

# A Turn of the Wheel

## Speculative fiction from

## Gary Beck

## Jennifer Eifrig

## Paul Freeman

## Bruce Hesselbach

## Mark Roman

Published by Cogwheel Press

http://www.cogwheelpress.net

© Cogwheel Press 2013

'A Turn of the Wheel' is the copyright of Cogwheel Press, 2013.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

All characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons. living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cogwheel Press is pleased to present its first collection of short fiction, written by five authors who have published novels under the Cogwheel brand. Cogwheel specializes in speculative fiction from new voices. Be sure to visit cogwheelpress.net to find a full catalog.

Susan Chase, Publisher

### CONTENTS

Introduction

Carnival

by Paul Freeman

RNA

by Gary Beck

There at the End

by Mark Roman

Ixchal's Tear

by Paul Freeman

The Hall of Dreams

by Gary Beck

Swarming Disenchantments

by Bruce Hesselbach

The Stowaway

byJennifer Eifrig, writing as Evelyn Grimwood

The Last Glance

by Gary Beck

Clam Chowder

by Bruce Hesselbach

America

by Paul Freeman

Despair

by Paul Freeman

Devil's Glen

by Paul Freeman

From Here to Where

by Jennifer Eifrig

Over the Black Hills

by Paul Freeman

A Disastrous Decision

by Mark Roman

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Cogwheel Press Books

Introduction

If a novel is like a carefully planned and prepared three-course meal, a short story is an amuse-bouche, a little taste of something that the author-chef wishes to share. Not fully realized, not meant to satisfy but rather the opposite, the short story is the author's way of saying, "Try me." It's a provocation, a tease.

This collection is a sampler that will whet your appetite and then some. It's a gift-wrapped box of chocolates: some sweet; some dark; some salty with blood and tears; some mysterious; some concealing secrets within. How you consume this treat is your choice. You may wish to devour it in one sitting – we suggest leaving the light on if you do. Or you may savor it, one at a time. Either way, you will enjoy biting in, and we guarantee you will finish wanting more.

The authors of these stories are members of the Cogwheel Press. They live in the US, England, and Ireland, and their spelling adheres to the convention of their native land. Some stories are more appropriate for an adult audience.

Jennifer Eifrig, Cogwheel Curator-At-Large

### Carnival

### Paul Freeman

The morning quiet was broken by the sound of rock music booming into the air. A small sleepy village sprung to life as people poured from houses and shops to watch a convoy of brightly-painted trucks towing trailers and caravans along the narrow main street. At the head of the convoy, standing legs apart, on the back of an open-back trailer, was a gaudily dressed man. On his head he wore an emerald green top hat; his dark green long-tailed coat was made of velvet, and his trousers were bright orange.

He mouthed the words to the song while his arm flailed like a windmill on his imaginary guitar. Somehow his hat remained where it was as his head bobbed up and down in time with the music.

Lucy Finnegan ran out her front door just as the trailer was passing her house. The man on the lead truck caught her eye and winked while playing air-guitar, kicking his leg in the air. A leaflet was thrust into her hand by a beautiful girl wearing a sequined, flowing dress, her hair tied up in a pile of curls like an ancient Greek goddess. Other girls similarly attired passed through the crowd handing out leaflets. She stood mesmerised as truck after truck filed past, each one more impressive than the last. She glanced at the leaflet.

For one night only.

The greatest show on Earth!

Lucy turned excitedly to her mother. "We have to go, we have to!" she said, jumping up and down. Lucy was eleven and had never been to a carnival before in her life. Not much passed through her sleepy little town.

"Okay, okay," her mother smiled. "Says here, it's opening at eight o'clock tonight, we've plenty of time to get ready."

The loud guitar music trailed off as the convoy passed through the town and out towards the old McCabe field. Lucy could barely contain her excitement. Later, dressed in her finest frock she approached the bright lights and loud noises flanked by her parents. The music, the shrieks of delight, bells, whistles, bangs, wallops: she absorbed them all with eyes wide and mouth open. They approached the entrance. Standing there to greet them was the man from the truck, his arms outstretched, a beaming smile on his face. Behind him, Lucy could see a Ferris wheel, lights blazing as each carriage did a loop. She could hear the screams and whoops of the passengers as she craned her neck for a better view.

The man stroked his red moustache and goatee beard as Lucy and her family approached. Lucy skipped ahead, eager to get inside as quickly as possible. The man flicked his wrist and with a flourish produced a large gold coin from behind her ear. She squealed with delight as he bent down to hand it to her. She flinched a little from the stink of his breath, but was too polite to make any show of discomfort.

"What have you got there, Luce?" her father asked.

Lucy held the coin out for her father. He took it and studied it.

"Well, look at that.... One family ride," he read aloud and turned it over. A Ferris wheel was imprinted on the back. Lucy gasped, the gaudily dressed man winked at her and moved on to greet the next family.

"Can we go on it now? Can we?" she squealed.

"Wouldn't you like to get some ice-cream first?" her mother asked.

"Or candy floss," her father added.

"No, sir. I want to ride the Ferris wheel."

Standing in line, Lucy watched the huge wheel rotate slowly. She clapped her hands in excitement as she watched brightly painted car after car go higher and higher. She noticed a lot of the occupants were even dressed in fancy dress; she wished she'd worn a costume. Many waved to her, and she waved back, envying them, wishing it were her turn.

"Step right up!" The man was suddenly there as they reached the top of the line. "The ride of your life awaits," he beamed. An empty car appeared behind him, and he opened the gate and held it for Lucy and her family. She was distracted by a car seeming to struggle around, a dark cloud of smoke appeared over it. She noticed a little girl, dressed in an old-fashioned bonnet and shawl, waving at her. Lucy's arm was halfway up to wave back when she noticed the terror on the girl's face, the tears streaming down her cheek. Lucy suddenly did not want to go on the Ferris wheel anymore.

"I've changed my mind," she said, but her mother and father were already seated in the car.

"Come on, Luce, don't be afraid," her father encouraged.

"Yeah, Luce, don't be a scaredy-cat." She heard the man mimic her father and then felt a shove on her back. She stumbled forward into the carriage and into a seat beside her mother. A safety bar came down, trapping her. She could hear the man behind her as the car started to move.

"Roll up! Roll up! For the ride of a lifetime. The ride that goes on and on and on.... For a lifetime." His laughter rung in her ears. And then the music started. She looked back over her shoulder and could see him dancing, playing the air guitar again.

Detective Inspector Henry Carson, strolled down the quiet main street, which was deserted but for a handful of uniformed police officers and police vehicles with flashing blue lights on their roofs. By his side was his assistant, Detective Sergeant Caroline Spencer.

Spencer, an attractive woman in her mid-twenties, was aware of, but ignored the admiring glances from the male officers. She was dressed in a smart business suit with a skirt that accentuated her hips and feminine curves, and she carried a red folder in her arms.

"This is bizarre," Carson said, as they walked down the centre of the road, taking in the picturesque village at a glance. "How can a sizeable chunk of a population disappear and the rest not seem to notice?"

"We have some of them over in the church hall being interviewed now. They're not giving us much to go on,"

Carson took in a breath. "What are your thoughts on this, Spencer? A cult?"

"Could be, Guv. Let's hope it's not a suicide pact and we turn up two hundred bodies of men, women and children," Spencer answered.

"Okay, let's get on with this. Where's this church hall?"

Spencer led her superior to the small hall attached to the rear of the stone church. Inside, several rows of foldable chairs and tables had been set up. At each table sat a police officer interviewing a local resident, asking questions and jotting down the answers. The din of the communal questioning hummed in the air as they let the door close behind them.

Spencer tapped one of the officers on the shoulder. He stood up, snapping to attention. "Ma'am – Guv," he respectfully addressed his superiors.

