner?" Franz asked, more to himself than Dorde.

"No idea..."

"Don't those crazy, tea-drinking Brits also put milk in their tea? Why don't we try that too?"

"Milk? In coffee? Now that's just weird..." Dorde mumbled, but Franz was already on his way to get some.

After pouring the milk into the pot of coffee as well, Franz stirred it around, smelling and tasting.

"This tastes really good," he said, sounding just as surprised as Dorde looked.

"Quite the mixture you have there..." Dorde chuckled.

"Hmmmm.... Mixture. What about naming it... Melange?"

"Coffee beans from Turkey, Austrian sugar, the British idea of adding milk and a French name... yes. Fits perfectly," he smiled.

This time, it worked. With milk and sugar added to it, the people in Wien found this new drink much more appealing and soon their small café was bursting with customers. Franz was happy; he had finally managed, after months and months of failing, to bring his beloved coffee closer to the people of his adopted home town of Wien. The day he turned in his resignation as interpreter, the day he became a full-time café owner, was one of the best of his life. Mentally, he told himself off, trying to convince himself it should have been his wedding day or the birth of his kids. He just... loved coffee, and the world here, more. The thought of his obligations and that, one day, he would have to go back to Neu Meidling, made him sigh deeply.

* * *

Their café was finally running well and people were coming from near and far to taste the new hot drink they served. They were also able to employ a few people who would, one day, be able to take over the café once they returned to Neu Meidling. Franz was an old man, and could barely keep up with the daily tasks in the café. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he had ignored the fact that he would age so much quicker in this world. Somehow, he thought he could carry on forever in the way he used to.

"It is time, my friend." Dorde placed a hand on Franz' shoulder and together they stepped through the barrier that separated the worlds and returned to Neu Meidling.

The dark days were over and not only Kolschitzky was celebrating. Back in Wien, the bakeries had started making a new sweet delicacy, fashioned in the shape of the Turkish crescent to celebrate the defeat of the Ottoman Empire; the croissant had been born.

But that is a completely different story.

<http://podiobooks.com/title/wiener-blut>

Wayward Spirits - A Prelude to The Dawning of Power

Brian Rathbone

Not all journeys begin with a destination; some are launched by ideas alone.

\--Aerestes, Captain of the Landfinder

* * *

A hand reached from the darkness and pulled Benjin into a narrow alley. The other hand closed over his mouth, but it was unnecessary, as he already knew the culprit.

"Hush," Wendel said, as he pulled his hand away. The annoyed look on Benjin's face did nothing to stifle his grin. "Just hold tight until the rest have gone by. I don't want any wagging tongues to spoil our fun this time."

Benjin winced. Whenever Wendel referred to "our fun", it generally meant his amusement and Benjin's terror. Though they had been friends since childhood, Benjin wondered how long it would take for Wendel to get them both killed, or just locked up. Though no one could prove it had been them, their recent 'horse manure in Master Edling's chair' prank had everyone looking at them sideways. This, Benjin knew, was no time to be taking more risks.

When Nat Dersinger walked by, mumbling to himself, Benjin felt a moment of compassion. The poor young man seemed to attract unhappiness, and he wore it like a very heavy cloak. Even the way he hung his head and dragged his heels while he walked gave the impression of the universe pressing down on him--having a madman for a father probably had something to do with it. Wendel, on the other hand, looked as if he were ready to explode with energy. There was a gleam in his bluish-green eyes that made the girls blush, and a swagger in his walk that had even older men stepping out of his path. Sometimes Benjin wished he could muster the same courage that seemed to come naturally and unbidden to Wendel.

"They're all in there. Let's go," Wendel said.

"If we don't go to class, they'll make us take it again. You heard what Edling said last time, didn't you?"

"What's Edling going to do? Tell everyone we didn't complete our studies and that they shouldn't hire us? I don't care if he does. I'll be training horses and you'll be working at the mill come fall whether we go listen to Edling ramble on or not. He probably won't even notice we're not there."

Benjin scoffed at that. Master Edling was probably already thinking of ways to punish the boys. Still, the thought of showing up to class late, and bearing the brunt of Edling's ire in person was no more desirable, and they were already late. "I don't suppose one more missed class will hurt anything."

A familiar feeling of tense anticipation filled Benjin's gut.

Wendel just grinned at him. "I've a little coin. Let's get Grumman to get us some sausage breads."

From shadow to shadow, the young men moved as if their lives depended on secrecy; it was part of the game. Baker Hollis swept his front walk, like he did every morning, and the boys waited until his back was turned before dashing across the cobbled-stone avenue to the bushy hedge that ran along the alleyway behind The Watering Hole. Even this early in the day, the stables were a busy place. Benjin and Wendel had to wait until Grumman finally sat down on a bale of hay for a break.

"Psst. Hey Grumman," Benjin half-whispered, half-shouted. "Can you get us some sausage-breads?"

Looking like a knobby gnome, Grumman scrunched up one side of his face and pulled his loose-hanging lips into a frown. "Who's over there a hidin'?"

Wendel stepped out first, as he always did, and Benjin followed. It was a familiar pattern.