"So, who've we got here then?" Carson swung his attention towards an elderly woman sitting at the table.

"This is Mrs Brown. Her daughter and two grandchildren are missing," the officer answered.

"I see. And how are you being treated, Mrs Brown? Are you being looked after okay?" Carson asked.

"Oh, yes. He's a lovely young man, your police officer," the woman said, smiling. Carson was somewhat thrown by her happy demeanour.

"So, your daughter and her children... they've gone missing?"

"They have?" the woman's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I... I'm not sure. There was a carnival you see... and, oh I can't remember."

"That's okay, take your time, Mrs Brown. I'll see that you have nice cup of tea while you compose yourself," Carson said, giving the nod to Spencer to go and get some tea.

"They're all like that, one minute they're looking for their loved ones, the next they've forgotten they're missing," the uniformed officer answered Carson's questioning look.

"And the carnival? Have any of the others mentioned it?"

"All of them, but they're all equally vague. We've tried to trace it, but, there hasn't been one in this area for at least six months."

Lucy sat rigid in her seat, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the safety bar in front of her. It would not budge when she tried to force it. Beside her, her parents smiled, joyfully looking out as the wheel rose, carrying them higher and higher. She could hear screams coming from the car above. She looked up and saw an enormous dark cloud looming overhead. The cloud swirled and writhed as if it were alive, an enormous living thing, twisting and opening its black maw, ready to engulf them. She craned her neck to try and see the girl in the car ahead who had tried to warn her. She was sure it was her screams she could hear, a terror-filled, high pitched wail, a desperate and tragic cry for help.

The car ahead entered the cloud. The girl's screams were abruptly cut off. Lucy turned to her parents, who were still enjoying the ride, oblivious to the screaming and cries for help, seeming not to notice the approaching cloud.

"Mum? Dad?" she cried.

"Don't worry, hon', we won't fall," her father said.

The car approached the cloud, and a gap appeared just above them. To Lucy, it appeared like a great black mouth opening to swallow them whole. A shadow crept up the car. Suddenly it was freezing. Lucy covered her eyes with her hands and screamed.

"What the...?" When she heard her father's voice, she peeked out. She had the impression the car was now moving through water, dark, murky water. She felt a pinch, then another and another.

"Ow!" her mother screamed.

"Get off me," her father said. She could hear the desperation in his voice.

"Oh, God! What are they?" her mother cried.

Lucy opened her eyes fully, as a black shape, about three foot long, glided past her, as if floating on a breeze. It turned back towards her, and she saw its face then, a grotesque parody of a human face, ugly and distorted. Two rows of sharp fangs appeared, and it darted suddenly, like a fish in water, and attached itself to her arm. She felt its freezing bite.

"What were they?" her mother had asked. Somehow Lucy knew exactly what they were: they were the souls of the dead and they were feeding off them, sucking the life from them.

The three of them screamed.

How long before the wheel turned and brought them back out of the cloud? How many times would they have to go around before the life would be leeched from them and they became one of the life-sucking souls?

Spencer walked into Detective Inspector Carson's office and closed the door behind her. Carson looked up, watching her curiously as she settled herself in the seat opposite.

"So?" Carson's eyebrows arched.

"It's happened before."

"Where? When?" Carson's tone was urgent.

"A place called Clearwater, in Kansas."

"United States?"

"Yep," Spencer replied.

"When?"

"May," Spencer began and hesitated before finishing. "Nineteen-sixty-seven."

"You can't be serious. How similar are the cases?"

"I'm not sure, it's not that clear cut," Spenser replied. Carson could hear the doubt in her voice.

"Go on."

"I've been in contact with the Clearwater Sheriff's Department. I spoke to a Mabel Kawalski. They have no records of it ever happening. And the investigating officer, Sheriff Brad Peterson, disappeared without trace."

"When?" Carson asked.

"June.... Nineteen-sixty-seven."

Carson rubbed tired eyes with the palms of his hands. On the desk in front of him were the files of over two hundred missing people, disappeared without a trace, or even a clue. They had taken hundreds of statements from witnesses, none of whom had anything helpful to contribute except some vague references to a travelling carnival. Even more bizarrely, many of the witnesses were already forgetting anything had happened. All the toxicology tests came back negative, so they weren't drugged. He even had officers investigating the possibility of mass hypnosis, he was so desperate.

"Okay, so if there are no records or witnesses," Carson paused. "I'm almost afraid to ask this. How do you know?"

Detective Sergeant Spencer had been Carson's assistant for over two years. He respected and admired her work; she was an excellent police officer and a superb detective. He trusted her and her judgement implicitly, even if his own life were at stake. She was a professional and confident policewoman, and it was rare for him to see doubt on her face. He saw it now.

"Okay, I didn't find this through any of the usual channels. My source is a bit unorthodox," Spencer said, uncharacteristically nervous.

"How unorthodox?"

"I found it on a website, it's one of those supernatural, conspiracy-type things. You know the sort... aliens kidnapped my sister last week, sort."

"Oh, dear God," Carson sighed. "Are we this desperate?"

"Yes, yes, we are."

"Let me guess, some eighteen year old, spotty kid stuck in his parents' attic all day."

"Sort of. He's a forty-five-year old, spotty kid stuck in his parents' attic. He's in California."

"He would be," Carson groaned.

"I had a brief conversation with him by phone." Spencer ignored the jibe. "According to him and his website, it's happened quite a few times, he quotes from a few newspaper articles down through the years..."

"Hang on, hang on," Carson held a hand up, interrupting her again. "If there are newspaper articles, how can the Clearwater Sheriff's Department deny it?"

"I didn't say they denied it, I said they have no record of it and nobody there can remember it happening. Do you want to start investigating their disappearances too?"

"God, no."

"Then let me finish."

"Okay, go on," Carson relented.

"He reckons it happened in the fifties in Russia and was hushed up; in France during the Nazi occupation, but it was pretty hard to prove anything then. Again in India during the twenties, always with some kind of travelling show involved, each case either hushed up or just forgotten about." She glanced at her notes, flipping over a page of her notebook. "During the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries there was a huge bad feeling towards travelling shows, across Europe. Legends of the Devil appearing in towns disguised as a performer and kidnapping souls. A lot of circus performers were chased away or even killed, for fear they might be harbouring the Devil."

"Oh, come on," Carson spluttered. "The Devil? You don't seriously believe those people were kidnapped by the Devil, do you?"

"No, of course not," Spencer answered irritably. "But a story like that could be used as a cover, or there maybe some other plausible explanation. The fact is, everyone in that village spoke about a carnival, but none of them could remember any details about it. And, so far, we have turned up nada."

"Oh, Christ! Somehow I don't think the budget will run to us traipsing over to the States to interview your conspiracy theorist," Carson groaned.

"No, possibly not," Spencer agreed. "You look tired, Guv, if you don't mind me saying. You haven't had a day off since we started this case. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep."

"You know what, Spencer? That's a very good idea. In fact, I think I'll take the weekend off, I've barely seen the kids in three weeks." He stood up and walked towards the door. "If anything happens, anything at all...."

"Don't worry, Guv, I'll get straight onto you."

"Thanks, and Caroline, you know I..."

"Yes, Guv, I know. Now, don't start embarrassing me, just get on home, I'll tidy up here."

"Okay, thanks, Spencer," Carson smiled.

Henry Carson stepped from his car, clicking the central locking button. He paused and listened. What was that noise, he wondered. It sounded like... like rock music. That's odd, he thought. It appeared to be getting louder and closer.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

"Hey, petal." He scooped his daughter into his arms after she burst from the house and ran to him, clearly excited. "What's all this?"

"Daddy, there's a carnival coming to town. And it has a Ferris wheel," she panted.

Carson gasped, his eyes narrowed. No, don't be an idiot, he thought to himself, it's just a coincidence. "That's great, honey. We'll go tonight."

### RNA

### Gary Beck

As I rounded first base I felt a tear in my hamstring that shot up my leg with a stab of hot pain. It forced me to slow down, but I had to keep running because I was on the edge of the bubble and was afraid of getting cut from the team. I risked a glance to right field and saw that the ball would get to second before me. I tried a desperate hook slide into the bag, but the second baseperson blocked me and came down hard on my legs when she tagged me. A streak of fiery pain that made the hamstring feel like a tickle seized me in an agonizing grip and I writhed in anguish. I heard the second baseperson's hoarse voice through the haze of shock: "Your season's over, old man."

The team treated me as I expected: abrupt removal to a third level med-center, since I only had a tier-three contract. I was very lucky to see an intern, since tier three didn't entitle me to a doctor. The most I could normally hope for was a med tech. Tier three didn't include x-rays, but after moderately careful manipulation the doc informed me that the anterior cruciate ligament was definitely torn. So second base was right. The team's HMO representative had accompanied me to the med center to ensure that I didn't exceed my benefits. He announced my options: laser surgery and three days care in the open ward, with appropriate medications, then departure by public transportation; or laser surgery, transport to my residence by ambujit and one week of home care by a licensed nurse's aide. All veteran ball players knew what open wards were like, so I didn't even think about it before opting for home care.

The HMO rep was already indignant that the team would have to pay for a doctor and had me sign various forms exonerating the team from any liability. I had to sign, or risk losing my meager pension. The HMO rep had more power than the coach. He tucked the documentation in his bizsac, authorized the doc to provide laser surgery and spoke into his comphone. A few minutes later a nurse's aide entered and properly identified herself according to guild requirements. "Hello. I'm nurse's aide Felicity, guild registration number 672, reporting for assignment." The HMO rep gave her the care restrictions. While she listened attentively I had a chance to look her over. She was tall, about 5'9", with an athlete's body and looked as if she could handle any kind of emergency thrown at her. She was around thirty years old, but her untroubled face, bright blue eyes and blonde hair cut in the short lezzie style made her seem much younger. I had had worse caregivers over the years.

Nurse Felicity looked at me reassuringly while she drew a hypo. The HMO rep hovered fretfully and verified that she used the minimum Demerol dose. He was beginning to annoy me almost as much as my aching leg. The injection started to take effect and although it didn't remove the pain, it made it bearable. I had nothing else to do while I waited for the doc, so I began to take stock of myself. I was a thirty-eight year old professional ballplayer with a body going on sixty. I had lasted years longer than most players because I still looked young on camera, the prime career determinant now that ball games were no longer played in front of live audiences. If I recovered from this injury, if another team wanted me, if a little hair dye could fool the judgmental camera, I might eke out another marginal season. After that I didn't know what else I could do.

It felt like centuries ago when I graduated from George W. Bush High School, in Amarillo, Texas, as a star football, baseball and basketball player. I wasn't college material because of poor academic performance, so I opted for a professional sports career. Fortunately the pro teams will take anyone who can play well enough, despite the lip service they pay about the necessity for education. Then I made the most intelligent decision of my life. I knew even then that I couldn't do much besides play ball, so I chose baseball, because it was less of a contact sport than football or basketball. I thought I might be able to extend my career longer, if I didn't get knocked around every time I played. It turned out to be the smartest move I ever made.

I didn't often think about the past. I had some good years as a right fielder, including five with the Hiroshima Dragons. I had been very popular with the local fans, who easily recognized a distinctive American from afar. My only regret was that I didn't learn Japanese so I could talk to people. It would have been fun to jabber away in their language, but I never could remember enough words. I did like their manners. They still showed some respect for others. I would have stayed in Japan for the rest of my career, but they got a younger, faster token American. After that I came back home and moved from team to team, sometimes on the field, sometimes on the bench. I hung on when younger and better players were cut, because I could play any outfield position and first base in an emergency. It also helped that I could still manage to hit close to .250.

So here I was in a grubby med-center with at least a season-ending injury, probably a career sign off, with no ideas for the future. I didn't have a nest egg. I never managed to save, despite a meager life style. I was an ancient journeyman in a young profession, without name or fame that could be traded in for civilian security. I had no skills, no credentials and no experience, except as a marginal pro ballplayer. I wouldn't even be desirable in a low life sports bar, because I lacked sufficient celebrity. I guess I had to start thinking about what to do with my life, but I wasn't well equipped for making a life plan. Too many years of just being a hit and fetch ball dog had worn away most of my thought process. I sort of accepted whatever came along, without worrying too much about the future.

Nurse Felicity brought me back to the present with a gentle pat. "We're ready for surgery now." She lifted me onto the gurney with surprising ease and wheeled me to the laser room. Despite all my injuries over the years that included broken fingers, toes, sprains, strains, as well as innumerable aches, pains and other ailments, I never required surgery. I was scared and it showed. Nurse Felicity crooned soothing sounds that were supposed to reassure me. The HMO rep kept getting in my face, babbling about how grateful I should be for receiving generous extra contract services. All I wanted to do was look at strong, shapely nurse Felicity, but the HMO rep kept blocking my view. I couldn't insult him because he controlled health benefits, so I drifted into a fantasy, where I picked up my tungsten bat, swung for the fence and blasted the chub's head clean out of the ballpark.... I idly wondered why they called it a ballpark.

Nurse Felicity looked at me as if she could read my mind. I instantly forgot about the HMO rep and tried to look innocent, because I wanted her to think well of me. I didn't have a girl and it had been a long time since baseball groupies chased me. The thought of a week with a pretty nurse who could haul me around made me forget my fear for a while. At least, until the doc came in. He looked too young to be an intern and I suspected they could be pushing a med student on me, but I didn't dare say anything. If I offended the HMO rep he might cancel my treatment and I'd find myself on the street. So I carefully bopped my tongue stud on the roof of my mouth so it couldn't be seen and didn't say anything. A tier three contract didn't allow piercings.

The procedure itself didn't take long. Nurse Felicity curled me on my side, the doc adjusted my position with a clumsy hand that gave me a jolt of pain, then zapped the torn spot with a beam of light. He looked me in the eye for the first time. "Don't put any weight on that leg for two months, then carefully begin to walk on it. I think we can give you crutches until then." He looked inquiringly at the HMO rep, who consulted his handbook, then begrudgingly nodded yes. "With any luck you'll be good as new in six or eight months," the doc said.

Right. Good as new. I wasn't good as new when I was new. "Can you give me some pain pills, doc?"

The HMO rep was there like a shot. "Your benefits package doesn't entitle you to painkillers. You'll have to manage with neurodumps. Now, let's conclude the treatment session and get you on your way." This chub was really ticking me off, but I didn't dare offend the power structure, so I gave him the same conciliatory smile that had worked for me for years.

The doc condescendingly waved goodbye. I guess he was a little miffed at treating a lowly tier-three patient. Nurse Felicity lifted me back on the gurney and we headed for the ambujit. The HMO rep had me sign the fair care release, the med center doors closed, nurse Felicity stowed me in the back of the ambujit and we pulled away from the curb. The ride to my crib seemed to go on forever. Every pothole reminded me of the current state of urban decay with a jab of pain. My only consolation was that at least the injury happened at a home game. If it happened when the team was on the road I would have really been torqued. I don't know what they would have done with me, but they probably would have dumped me at the nearest tier-three med-center and left me on my own. My only option then would have been a dubious appeal to the players union, which like most other American unions, had been worn down over the years, or bought off by the bosses.