"Ain't you two willow rats supposed to be at the academy?"

"Master Edling is hungry and asked us to come get him some sausage breads," Wendel said with an overlarge smile and an air of innocence.

"Uh huh, and that's why you was hidin' in the bushes, was it?" Grumman said, one eyebrow raised and making his expressive face look lopsided.

"We didn't want to get you in trouble or nothing, and you know Miss Olsa don't like us in there," Wendel said.

"Well, you're right about that part at least. She says you're a right pain in the britches, and that ya ain't got no sense, and there's no room for the likes of you in her kitchen. That's what she says." Grumman crossed his arms over his chest and squinted at them.

"Yeah. I know," Wendel said; his smile never faded. A pair of shiny coins appeared in his hand. Benjin was always amazed at what Wendel could accomplish with only a smile and a coin.

Resting in the shadow of the hedge, and licking their fingers after devouring the sausage breads, Benjin had to admit that this was far better than sitting through another boring class.

"When you find 'em, bring 'em my way," Came an angry voice from not far away. "They're not so big that I can't whoop 'em."

"Dad sounds pretty mad. We'd better go."

"Go where?" Benjin asked.

Wendel just shrugged, "I think the fun is about to begin."

Both had played at stealth before, and they must have done an admirable job of it, as they were able to escape town without attracting any further attention. Not wanting to walk along the road where Wendel's father, Marix, would certainly be traveling at some point in the afternoon, they traveled along game trails, along with a few paths known only to them.

"Now we're really going to be in trouble," Benjin said. "Maybe we should just go back."

"Go back? Now? No way. That would just be admitting we did something wrong. And isn't that what all this coming-of-age garbage is all about? Aren't we supposed to be taking control of our own destinies? So what if we do that a few weeks early. I say it shows initiative."

Wendel did have a point. The future was coming faster every day, and Benjin wondered what life planned for him.

"Do I look like I want to spend the rest of my life working with a pitch fork and smelling like horse manure? Do you know what it's like to have a girl wrinkle her nose at you and tell you that you stink?"

"No, but she was right. You do stink."

"Stuff a melon in it," Wendel said, taking a half-hearted swing at Benjin, who laughed and dodged it easily.

* * *

With the auburn rays of the afternoon sun came the realization that they would need to return home soon. The uneasy feeling was all too familiar, and also part of why Wendel seemed so ready to rebel. Every time he got into trouble, he felt an even greater need for freedom--for the right to live his own life and make his own mistakes, no matter what they may be. Benjin had always shared some of his friend's feelings, which was why he so often found himself facing discipline, but he did not have the fire that burned in Wendel's eyes. For him, a safe and uneventful existence did not seem like such a bad thing, but it was like asking Wendel to live in a cage.

"We should go," Benjin said.

"Yeah. I suppose we should," Wendel agreed, kicking a nearby stone in frustration.

It was a quiet hike back toward the farmland where they lived, only the sound of their boots on the forest floor accompanying them. Darkness was growing deeper when they moved into a clearing; both knew the place and that they were now not far from the wagon trail. Long shadows bathed the clearing mostly in violet with highlights of orange and blue. Near the center stood a black mass that moved with the wind; the rustle of leaves and the smell of moldy soil filled the air.

"What in the world is that?" Wendel asked, stepping forward, but then he took two steps backward when the dark shape moved, unfolding itself. Before them stood a towering figure in robes of darkness. Within his hood waited a face shaped by pain with sunken eyes surrounded by shadow, and hollow cheeks covered in translucent skin. The burnt orange light made him look all the more unnatural.

"Do not fear. I have come only to speak with you," Matteo Dersinger said, his voice deep and resonant.

Under the gaze of a madman, Wendel could find no words and responded only with silence.

"I believe you know my son."

Again, silence.

"If he were stronger, I would not be here, but he is weak, and I am looking for someone much heartier."

"I-" Benjin began to say, but Matteo just stared down at him and silenced him with nothing but a thought.

"You may leave," Matteo said to Benjin. "It is your friend to whom I wish to speak."

Part of Benjin was tempted to leave, to run and not look back, but that was the part he needed to leave behind, the voice he must quell if he were ever truly to become a man. In the next moment it didn't matter, since Matteo turned his gaze on Wendel, and Benjin might well have ceased to exist.

"I am told that you have no fear. It would appear that I am misinformed."

"I'm not afraid of you," Wendel said, puffing out his chest as he did. "You just surprised me before."

"Hmm. Perhaps. What would you say if I told you that the world was in grave danger, and that a hero was needed to save us all?"

"I'd say you should stop by the playhouse. I hear their casting the part of "crazy old coot", and I do believe you've nailed it.

"What they say about your sharp tongue is true, I see. And what of your prowess? Would you care to bring me down?"

Matteo seemed to further unfold, and only then did Benjin realize that the madman held his staff. Those who had seen it up close agreed that it was without peer. None could say how it had been made, or when, or by whom. It was but another piece of the mystery that was Matteo Dersinger.