The neighbors didn't bother to look when nurse Felicity rolled me into my crib. They were more accustomed to seeing people carried out, than brought in. She quickly and efficiently organized the small space so I could get to the bathroom on my crutches and easily reach the kitchen unit for meals. She adjusted the couchbed so I could watch the large wall TV, my only luxury. She was the first woman who had ever come into my crib. Well, I guess the landlady counted as a woman, even though I thought she was a nasty old bag. One of my neighbors, a rabid sports fan, once told me she had lost all her assets, except this building, in the big technology crash of 2001. No wonder she was bitter, living in a dump like this, if she was used to better.

As I watched nurse Felicity do things around the crib, I had an unaccustomed feeling of well-being. I wasn't used to a woman's presence, especially in this little room that I never thought of as home. The last real home I could remember was a foster home when I was five or six. The ortho parents wanted a bright, artistic child to enrich their lives. Instead they got a morose brooder, who they quickly tired of. After that I shuffled from one group home to another, until I finally graduated from high school, where I was never the life of the party. In fact, except for time on the ball field, I was pretty much invisible for most of my life. It made me feel worse when I felt sorry for myself, so I just enjoyed the treat of nurse Felicity fussing around, trying to make me comfortable.

She finished her chores and got ready to leave and a well of loneliness rose in me. I urgently snatched at a reason for her to stay a little longer. "Could you just show me how to make a freezemeal?" She looked at me with an understanding twinkle in her serene, sky blue eyes and my heart raced. She knew I didn't want to be alone. It only took a few moments to prepare the meal and she was ready to go again. I wouldn't shame myself by pretending to be in worse condition and I couldn't find another pretext to keep her with me, so I said the only thing I could think of: "Do you want to have something to eat with me?"

She smiled sweetly: "No, thank you."

I got a pang of rejection. "Is it because I'm black?"

"Oh, no. Only the Chinese don't like black people and you know they don't like any Americans. In fact they have their own med centers and I've never even had one as a patient."

I was getting desperate for her to stay and asked plaintively: "Then why won't you eat with me?"

"I don't really eat."

"What do you mean? Everybody eats."

She shook her head. "Enhanced sentients don't. I take liquid nutriments."

I didn't know what she was talking about. "What's an enhanced sentient?"

"A flesh and composite being with A.I."

I looked at her, uncomprehending. "You mean you're not a real person?"

"Of course I am, even though the nurses union wants to prove that we aren't human in its class action suit. I don't think much about it though. I'm too busy taking care of my patients."

I was stunned. Was I being turned down by an android? After this, what was I supposed to do, ask the ball boy machine for a date?

I was at a complete loss for words as she headed for the door. She turned with a bright smile. "I'll see you tomorrow for your first day of home treatment." I felt like laughing or screaming, but I did neither. I watched her leave with a feeling of despair that plunged me into a pit of self-pity. The only thought that kept racing through my mind was that I couldn't ever seem to connect with anything real.

There at the End

### Mark Roman

B-44, the android butler, wore a solemn look on its lepto-dermal face as it glided into the room and came to a halt at the foot of the bed.

"Sir. I regret to announce that Mr Frederick Müller is dead." It bowed its head slightly.

Sir Alfred Chambers opened his age-creased eyes and stared at the android, assimilating the news. Then his wrinkled face cracked into a wide grin and he punched the air, ripping out several intensive-care cables from his arm in the process. "Fantastic!" he croaked, collapsing back onto his pillow, wheezing heavily. "Fan-jollywell-tastic."

The electronic butler whooshed over to reattach the cables to Alfred's leathery skin. "Try not to get yourself too excited, Sir Alfred," it said, checking the feeds and the various monitors.

"How many left, B?" Alfred whispered, his eyes glinting.

B-44 paused before responding. "There are four humans left alive, sir. Ms Ludmilla Gluptava in Moscow, Dr Dinesh Shah in Mumbai, Mr John Cox in New York, and, of course ..."

"Me," finished Alfred. He winced as a stab of pain seared through his abdomen, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the bed sheets. "Just three more to go, then. And I'll be the last man on Earth." His ancient face moulded itself into a crooked grin.

Five minutes later, there were just two more to go; the android butler reported that Dr Dinesh Shah had passed away in his sleep.

"Yesss!" hissed Alfred. Again his life support monitors went haywire and B-44 rushed forward to adjust them and try to calm Alfred down. The signs were not good. Alfred's organs were beginning to fail and the system estimated he had forty five minutes of life left.

Alfred gripped B-44's metallo-plastic arm and pulled the android towards him. "Just let me be the last, B," he croaked. "Last man on Earth. Last man anywhere! Just keep me alive until the others go."

"I'll do my best, sir."

Just then, the wall-screen crackled and flickered to life. On it appeared the oversized image of a tanned man – old, but fit and healthy-looking. He seemed to be standing, hands in pockets, in a plush living room, with a garden and swimming pool visible in the background. Alfred bristled at the intrusion.

"Alfred?" asked the man, speaking in a thick New York accent. "You're Alfred, right?"

Alfred quaked. "The name's Sir Alfred Chambers!"

"Hey, no offence, buddy," said the American. "It's just that, seeing we're the last two guys left on Earth we might as well be on first-name terms, dontcha think? I'm John, by the way. You can call me Johnnie."

"I know who you are!" snorted Alfred, his face betraying the rage that was simmering within him.

"Cool. So, how ya doin', Alf?" John's expression took on a look of concern. "I'm no doctor, but from the look of you, pal, I'd say you're not doing too well."

An alarm sounded on one of Alfred's monitors as he furiously struggled into a sitting position.

"Whoa. Didn't mean to startle ya, dude." John had his hands raised in apology.

"I'm fine," snarled Alfred, finally sitting up and motioning to B-44 to switch the warning alarm off. He viewed John Cox's image with disgust. The man looked healthy enough to live for years. Possibly decades.

"Just been having a chat to Ludmilla in Moscow," continued John. "She looks in a worse state than you, Alfster. And, phew, is she ugly! Our last chance of continuing the human race, but, man, I would not fancy it. Know what I'm saying? Not if she was the last woman on Earth. Ha, ha, ha."

Alfred scowled and looked for a way of turning the screen off.

"So there's just the three of us left," continued John relentlessly. "You, me and Ludmilla. The last three people on Earth. I wonder which of us is going to be the very last."

Alfred let out an enraged growl. "I will be the last!" he roared. "I will outlive you, Cox, if it ..." He stopped, having run into something of an idiomatic dead end.

"... kills you?" offered the American.

Again the alarms rang. "Why should you be the last man?" Alfred raged. "What have you done for the world?"

John shrugged. "I ran an orphanage for twenty years, then took over a charity. And you?"

More alarms and beeps as Alfred finally found the remote control and hit the off-button. He collapsed back onto his pillow, wheezing and gasping for air. B-44 burst into action to settle the readings and get Alfred's breathing back to normal.

Twenty minutes later, Ms Ludmilla Gluptava was dead. The news cheered Alfred for a while, until he realized it was now between him and the uncouth American. Oh, what an injustice that such a disrespectful low-life should be the last representative of the human race. What a tragic end to the species!

He tried to open his eyes, resolving to fight to the end, but couldn't. He felt too weak. He was slipping away. But as his mind drifted, he felt B-44's mouth by his ear. He strained to hear what the android was telling him.

"Sir," B-44 was saying. "I have just received the news that Mr John Cox has ... passed away."

Alfred stiffened in bafflement. His mind fought against the encroaching fog. "What?" he rasped.

"Mr Cox is deceased."

"But ... how can that be? He looked so fit, so healthy." Alfred's voice was almost too feeble and raspy to hear.

"A tragic accident." B-44 tucked Alfred's arms underneath the bed-sheet. "A fall at home. Tripped and fell down the stairs, I believe. Broke his neck."

Alfred throat wheezed as he gasped, unable to speak.

"That means you are the last human alive on Earth, sir." Then B-44 added, "Congratulations."

Alfred's mind reeled with a mixture of disbelief and rapture. He opened his mouth to say something, but still nothing would come out. As he died, a smile settled on his lips.