Benjin sucked in a sharp breath when Wendel flashed out into the growing darkness, grabbing onto Matteo's staff as he did, looking as if he would sweep the leg's out from underneath the taller man. But that wasn't what happened at all. A brief spark of light leaped out to meet Wendel's outstretched hand, and there was a loud pop. Something that looked like a striking snake was seared into Benjin's vision, and he looked back up to see Matteo's fist strike Wendel's chest. His friend flew backward for a short distance before crashing to the ground with a grunt.

"You have proven that you are either brave or a fool. Get up and do not come at me again, or I will not go so easy on you the next time."

Pulling himself slowly from the grass, Wendel stood, looking like he'd been mule-kicked. Benjin couldn't be certain, but it looked as if his clothes were smoking.

"I will now ask you again. What would you say if I told you that the world was in grave danger, and that a hero was needed to save us all?"

"I'd say that I am that hero," Wendel said, as he wiped his chin, looking down to see if there was blood. Benjin coughed.

"Hmph." Matteo looked doubtful.

Wendel stood up to the insult, looking as if he might take one more try at Matteo's defenses. Matteo chuckled, deep and low, so that it almost sounded like a growl.

"Will you do what must be done then?"

"Maybe if I knew what it was that needed to be done," Wendel said, raising his hand in exasperation. "You make no sense, old man. And you may have gotten in a lucky shot, but don't try me again, as your luck will run out."

In that moment the world grew dark, and only a feral light cast from the staff illuminated Matteo's angry visage. He seemed to grow taller and more imposing--he blotted out the rest of the world and commanded them to listen.

"The goddess Istra will come again, and the mighty will be laid low. Terror and fire will rain from the skies, and one will come to rule them all. One will come to be the death or the savior of them all!"

Silence followed the echoes of his words, which surely had been heard across the valley.

"And?" Wendel said with a look of annoyance.

Matteo nearly growled, but then he just smiled, which Benjin found even more frightening. "You must go to the Greatland and find out everything you can about the return of Istra. The Zjhon have knowledge they are hiding from the world, and we must know what it is. That is what must be done."

Snorting, Wendel bent over with laughter, "The Greatland? Really? You want me to go to the land of fairy tales and legends? Should I fly there?"

"I have arranged a ship."

Those words reduced Wendel's arrogance to silence. "You're serious, aren't you?" Wendel asked.

No one could look more serious than the man that currently towered over them.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Benjin said for what seemed the fifteenth time, the weight of the bag that Matteo had brought for them weighing on him more than just physically. How had the man known they would come? "You can't just leave. What would I tell your father? It would break your mother's heart."

"Just tell them that I'll be back."

Benjin snorted. "So I'm just supposed to walk all the way to the Arghast desert with you, watch you get on some strange ship, and then walk home. Alone."

"Or you could come with me," Wendel said. It left a silence to hang between them.

Benjin walked with his head hung, trying to find a way to make the madness stop. Never would he have guessed this day would end with his best friend leaving on a journey from which he might never return. Everyone had heard the old tales about the Greatland, but none really believed it existed. After all, no other peoples had made contact with them for thousands of years. What evidence was there that anyone else even existed? Those who had sought to find the Greatland in the past had never returned, and Benjin considered that a pretty good indicator.

"We're going to need some shelter," Wendel said. Thunder rumbled through the valley, and for the first time, Benjin noticed the storm clouds closing in. Perhaps he would learn to look up once in a while.

Raindrops began to pound the leaves, and the thought of sleeping out in the rain drove them both to greater speed. "Maybe there's a cave we can camp in, or even an overhang. Let's get closer to the north face."

The Chinawpa Valley cradled them, and the north face stood between them and the larger Pinook Valley. Benjin had always believed that Wendel led some kind of charmed life, and this instance only supported that conclusion.

"Wait here," Wendel said, and then he scrambled up a pile of rocks that reclined against the cliff face, looking almost like a sleeping giant. Benjin wanted to tell Wendel to slow down and be more careful, but then Wendel disappeared, and Benjin held his breath. A moment later, a grinning Wendel reappeared. "You're never gonna believe this!"

Not waiting to hear more, Benjin climbed. It took him twice as long to reach the top, and Wendel stood waiting impatiently. In the meantime, he had cleared away debris from what looked to have been a landslide, given the mixture of rock, soil, and trees that had been snapped into smaller pieces. Benjin tried to imagine the force it had taken to snap a full sized tree, but he found he could not even imagine such a thing.

"Help me get some of these smaller branches out of this pile," Wendel said. "We're going to need some light."

Uncertain whether to be excited or afraid, Benjin allowed his friend to have his moment. Soon he would know what lay in the darkness. The rains intensified, and they were driven into the chamber to flee the deluge. Though much of the wood was wet and some of it still green, a bunch of dead leaves served well to get the fire going. Wendel took a few minutes to gloat about the fact that he had his tinderbox with him. "How many times have I said that if you don't carry it when you don't need it, you won't have it when you do."