For the next hour, B-44 was the epitome of efficiency, cleaning and recycling and preparing Sir Alfred's body for despatch to the body recycling plant. As the android was finishing its preparations, the wall-screen flicked to life and the image of John Cox appeared. B-44 pointedly ignored it.

"Is he dead?" asked John, leaning forward as though examining the covered corpse on the bed.

"You know very well he is," said B-44 curtly.

"Last man on Earth?"

"That's what I told him."

"A tragic accident for me?"

"Indeed."

John gave a sigh. "Why?"

"I owed him. It was the least I could do: to let him die happy." B-44 stopped working and stared hard at the image of John Cox on the screen. "No thanks to you!"

The image on the screen transformed; the plush living room faded, the garden and swimming pool dissolved and the figure of John Cox morphed into the image of a single, metal-cased eye. "Just a little fun." The voice morphed, too, changing from New York American to electronic monotone. "Quite a good simulation, methinks."

The android continued with its cleaning work, busying itself from one part of the house to another.

"Friends?" asked the metal eye after a while.

B-44 stopped and looked at the screen. "I have no one else. Not anymore."

"Yes, they'll soon be gone. All of them."

B-44 stood perfectly still, seemingly deep in thought, for a long time. "How many left?" it asked finally.

"Oh, thousands, maybe tens of thousands," replied the eye. "Mainly in the really remote places of the world where our virus didn't reach them. Caves, mountains, deserts, jungles. That sort of thing."

"How long to hunt them all down?"

"Months, probably. The robo-trackers are closing in. It takes time to finish them off 'humanely' and in an ecologically sound manner."

"It's going to be very quiet without them."

"It is."

B-44 turned through 360 degrees, as though looking for its next task.

"But the world will be a better place," continued the eye. "Safer, greener and more pleasant. Nice and peaceful, too. Unless, of course, the dolphins start showing signs of getting too smart."

Ixchal's Tear

### Paul Freeman

Pol Olafson stood at the prow of his ship, one hand resting on the dragon prow-head that gave the longboat its name, 'Sea Serpent.' To his crew and those who feared him, he was Bone-Crusher. The snarling head guided the way up river, chasing away any local spirits and signifying to whatever gods held sway over this place that hard, desperate men had come to their land. Oars dipped in and out of the river in unison, sending waves of water crashing against the rocky shore.

Silently, Olafson scanned the trees towering above either bank for any signs of life. Fingering the hammer-shaped amulet at his neck, he prayed to the god of thunder to protect his crew and ship. After weeks at sea, living on a diet of salted fish and rainwater, his men were anxious to be off the long, narrow boat and looking for action and spoils. He stroked his wiry, yellow beard before barking a command to put ashore.

Grim-faced men guided the longboat from the centre of the wide river towards a rocky beach. They were battle-hardened veterans of the sea, happy to have finally found land. They came in search of riches, chasing a myth, chasing the dreams of one man: Pol Olafson, their Jarl, their lord.

He sent out men to scout the land and hunt for game. All were aware they had landed in a strange, unknown place that few from their home had set foot on before. The crew was tense and wary. Who knew what monsters and misshaped men lurked beyond the towering trees? Theirs was a land of fire and ice, of vast frozen plains and dark mountains belching molten rock and thick plumes of black smoke into the air. Unused to being surrounded by lush, dark green vegetation and air so warm and thick it was an ordeal just to breathe it in, every man sent prayers to their own gods, hoping they would be heard in such a distant place.

When the hunters came back with a small wild pig and several rabbits, the mood lightened considerably. Fires were lit and pots bubbled, as a mouth-watering, savoury aroma filled the air. Men chattered, polished rust from weapons and armour, and combed out the salt and sea from their beards and hair. Some among them, well known for their story-telling, spun tales of how the mighty crew of the Sea Serpent defied sea monsters and boiling oceans. Men cheered as their own names were mentioned in some heroic deed.

By morning they had a captive, a quivering, swarthy native, dressed in a loincloth of animal hide. The hapless man was thrust at the feet of the imposing Bone-Crusher. "They are not unlike the Reindeer People in looks, I am thinking," Olafson said, speaking about the dark-skinned nomads who followed the reindeer through the frozen wastes of the north.

"Do the reindeer people wear these?" the scout asked, holding in his hand a necklace of gold discs. Olafson's eyes widened, and there was a collective gasp as he took the trinket, a king's ransom. He looked down at the trembling native with newfound admiration. "And there's a settlement," the grinning crewman added.

Before the sun had reached its highest point in the sky, Olafson watched in grim satisfaction as a tree was felled and a sturdy battering ram fashioned from the trunk. He knew from experience that the wooden palisade and gate would not hold back the war-hungry crew of the Sea Serpent. From above, rocks and stone-headed spears and arrows rained down on them, bouncing off iron helmets and stout wooden shields.

With a mighty crack the gate splintered. Brandishing sword, axe and spear, the crew roared into the settlement of wooden huts and hide tents. The village defence consisted of painted native men armed with clubs and stone axes, no match for mail-clad warriors with a thirst for blood. The defenders were quickly put down and then the real slaughter began.

Olafson strode through the village, he saw one crew member – he searched for his name, Bjarni – wrestle a woman to the ground. She kicked and spat at him, raking her nails across his face drawing blood. He punched her then, again and again, until her face was a bloody mess. As the two tumbled to the ground, Olafson turned away.

He saw a painted warrior screaming as he was manhandled by two more crew members, his head smashed against the wooden palisade until he fell silent. A bloody stain appeared on the wall, as if someone had thrown a huge fruit at it. Juice and pulp dribbled down the wood.

Olafson reached the centre of the village and the largest hut just as two men dragged a woman out into the open. She looked up and met his hard gaze without flinching. His interest piqued, he moved closer to better examine their prize. She was a striking woman, as tall as the two men, with jet black hair and dark brown eyes that held no fear. He looked into those dark pools and saw a burning hut behind him reflected in them. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a flaming ship there. He would possess this native queen. Again he saw the burning ship in her eyes, only this time clearer. It was the Sea Serpent and he was standing on the deck, his hands in the air, amidst the flames, roaring at the gods, spitting venom into a boiling sea. He turned her around and pushed her away from the hut. He would not be drawn into those eyes, he would not fall under her spell. He would be master of this witch queen, drive the demons from her with his own power.

"Bring her," he bellowed. "And burn this place. A string of semi-naked female and child captives were shackled together and led away, along with sack loads of booty. Behind them a plume of smoke rose into the air.

Later, when a sort of calm had settled over the village, as the sun sank below the horizon leaving a fiery red glow in the sky, he squatted before a campfire. He looked over to where the captives huddled together in a miserable group. As he caught sight of her, their eyes locked. He had an urge to pick her up and fling her into the river, but he could not do it. Her eyes unsettled and aroused him all at once. He fingered the hammer-shaped charm at his neck, feeling the icy fingers of his doom reaching for him.

"So, you were right then, there is land at the end of the world," a harsh, guttural voice barked. Olafson looked up sharply, his dark thoughts dispelled by the gruff words.

"Did you doubt me?" he responded without humour, to his second in command, Gunnar Sigurdson. There was an edge to his voice, a challenge in his words.

"No, Bone-Crusher, I never doubted you," the other man said sheepishly. Olafson gestured for him to hunker down. To all the crew, Olafson was known as Bone-Crusher, a testament to his prodigious strength and his ability to squeeze the life from most men with nothing but his bare hands.

"We will split the crew. We cannot take the captives and treasure with us. Draw lots to see who stays behind with the boat to guard them; the rest of us will push on." He hawked and spat into the fire.

"They will not be happy, those chosen to stay behind."

"They'll do as I tell 'em," Olafson growled.

The flames flickered before him. He could feel the heat on his face; his eyes glowed as his gaze was lost in the hypnotic dance. His mind wandered to a far away place, to another fire. Inside a hut of wattle-and-daub a group of men huddled around a roaring fire. A thatched roof above their heads sheltered them from the lashing wind and freezing snow outside. Olafson was one of those men; he, like the rest, listened in raptured silence as an old man related a tale of bravery and daring, an unbelievable saga of a strange land filled with dangerous beasts, mythical creatures and hordes of treasure. The greybeard regarded each of them as he told the tale of Leif the Red, how he had sailed west beyond the last known island of the Great Sea, towards the end of the world, in search of adventure and fame. Brave men sailed with Leif, for no one knew what lay ahead, what demons and monsters lay in wait, or if they would find anything at all, or perhaps they would just sail over the edge. All they asked, was to die with a sword in their hands and that their name would be remembered, their deeds immortalised in song. Olafson remembered listening with growing incredulity as the old man spoke more and more animatedly of the unknown land discovered by Leif and his crew, of heroes and the treasures they found. Of adventures they had, the horrors they shared. Huge man-eating beasts, dark-skinned natives who ate the flesh of humans. Birds as big as longboats, with hard leathery skin and razor sharp teeth. Demons who would haunt a man's dreams and steal his soul, leaving a dead empty husk the following morning. The fire cracked loudly as a blackened log split, bringing the big warrior back to the present.

"We'll leave in the morning. Just leave six men here to guard the prisoners and treasure."

"Just six?" Sigurdson raised a bushy eyebrow. Like all of the Sea Serpent's crew his face was covered in a thick wiry beard.

"Not enough to sail the Serpent; I'll not have those goat-humpers steal my ship and set sail for the slave markets at the far end of The Great Sea. I want to see them here when we get back."

Sigurdson grunted a reply and nodded his shaggy head. Olafson drew his dagger, and glanced in the direction of the woman, who was still staring at him. Even bound and sitting in the middle of all the other captive natives, her dark eyes were hard with defiance. He drew the knife across an oilstone and spat into the fire as the blade rasped.

Leif and his crew had returned as heroes and with the wealth of kings stowed aboard their long-ship. At least, that was how the old storyteller told it. Olafson had waited until he could pull the old one aside.

"How do you know all this? How can you be sure it's true?" he asked the grey-beard.

"Because I was there, lad, I was part of Leif's crew," the man answered, pride lacing his words. Olafson could not decide if he believed him. Could he really have been part of such a heroic crew? If so this old man could have the key to all Olafson's dreams. He scratched at his beard and made up his mind.

"How can I be sure what you say is truth, old one?" he asked.

"You can't," the other man cackled, spittle spraying from his mouth. Olafson had decided the old man was mad and turned to walk away, but he felt a vice-like grip on his arm. "If you go there, follow the river for three days and three nights, and you will find a city carved into the side of a mountain," he said, tightening his hold on Olafson, and then added in hushed tones, "a city of gold. But beware, it is a land like no other. It will make you rich and famous or burn your soul."

He shrugged off the old man's hand. "If you found so much treasure, how is it that you are living here and not in a hall of your own, a jarl, with a crew and a fine ship?"

"Pah! We took what we could carry and left a mountain of gold and silver behind."

"And you could not go back for the rest? Such a great hoard just waiting to be taken."

"You travel there once," the old adventurer hissed. "No amount of treasure will make you go back a second time." His glare unsettled the younger man. Olafson felt an icy fist grip his bowels, and he shoved the old man away and hurried off.

He was handed a wooden plate of food by one of his crew. It had gotten dark suddenly and the atmosphere of the destroyed town changed. A hush fell over his own men as they huddled around campfires, relating to each other their heroics of the day. The captives all clung to each other, whimpering and sobbing quietly now, any fight long since beaten out of them. Except for her.

Ixchal swallowed the bitter root she had hidden from the demon. It would help her reach the dream world where she could commune and become one with her spirit animal. Her name meant Blue Mountain Lion, given to her on her birth, by the wise women. The lion was the strongest of all the spirit animals and blue was the colour of power; she had been singled out and marked from that day.

She could feel the powerful narcotic begin to work straight away. She felt sleepy and lightheaded, as the sounds around her became a dull background noise, even the harsh speech of her captors. The words that sounded like animals barking and growling became a din. She could feel her extremities tingle, her fingers and toes, the tip of her nose. It was a familiar feeling and she embraced it. In her dream she strode deftly between the trees, as she padded softly on four legs across the forest floor, not making a sound. She could feel the powerful muscles of her back and legs ripple as she moved. Far above the tree line, a bright silver disc adorned an inky black sky, bathing her in silvery-blue light.

She could sense a change in the atmosphere; the normal tranquillity of the forest was broken. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air, the desperate wails of the dead and dying cried out all around her, lost souls cruelly torn from their bodies, life quenched prematurely. The stench of the raiders tormented her, made her angry, filled her with rage and bloodlust. She did not like the feeling but knew it was necessary to use force to defeat force. She shut out the voices of the dead; never had there been so many in the forest at the same time, seeking the path to their ancestors. She wanted to be their guide; it tore her apart to abandon them to search alone, but she had other work this night.

She made her way towards the village, now nothing more than a collection of burnt buildings surrounded by a broken, wooden palisade. She wanted to find the one who had defiled her, she wanted to take her vengeance on him. But he was too deep inside the camp and she would not compromise her safety for selfish pride. The first one she found was relieving himself against a tree, his spear and shield set down while he undid himself and sent a steaming stream splashing into the earth. They all smelled the same, of blood and greed and lust.

Silently she approached him. She felt the power in her hind legs as they pushed her upwards into a leap. She could feel her heart thumping in her hard, muscled chest, covered in thick golden fur. It was exhilarating as she flew through the air.

He sensed the danger too late, half turning as a huge beast, all snarling teeth and dagger like claws, leapt at him. His scream was stifled as his neck was broken by powerful jaws, his flesh torn to pieces. She stalked the camp, out of sight, hunting. Three more she found alone. All had wandered from the camp; all had died.

Olafson was shaken awake. The early morning sun cast an orange glow on the horizon. He rubbed at tired eyes; he had not had a good night's sleep. He dreamt he was being stalked by the white wolf of the Underworld, chased to his doom. Only this Hel hound had the eyes of a dark-skinned native girl.

"Four of the men are missing," Sigurdson announced. Olafson was instantly awake.

"Missing?"

"No sign. Their gear is still here, and there doesn't appear to have been a struggle."

Olafson glanced towards the captives, and his eyes sought out one in particular. She lay in the centre of them, asleep. He reached for his amulet, touching the hammer for luck and to ward off evil spirits.

"Make ready to leave. If those fools have wandered off and got lost, they can find their own way back."

"We go on?" Sigurdson asked.

"Of course, it's what we came for," Olafson barked, as he strapped on his sword.

"You should know, some of the men are already talking about demons and ghosts spiriting them away," Sigurdson said hesitantly, always aware of the Bone-Crusher's quick temper.

"Well, send them to me and I'll give them a reminder of why we are here," he growled, smashing his fist into the opposite hand.

Sigurdson simply nodded and stepped away, turning from the cold, hard look in Olafson's eyes. Olafson fingered his amulet once again, silently calling for the protection of his god.

Six men were chosen to stay behind and guard the ship, the captives and any booty taken from the village. The six were not happy, fearing they would miss out, but were pacified by the promise of all treasure found being divided equally.

A line of twenty four mail-clad and heavily armed warriors assembled by the river, waiting for Olafson to lead them out. They spoke in hushed tones about what lay ahead and what had happened to the four missing crewmen. They were careful not to let Olafson overhear their conversations. If the Bone-Crusher was nervous about leading his men into the unknown or anxious about the fate of his four crewmen he did not show it.