The words were lost on Benjin, who now had a better view of their surroundings, and it stole the air from his lips. Their fire rested in the middle of a sloping hall with squared corners and scrollwork around the edges. Not far beyond, the hall opened into a chamber of unknown size. It was so vast that the light of their fire was simply swallowed up by the dark void, like the fabled entrance to the underworld. What amazed Benjin the most, though, was the rippling reflection that faded into the distance. Water. Dark, silent water. Like a brooding specter, it waited to swallow them and none would ever know. Who would ever guess where they had gone? Cold fear clutched Benjin as he imagined their families tormented by their sudden and unexplained absence. He wanted to go home, to turn back and face any rebukes he deserved for his thoughtless actions. One look at Wendel proved that his thoughts were of a different nature.

"This is amazing!" he said, and Benjin couldn't disagree.

The next few hours were spent assembling a raft from the pieces of tree trunks they pulled in from the landslide. Benjin found himself lost in imagination while he wound vines into crude rope and lashed together the logs. His guilt could wait. Before him was an adventure beyond any he had ever imagined, and for once, he thought Wendel might be right; perhaps they were not meant for cleaning stalls and cutting wood, maybe life did have grand plans for them after all!

Climbing onto that raft, a stripped sapling for a pole, was one of the craziest things Benjin had ever done. Wendel wasted no time and pushed them out to deeper water before pulling himself onto the raft. Benjin gave him credit. Wading in that black water was beyond his courage, and he hoped the raft would hold; it dipped below the water under Benjin's weight, but it remained afloat.

Looking as if they were standing on water, they poled along the perimeter of the enormous cavern, which was almost completely enclosed within the mountain, only a sliver of sky visible through an opening high in the cavern ceiling. Pointed structures extended from the cavern ceiling toward the water, like giant teeth, as if they were in the mouth of a colossal monster. The image made Benjin's skin crawl, and then Wendel shouted out, his wordless cry echoing loudly in the vacuous space.

It took only an instant for Benjin to see the doorway that emerged from the darkness. Simple yet elegant, the doorway was clearly the work of people, yet the tunnel was completely blocked by stone piled all the way to the ceiling. Wendel gave a couple rocks a good shove, with the only effect being that they were thrust away from the entranceway. Farther along the shoreline they encountered more entranceways, and every one was blocked like the first.

"I don't think they wanted anyone to get in there," Benjin said.

"Let's get back before this torch goes out completely."

The torch soon burned out, and only the light of their dwindling campfire guided them back to shore. After pulling the raft from the black water, they lifted one end and leaned it against the cavern wall.

Taking a closer look at the supplies Nat had packed for them, hoping for something tasty to eat, both were disappointed to find hard travel biscuits, which Wendel said tasted like rocks even if you boiled them.

Still hungry but tired enough to sleep on bare rock, each curled up with little more than dry leaves to rest their heads on. When the sun rose and a beam of light poured in through the hall, it seemed as if they had gone to sleep only moments before. Eyes squinted and their minds thick with sleep, they washed in the chill waters of the subterranean lake. Benjin pushed back his fears from the night before but was glad to be away from the shoreline when he had finished.

Wendel stood at the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder. "You should probably head back from here."

Benjin stood speechless. This was a moment he had been dreading, the moment when he would have to say goodbye to his friend. Even if he didn't always agree with Wendel, and even if they seemed to find no end of trouble together, Benjin could not picture his life without his best friend.

"I need to get moving and take advantage of the daylight. I want to reach the desert by nightfall if I can."

Benjin could still find no words. When Wendel turned to leave, Benjin forced his tongue to speak, "Couldn't we stay here and explore the cavern? That would be an adventure, wouldn't it? And imagine what they'll say when we come back and tell them about this place. We'll be heroes."

"What good will that do if Matteo is right?"

"You actually believe what he said? Did you see the look in his eyes? I'm not sure he's all there."

Wendel just shrugged. "The world needs a hero, and I'm going."

Benjin followed without another word.

* * *

Along a stretch of meandering shoreline, golden sands disappeared beneath ice-blue waves, gulls skittering along the receding water and coaxed a meal from the tide. Two sets of footprints drew a seemingly endless path after days of walking. Even the travel cakes were gone, and hunger added to the heat and lack of good sleep made it seem as if Benjin was walking in a dream. Wendel walked alongside him, uncharacteristically silent and sullen. The reality that Matteo Dersinger might just be a crazy old man and that they had walked to the coast of a hostile desert for absolutely nothing must have hit him.

"I thought for sure that they were just waiting farther east, but how far do I walk before giving up?" Wendel asked.

Benjin tried to mention that finding the underground lake alone was worth the trip, but it seemed to only embarrass Wendel more, and his friend retreated further, his mood darkening. By both of their counts, the ship should have been there three days before. When it didn't come on the appointed day, Benjin had suggested they go back, but Wendel had grown angry at the idea and insisted they keep moving. Now, days later, it seemed he might be ready to face reality.

The calls of gulls still filled the air around them, but new noises were intertwined, and at first Benjin didn't notice them, but they grew louder until they were no longer drowned out, and he heard a voice across the waves, "Ho there!"