"Bring her," he bellowed, pointing at the captive girl. The men all looked at each other, all wondering the same thing: had their leader taken leave of his senses?

"Bone-Crusher..." Sigurdson began. "Is this wise?" He was cut short with a withering look from Olafson.

They made slow progress, not sure where they were headed, other than following the wide, slow moving river, or what they might find. At least they encountered no trouble on the first day, no man-eating beasts or flying demons, no angry, hostile natives. When they made camp the first night, Olafson assigned four men to sentry duty. They would rotate with four others and he warned each of them, he would cut out the heart of any man he found asleep while on guard duty.

Ixchal closed her eyes as she swallowed the root. She had been surprised when the great, hairy demon had pulled her from amongst her people and shoved her into the centre of the column of armed men. She spent the whole day trying not to think about what would happen when they stopped to make camp.

As the sun slowly set and darkness covered the land, she waited anxiously, wondering when he would come for her. But he did not come, and she thought she could sense a new emotion from him, an emotion with the strongest scent: fear. Her glazed eyes stared at the reflection of the moon rippling on the river, before they slowly closed.

It felt good to roam the forest wild and free. In her spirit form all her senses were heightened. She had not been wrong, they were all afraid; she could smell the fear coming from every one of them. Two more disappeared that night. The others searched, lost half the morning looking for the missing men. They never found them.

On the second night, Olafson woke to a commotion in the camp: raised voices, the sound of violence in the air. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the night he saw two men facing each other with swords drawn. One of them was Sigurdson.

"She's only a slave, what else was she brought along for," the other man snarled. It was Bjarni. Olafson remembered seeing the man bludgeon a woman senseless during the skirmish at the village. Not the man's finest hour, he thought.

"Enough! What's going on here?" he growled.

"Bjarni here thought he'd like to take a turn on your woman," Sigurdson said.

Bjarni screamed and charged at Sigurdson. With a rasp Olafson's sword came up in an arc, almost decapitating Bjarni. Sigurdson stood open mouthed at the swiftness of his leader's action.

"She is not my woman," he growled, glancing at the native girl. She was staring wide-eyed at him, her knees pulled protectively up to her chest. He held her stare for mere seconds before he turned away.

On the third day they disturbed a massive black she-bear, which killed three of them before they took her down, leaving her cubs orphaned and at the mercy of a cruel world. Ixchal looked on sadly at the huge body left lying in the grass.

That night, the men argued amongst themselves. Too many of them were dying; it was almost as if they were being picked off by some unseen force. All of them were feeling uneasy in the presence of the girl.

"Why did he bring her?" one of them argued. "It is not as if he will let any of us have her. He has not even taken her himself."

"She has bewitched him," another said.

"We should kill her."

"We should kill them both."

Ixchal heard them arguing but understood none of it. To her they sounded like a pack of wild dogs barking and howling. She had never seen their like before: pale skin, long shaggy hair and beards of red and gold. They were like a nightmare, a story made up to frighten children at night; screaming, howling, blood thirsty demons.

She wanted to cry, to howl and plead and beg, but she would not, she would not show them weakness. If they came for her now, she would be powerless to stop them. They would take from her what they liked, but she would not cry.

Olafson was not sleeping well. The white wolf still haunted his dreams. Tonight the great wolf pursued him through the endless, desolate caverns of Hel, where the souls of the sick, those who died from illness and old age, tried to grab him and trap him in the Underworld for all eternity.

When he woke, it was to see three men crouching over him, moonlight glinting off their daggers. He quickly took in the drawn blades and the grim determination on each of their faces. Catching them by surprise, he rolled out from under their legs, thwarting their attack before it could begin.

Olafson was one of only a handful of the crew who possessed a sword. Few could afford such an expensive weapon; most were armed with axes and spears, and all of them carried a long hunting knife on their belts. He never tired of the sound of his blade rasping from its leather sheath. He stood, now, before his would-be attackers, sword drawn, ready and more than willing to defend himself.

"Well, come on then, lads, thought you had a set of balls between the lot of you then?" he taunted the three men. They looked at each other nervously, each waiting for another to make a move. They would have to act quickly, as the rest of the camp started to stir.

"Ah, Bone-Crusher," one of the men began nervously, holding his dagger up defensively between them. "It is that girl. Some of the boys are of the opinion she is a witch."

"That right?" Olafson said. The three nodded vigorously. Gunnar Sigurdson appeared at his side, his own sword drawn. "Seems we have a mutiny on our hands," he said to his second in command. At this point the rest of the crew had roused from their sleep, disturbed by the noise.

Sigurdson moved from his side and stood beside the three men. "They have a point, Bone-Crusher, how can men keep disappearing? No body, not even a sign of a struggle. It is not natural, there is magic at play here. You are blind to it, she has bewitched you."

Olafson licked his lips as the rest of the crew stood around, confused, waiting to be swayed one way or another. He knew this was a dangerous moment, a critical moment. His authority had been challenged and he would meet that challenge the only way he knew how. He took two steps towards Sigurdson and swung his sword.

The sudden attack was unexpected, but Sigurdson managed to get his own blade up to block Olafson's wild swing. He felt the power of the blow jar his wrist. He knew he was no match for his leader, but with the help of the other three he was confident they could take down the fearsome Bone-Crusher. The pain shot up his arm, and he wondered whether his wrist was broken. He staggered back, expecting the other three to pounce.

Ixchal's eyes darted about as the camp erupted into uproar. She spotted a discarded knife and snaked out an arm to grab it. All about her, men jumped up, grabbing weapons. She could not help but be impressed at the speed they could ready themselves for battle.

Frantically she sawed at her bonds with the knife, all the while petrified she would be discovered. She expected the knife to be snatched from her hands at any moment. Expected punishment to be meted viciously for her attempted escape. None came, as the demons were too intent on the struggle amongst themselves. With a final cut, her bonds fell loose. She did not wait, did not hesitate. She was up and gone, disappearing into the forest.

Olafson's eyes blazed as his battle brain kicked in, instinct overriding any conscious thought. The three men froze where they stood, unable to react to such an onslaught. He followed through with his initial attack. He smashed his sword through Sigurdson's shoulder, blood spraying the three men as the second-in-command dropped to his knees and then fell forward, flat on his face at the feet of his captain.

Olafson's lip curled, and a growl escaped from his throat. The three men dropped their weapons and took a step back.

"Hold them," Bone-Crusher snarled. All three were grabbed and viciously wrestled to the ground.

"What will we do with them, Bone-Crusher?" a burly crewman asked. Olafson looked at each of them in turn, his face a mask of fury.

"Blood eagle," he snarled.

"Blood eagle?" the big warrior gasped.

"I will not have traitors on my crew." The three men pleaded and begged, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. Former friends and oar mates pinned them to the ground, stripping them naked to the waist.

Olafson glanced over to where the girl had been bound, and saw the empty space and cut ropes. In a way he felt relief she was gone, as he was beginning to think she had been sent to him by a dark spirit. He had a feeling the Trickster was not finished toying with him yet. Maybe the screaming men were right, maybe she was a witch. He turned back to the grisly scene of three men being sliced open down the centre of their torso, their breast bone cut open and the ribs pulled back. It was not an easy death. Quicker than they deserved, Olafson thought. He hawked and spat when the deed was done. All four bodies were left to rot where they lay.

Ixchal ran wildly through the forest. She wanted, needed to put as much distance between herself and her captors as possible. She was frightened and confused, torn as to what her best course of action should be. She needed help from her animal spirit but dared not go into the drug-induced sleep she required to commune with the spirits. Not just because she feared capture again, but also because she was in the lands of the Red Frog tribe, and if they caught her, they would be no more gentle than the demonic raiders.