The sound of it caused him to stumble, and with one knee in the sand he turned to see a tall-masted ship in shallow water. Tanned and tattooed men worked to lower a boat into the water, and it was soon moving toward shore, six men working the oars. Moments later one of them stood on shore, looking most uncomfortable.

"I'm Kenward Trell, captain of the _Slippery Eel_. I suppose one of you strapping lads is seeking passage to the Greatland?"

"It really exists?" Benjin asked without thinking, and Kenward cast him a sideways glance.

"Would I offer to take you somewhere that doesn't exist?"

"Of course you wouldn't. Many apologies," Benjin said under the weight of Kenward's stare. The man was plain looking and not physically imposing, yet there was a deadly threat in his lithe movements that made Benjin certain he wouldn't want to cross the good captain.

"Please tell me you're the one looking for adventure, and not your slow friend here."

"I am indeed," Wendel said.

"Good. You look like you might guard the railing for a few days, but you should make it. I wouldn't give your friend a week at sea."

"I can hold my stomach. I'll bet you can't get this boat back out through those waves." Wendel said, pointing to a place along the beach where waves as tall as three men rolled into deadly breakers.

"I bet I can!" Kenward said with a grin, his eyes lit with that same fire Benjin recognized from Wendel.

Before he could say anything else, Wendel and Kenward were headed back to the boat. Watching his friend leave, Benjin felt as if he were being torn in two, and he ran along behind them. "Wait! Don't go. Wait!"

Kenward waded into the surf, and Wendel awkwardly boarded the boat. Unable to make them stop, Benjin did the only thing he could think of and climbed in behind Wendel. His friend pulled him in. "I knew you'd decide to come."

Benjin wasn't certain what he believed in that moment. Rolling breakers loomed ahead, and he swallowed hard. The surf would soon bar him from his past, his home, and all that he loved. Only his friendship with Wendel kept him from swimming back, and then it seemed the breakers would toss them all into the water. Kenward and his men kept them from capsizing, but it was a close thing. When they boarded the _Slippery Eel_ , Benjin's guts were already churning.

"Is that all the faster this thing will go?" Wendel asked once they were underway. The deck fell silent, the crew waiting to see what their captain would do.

Taking a step toward, Kenward barked a laugh. "Full sail! Make for speed!" Then he pointed at Benjin. "And I'd not stand downwind of that one. He's gonna blow."

Benjin swallowed hard, partly from feeling sick and partly because he was certain Wendel and Kenward were competing to see who could get them killed first. Little did he know that this journey would see his world forever changed, and that everything he had ever known would be at risk. A wiser man would have recognized the truth in Matteo Dersinger's words. A wiser man would have been better prepared.

 http://www.podiobooks.com/podiobooks/search.php?keyword=brian+rathbone

Future In Hand: A Rivenspace Story

H.E Roulo

Rhine stood at one of the viewports, staring at the ships docking and leaving the station, her fingertips patting her lips. In the distance, other stations clustered in a well-choreographed dance that maximized spacial relationships for transferring people and cargo. Though their drifting seemed aimless, like the dance of feathers in a breeze, Matt had no doubt the psi-corps had optimized them decades ago.

"You look exhausted. Did the hibernator they found floating in space wake up? How did the interview go?" Matt asked his fellow psychologist. Everyone else avoided her, as if uncertain whether she wanted to talk about this anomaly.

"I'm not sure." Rhine turned toward him, and he felt a moment of satisfaction as her wide eyes swept above his shoulder, to a thinking point suspended in space. She needed someone to talk to, and he was glad his business brought him to her.

Rhine frowned just enough to blemish her smooth forehead. "She's not very civilized. It's as if . . . well, she doesn't seem to trust me!"

Matt nodded. "It's an old trait. Not quite paranoia, more like a product of the egocentric, individualist culture of her time. It's unhealthy but not illegal."

Rhine joined his laughter, hers high and anxious.

"Perhaps you better send her to the edge." Matt tried to keep his tone casual, yet his eyes dropped. Why had they asked him to do this? He'd been born here, in the Center, at the very heart of the Psi Corps. The Psi Corps predictions ensured regularity and an organized everyday life that never varied. But this woman's discovery within her ancient floating spaceship had driven his day off course, and Rhine looked even more distressed. Had her life, too, veered into the strange unknown?

Pushing back long strands of blonde hair, Rhine wrapped one hand around the other, squeezing. "She's healthy and stable. We inoculated her and I see no reason she couldn't enter the job pool for her six month stints like the rest of us. She's already learning modern language and conveniences--she seems more at home than I do, sometimes. But there's just something I feel when I'm with her . . . ." Matt watched Rhine wring her fingers, then roll her hands around each other in a soothing rhythm. Dry skin rasped softly with each stroke.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Who was this returned sleeper, that so many people showed interest in her awakening? Anyone she'd known would be dead, or ancient now. Yet word came to him through secret channels to act, to influence and nudge proceedings. He'd never attempted anything like that before. Thrilled and sick, but mostly amazed that he could indeed change events if he desired to, Matt experienced a fission of energy, as if he could use newfound power for more than just following instructions. Tempted, he wrapped a hand around Rhine's, stilling the rasping motion. She gasped, looking down at the warm contact.

People rarely touched in this time, yet the arrival of a woman from the past brought contact and lies. Well, lies hadn't gone extinct, he admitted to himself. But he'd rarely used them outside of social niceties. Now, they'd asked him to be duplicitous. Could he do it?

Heart pounding, he released Rhine's hands, patting them as he did so to cover his blunder. She blushed and looked up between long lashes. Confused, he swallowed words of confession. They'd said the hibernator needed to go; that she was dangerous. If only he'd been assigned to her instead of Rhine! His jaw firmed. The woman from a bygone era of violence and lies must go. The sooner, the better.

As if she'd heard him, Rhine replied. "That doesn't seem very charitable. The edge is wild. Unexplored." She shivered, her eyes meeting his. Her hands hung in the air between them, still, as if she hoped he'd touch them once more.

"But it's where she belongs," Matt's eyes met hers, steady, since this much he believed true.

"I suppose. I can't imagine it, but if you suggest it it's probably a good idea." She waited, as if expecting something more, then left shaking her head. She cupped one hand in the other.

Matt slipped into the observation room to monitor the topic of their conversation. This was what all the fuss was about?

A woman sat silently, bored, playing with a tablet they had left on the table. Slender, but with well-defined muscles beneath a simple white sheath, her red hair flamed over her shoulders. She looked relaxed enough. Was she as simple as she seemed? Sweet and pretty--her blue eyes unfocused as she daydreamed. He shook his head and turned away. Whatever her secrets were, let them deal with them on the borders of mankind's space. She wasn't welcomed here.

In the comfortable room they monitored, Kay's eyes narrowed in catlike concentration and relaxed once more as she caught herself. Mustn't let them know she felt them watching her. Muscles relaxed. Breathing evened out. The computer still noted elevated levels of hormones in her brain, but had they suspected the real level to which she watched and waited the psychologists would have been horrified. Likely they'd have sedated her, and certainly would have chalked it to more than remnants of a paranoid time. Though it stretched modern imagination, they might even have dimly conceived the possibility that she was capable of violence. Had known, even perpetrated, violence in the past.

Had lived by the sword.

Meanwhile, she waited, her mind filled with plans and suspicions. Could they be this docile? They had apologized a million times for wanting to know where she had come from. The shy psychologist, Rhine, begged her pardon for intrusive questions and seemed reluctant to continue. They called this an interrogation? No, an evaluation, she reminded herself, and their sincerity couldn't even be questioned. But if she knew anything from a few centuries leapfrogging through space and the cultures that filled it, it was that such breezy sweetness needed iron security to exist. Someone, somewhere, knew to ask the hard questions.

Had they found her yet?

Kay stopped her train of thought and consciously controlled her biofeedback. Heartbeats thudded with regular precision, counted and imagined as drumbeats that filled the room and covered the tick-tock of thought. Tricking the chair's sensors, she hoped. Keeping her nature secret was second-nature. They didn't even know just how far she'd traveled. Their estimates were centuries off, since they counted back only to the age of the vessel she'd been found in. And all the better for their mistake.

The more mistakes, the longer it would take for her to be discovered. The hunt was on once more.

Footsteps approached, a pair of them, though she recognized Rhine's whispered tread and what must be a slightly heavier man.

Moments later Rhine poked her head in the room and cocked it. "Hey, why not come with me."

Kay rose and approached, too eager. The psychologist fell back, a hand fluttering to her neckline. The man with her, who wore a tag with the simple name Matt, glared. They seemed so young, but she suspected they were older than she was, just untried.

Kay slowed, smiling. "Where are we going?"

Matt said, "You're going to the edge. We're sending you on a ship whenever you're ready."

She halted in her tracks, "Sir. I'm ready now."

Matt and Rhine said goodbye to Kay at the loading zone. Matt admired the way Kay squared her shoulders and marched onto the craft, as if she risked new situations every day. Perhaps she knew she was going where she belonged.

The transport, filled with base materials and the patents that would shape them, pulled away from the station with Kay aboard. In a few weeks it would dock with the Hartung, a converted military vessel now used to transport colonists and protect the border.

Rhine grabbed his hand, her fingers tangling with his. "Poor thing, being sent to the edge. Why--that's where everything happens!"

The unexpected was exhausting, but it had rewards. Matt smiled and squeezed her hand.

* * *

Thrilling! From space Kay could see the chunky lines of the Hartung. Within the more recent modifications she recognized the elegant lines of the old military beamer she'd helped design just one or two awakenings ago. Onto it, they'd piled newer technology, swapping out bits of the chambered design as mankind advanced. But she was still recognizable, still useful. Just like me, Kay thought.

That glimpse of buried bones from her past, something familiar, renewed her. She tilted her head, studying the large cargo hold, but once again detected nothing more than supplies for the Hartung. Massive blocks of dark material scented the hold with the tang of old pennies. Nearer, mounds of bagged organic matter that could be reconstituted made a crunchy seat for the trip. Her trip was unplanned, she realized. She'd truly been left alone. A coil deep inside her released, and she raced toward the porthole, trying to discern more about what came next. Excitement, long suppressed, bubbled inside her. _I can't wait to see what's new! What's that next to the solar sail? Did they give up on the alien power grid?_ She shivered and wrapped arms around her middle, content to be alone with the promise of so much progress waiting just outside the airlock. Control, maintained since awakening within her hibernation chamber, shattered. Her pulse pounded, laughter burst out. She'd survived once more! Kay spun in a circle.

The airlock clinked into place and a light illuminated the hold in an amber glow. Connection made. People waiting to see this relic of the past. More eyes, more questions, and the threat of a spy sent by her longtime enemy. Her spin stilled, fabric brushing her ankles.

Keep a low profile, that's all. I'll learn everything new so I don't fall too far behind, and then prepare to sleep again. It's just one more stop along the way.

She straightened the white robe-things they'd dressed her in, reminded of pajamas, or something an asylum patient from the 20th century would wear, but in this new time it might be positively avante garde. Huffing out a breath and rolling her eyes, she dropped the thin fabric. Go with the flow, she reminded herself. Think too hard, remember too much, and you'll get bogged down. This is just one more time in an endless chain leading you to your future. It's out there, closer than ever. Another century, maybe two, and I'll have my answers. She swallowed questions and raised her chin. The door slid back with a tiny huff of air as pressure normalized between the two vessels.

Keep a low profile, that's all.

* * *

Sec paced the bridge. Trainees sweated at their stations, projecting a veneer of calm but whispering like children in a library. Their anxiety ratcheted his nerves even higher, since he knew what they didn't. The first test of their skills was imminent.

He'd scheduled the training crew during his shift. They needed experience -- and fast. Training at Central couldn't compare to reality. Sure, most of these kids were from border planets. Adventurous, and likely aching to get away from new agricultural settlements, they'd volunteered to come to the edge where generations of Psi Corps trainees hadn't yet predicted every small movement. How Centrals survived in that claustrophobic cushion of certainty, well it boggled a thinking man's brain.

Gritting his teeth, he gripped a railing. Some of the trainees glanced his way. Naria, on navigation, looked positively fearful. Perhaps his reputation preceded him. Good. He didn't bear the trainees any ill-will, just needed to get them trained up as fast as possible. These kids accepted the risks. They'd get knocked around a bit then toughen up. Not like the Central he'd heard arrived with the last supply delivery. Now, there was a job he didn't relish; acclimating a Central to the realities of the edge? She was likely incoherent in the medical bay by now.

Mentally counting down, though he glared and loomed as usual, Sec noticed as Nile led someone into the room like a magician presenting his assistant.

"Permission?" Nile asked, hardly waiting as he swept a gorgeous red-head into the command center.

Sec grunted, eyeing the woman.

Her blue eyes slid along the instruments, pausing to study a display here and there as if she were reading the information from where she stood. Her restrained movements reminded him of the old travelers packed onto small space vessels who had learned to live with a minimum of room.

"This is Kay. Central shipped her in on the last supply transport."

"The hibernator?" Sec's doubt showed. "How'd you end up showing her around?"

Nile colored at the speculation, enthusiasm never flagging, and dropped his voice. "She says she has a boyfriend, but she just woke up from a hundred year sleep. If he's still alive, I don't think the guy will be much competition. I think it's her way of holding out for time to acclimate. So, I'm helping! I'm a helpful guy." He squinted defensively.

Sec's eyes narrowed. Kay's hand rested possessively on the back of the Captain's chair.

"Could I see our location?" she asked.

Sec's scowl deepened, sensing she'd chosen her target perfectly. Captain Mark, relegated to the border by politics that would never change, would indulge her. His grandfatherly streak, peaking with the addition of the eager trainees, made him happy to show off. He called up a star map, rotating it and pointing out interesting anomalies. Since Kay hadn't seen anything in the region, crewmembers called out comments. A celebratory air lifted them, somehow. She encouraged their stories with barely a word, just a tilt of the head or twitch of lip, but Sec sensed she hung on their every word and impression. At an offhand suggestion from her, Captain Mark zoomed the perspective of the map outward, pointing to systems even further out than their own border position. Gold, red, green, and purple spots of interest gleamed. Binary systems twirling like sparks, twisting between asteroid belts of marble, and dim red giants expanded in artistic representation of reality.

The intensity of Kay's interest revealed itself in her avid eyes and tense muscles. Her body remained upright but her soul leaned in. Niles blinked rapidly, staggering. "Did you see that?"

"No?" Sec replied.

"I'd swear for a moment there I saw a projection of a man. He stood, backlit in a wave of red light. His hair gleamed gold, and his arms were open."

"Having visions now, old man?" Sec joked, hiding his concern.

Niles's spine became poker straight. He lifted his nose at the insinuation. "I've got a P-ratings of 5. I'm not Psi-corps, but I pick up useful things now and again."

"My intuition's pretty good, too, and we're in for some trouble now. So step back, and take your tourist with you." Sec moved into position. Captain Mark saw his junior officer's face and sighed.

Within Captain Mark's framing hands, the view shrank back down to the ship, showing its course passing close to a sun, though not dangerously so. Trainees gawked, drawn in by the display. Well, all the better for them to learn to stay focused, Sec thought grimly. Still, he passed an inquiring look to the science station.

"Huh? Oh, there's a fair amount of solar activity, sir." The science officer reported, confirming his biggest concern, but too late to reschedule the scenario now.

Overhead, the alarm blared.

Captain Mark tapped the arm of his chair, "Change course away from the sun. Full power for the turnabout."

Naria, the girl in the front at the free-standing engine power console gasped. "My console's dead."

Of course it was. Sec let her gape for a moment, hoping she'd collect herself. This was only the first step of the emergency.

"Manual override," he prompted, gripping the railing.

"I . . . I can't." She pushed feebly at the display. "No response."

Trainees rushed around, pointless until Naria routed power to them.

The trainee next to her, Hernes, fiddled with his own console then reached across to help.

"Hernes." Sec warned, but it was too late.

"Here," Hernes slid his chair next to hers at the console, "It's got to be the power."

"Hernes, that isn't your station," the junior officer reprimanded. Safeties were offline for this exercise.

Captain Mark lolled back, whistling something. Warning lights blinked above each console, but he'd silenced the alarm.

Ignorant of the specifics for the larger ship's solar capacity, and untrained for the power engineering console, Hernes opened the power up full while the solar collectors were pointed at the flaring sun. Sparks shot out, knocking both trainees to the ground.

Captain Mark jerked upright, mouth falling open.

Naria staggered to her feet, but Hernes didn't.

Sec released the railing, "Naria, we need full power."

She stared at the sizzling console. "It's unresponsive, sir. The interface is melted." If anything, she seemed calmer now that there wasn't anything she could do.

Sec checked his own console. There was no one in Engineering, since no alarm had sounded. The magnitude of the problem swept over him in a cold wave. Their sweet ship was an aged lady. She'd seen technical revolutions and her very life's blood had changed several times. When she'd been created she'd been a swift and sweet Chambered Lady with the new superconductive wiring acquired from their allies the Scillians. The hollow chambers running like vents through the walls of the ship served as a heat sink and as protection from the knifelike superconductors. The experiment failed, forcing subsequent rewiring with conventional fiber cables, and again after that with synthetic threads. Not every section of the ship had been rewired with each renovation, and the different wires ran into each other from one section of the ship to the next. It was a constant headache. Now the alien superconductors had unloaded into at least one of the other, lower capacity wirings. The console was probably molten under its casing.

Captain Mark worked at overrides to their disabled safeties. Other stations bustled as well, dimming and rerouting power. Excellent responses, if they weren't fried to a crisp in the next few minutes.

They needed to turn.

The ship was going to pass far too close to the sun, causing damage to the hull, the solar collectors, and the matter collectors. People in the outer hull could be seriously injured.

Naria struggled with the lock to the display top of the smoldering console while Sec moved to the communications station to re-establish a link to the stand-by monitor for Engineering. He regretted their informal system of assignment.

No one responded.

"The alarm?" Kay asked, moving to a position beside the captain.

"Is only on the bridge," Sec confirmed from his station across the room. "Safeguards were intentionally offline for the exercise, but certain defaults shouldn't have been. We've been sabotaged. Be useful, help Hernes."

Kay and Niles moved forward, but only Niles knelt next to Hernes's folded body.

Captain Mark watched the view screen, calm. How unfair that it was Sec's job to worry. He was doing his job overtime right now.

Ignoring Naria, Kay crossed to that woman's console. Yanking a sleeve from her white dress, she wrapped it around her hands. Sec looked up from the still empty screen and gaped.

The strange woman grabbed the top of the console and yanked it from its housing. Metal shredded in her hands. Alloy crackled and flakes of it spattered her arms. Rather than stop there, she tore the entire frame from the floor and knelt. Molten metal poured from the base of the console and bubbled underneath. She dug past the first layer of liquid metal under the floor of the console. The vacuum of space, channeled in vents throughout the ship, lay somewhere underneath them. Her fingers searched. Sec held his breath as she lifted. Bare wire, fibers, and cables snaked in front of her, a mishmash of borrowed technology spanning ages. She grabbed two of the clear blue synthetic lines in her hands, stripping and combining. They sizzled as she held them in place.

"That's got it, we've turned away." Sec yelled, leaning over Hernes's abandoned console. Kay dropped the wires, shaking her burned hands. Heated chemical fumes filled the command center. Open-mouthed faces stared at her. The metal console lay destroyed at her feet.

Hernes got up groggily from the ground. His dazed eyes passed over the sparking console and the metal at Kay's feet. He shook, voice hoarse. "I didn't know it would do that."

Sec glared.

Kay met his gaze. "I knew what I was doing."

Holding both hands behind her back, she worked her way to the exit, realizing at the doorway that there was nowhere to run. The ship held her, as surely as an island prison.

The time to hide was over.

She knew someone would be coming to talk with her soon.

<http://www.podiobooks.com/title/fractured-horizon>

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