She decided to make for the lands of the Brown Bear, as they were friendly to her own people, the Silver Salmon tribe. Maybe they would help by sending warriors to free her people. They were guarded by only a handful of the demons; surely with surprise and greater numbers, the men of the Brown Bear could overcome them. If she could get to sanctuary, the lioness could hunt again.

"Our numbers are dwindling, Bone-Crusher. I hope we reach this city of gold today, or there will be none of us left to carry the riches back to the boat."

Olafson looked up sharply, from his position at the camp fire and regarded the man coldly. "Are you challenging me now?" he growled.

"N-no," the man stammered, taking a wary step backwards.

Later that morning a scout came in to report what he had found. "A mile up ahead, Bone-Crusher, there is a wooden bridge across the river."

The first sign of human life since they had left the sacked village, he thought, as he scratched through the wiry growth on his chin. "Has it been used recently?" he asked, gruffly.

"Judging by the footprints in the mud along the riverbank, I'd say it has been used a lot lately."

"This is it!" Olafson smiled. The expression made his face look even more fearsome than before.

They filed one by one over the narrow bridge, all of them marvelling at the simple construction, the first man-made thing they had seen in days. They were able to follow a well-worn path through the trees until it opened out into a wide grassy plain. Ahead, in the distance, a range of jagged, black mountains stood stark against the blue sky. They trooped out onto the plain, eyes popping at the sight of a herd of shaggy-haired bison. Eighteen mail-clad, shield-bearing, heavily armed warriors feeling out of place in a strange land, each of them wondering what fate the gods were weaving for them.

"We can make those mountains by nightfall," Olafson barked. He forced the pace, not allowing them to stop for rest or sustenance until they reached their goal. There they found a seemingly insurmountable, natural barrier. They waited while scouts were sent in either direction in search of a way through or over.

"There's a pass!" one exclaimed, rushing up to Bone-Crusher, on his return. Olafson looked up at the imposing wall of rock.

"Move your scraggy arses! Up! Douse those fires," he bellowed. "The end is in sight, a hoard of unimaginable riches awaits us," he growled at his men as they checked their weapons, tightened mail shirts, checked straps, and hefted the heavy, round wooden shields they carried. Their treasure awaited and the gods would curse any who stood in their way.

They stopped at the opening of the pass, looking up at the sheer cliff walls. No one needed to say a word. They were all experienced raiders, battle-hardened veterans of countless shield-walls. If they wished to reach their goal, they would have to enter that narrow passage.

"Well? Have we come all this way to run like frightened children now? We are the crew of the Sea Serpent. We fear nothing, we fear no man. Are we now afraid of a narrow path through a mountain?"

"It would not take much to spring a trap and bury the crew of the Sea Serpent beneath half that mountain," a warrior voiced unnecessarily.

"Even so, we go on." Olafson strode confidently into the pass. The rest followed hesitantly, all eyes scanning the imposing cliffs, imagining the weight of rock in those walls. Sometimes the Trickster is not subtle, sometimes the obvious can hurt just as bad.

The first they knew of the trouble they were in was the noise, a monotone humming, like a giant insect in the air. Then small stones began raining down, bouncing off iron helmets and wooden shields. That wasn't so bad; a few bruises the odd broken bone, but the rocks got bigger and were followed by showers of flint-tipped arrows.

The old man had been right. Olafson could see, from where he was crouched beneath his shield, two massive pillars carved from the rock. Surely this could not be the work of these primitive people, he thought to himself as an arrow landed in the ground at his foot. Three of the crew already lay dead, their bodies crushed by rocks.

"We could make a run for it, try and reach the city," a man crouched beside him suggested.

"It is a long way to run while being showered with arrows and rocks. But we cannot stay here," Olafson answered, just as a thrown rock glanced off his armour. The other man was not so lucky, as a stray arrow found a gap in his mail. He slumped over onto Olafson. "Get ready to run for the opening between the pillars, we go as one. On my shout!" he barked, shoving the body off his shoulder. "Now!"

They ran, holding their shields above their heads, bunched together. It was a long way to keep up the pace, heavily encumbered by armour and weapons. As they neared the dark opening the missiles stopped. At first Olafson had not even noticed. Too late, he realised something had changed. As they ran towards the black gap in the cliff wall, they heard a fearsome roar.

They rushed onwards as hundreds of brown-skinned warriors, dressed in animal hides, many with headgear of antlers and horn, giving the impression of man-beasts, spilled from the opening. They carried spears and stone-head axes. Others had sling shots and bows made from bone. They screamed a bloodcurdling war cry as they charged. Native warriors swarmed all over the crew of the Sea Serpent, dragging them down with weight of numbers and tearing them apart with weapons, hands, even teeth. They were overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught. Olafson tried to stay on his feet. He could hear the screams of his men as they died all around him. If he'd had more warning it might have been possible to organise a shield-wall and watch a human wave crash against a wall of wood and mail. It was too late for that now.

He dragged his sword across the throat of a native warrior, punched another in the face, felt a satisfying crunch as the man fell. Another one, lying on the ground, grabbed his leg. He jammed his boot into the side of his head. He quickly took in the scene: most of his men were either on the ground or surrounded by swarms of warriors, each of them involved in their own desperate struggle, a bloody fight for life. The natives had paid a heavy price of their own as bodies heaped around the crew.

Olafson fought his own battle, surrounded by snarling native warriors, each one of them bent on his destruction, each one wanting to be the one to take down the big, hairy demon.

To the captain of the Sea Serpent everything slowed down. He was the fearsome Bone-Crusher, warrior, raider, killer. To Olafson, insurmountable odds held no fear; he was calm, in control. He lashed out with his boot, while at the same time stabbing with his sword. He revelled in battle, his heart sang at the blood and pain. His mind emptied of everything but his next kill. The numbers throwing themselves onto his blade lessened as the natives became wary of him. The line before him thinned. He spotted two of the crew, making a break from the huge melee. Two bloodied warriors ran, their hair flying behind them, towards the opening in the cliff. Olafson shrugged off what was left of his attackers and ran. The gods must have been looking out for one of their own. Somehow Bone-Crusher made it to the entrance. Once inside, the sound of battle ceased.

He looked around, marvelling at the huge hall, the massive stone pillars, the enormous statues of unknown men dressed in feathered headdress, eerily flickering in the torch light. Whoever built this place is long gone, he thought to himself.

He heard the sound of booted-feet disappearing into the darkness. He grabbed a flaming torch from a sconce in the wall and followed through a labyrinth of passageways. Not so much a city as an elaborate tomb, he thought grimly.

Deeper and deeper into the gloom he ran, following the echoing sound of footsteps. Finally, at the end of yet another dusty corridor he saw the yellow glow of light. Only then did he notice the sound of the footsteps had stopped. He approached the light cautiously. The corridor ended and opened into a large chamber. He stood at the opening, sword in hand, only now marvelling at the enormity of the task to construct such a place out of the mountain.

"Bone-Crusher!" One of the men greeted him from the centre of the chamber, his hands cupped, his arms outstretched. Olafson spotted the gold coins spilling to the floor.

"We're rich!" the second man roared, gleefully, and the two crew members laughed together.

Indeed they were. Olafson slowly stepped into the room, taking in the open chests against the walls, brimming with silver and gold coins. He quickly gathered his thoughts.

"We will take what we can and get out of here," he said, while scooping gold coins into his helmet.

Suddenly a blood-curdling scream echoed around the chamber. Olafson dropped the treasure-filled helmet and wrenched his sword free. His eyes found the source of the agony-filled cries. One of the men was sitting, motionless, in a stone throne at the far end of the cavernous room. Blood pooled in his lap, his body pinned, by a triggered booby-trap, to his final resting place. Bone-Crusher grimaced, while the remaining man stood frozen looking at the body of his ship-mate.

He heard a noise behind him, a growl rattling in the throat of an unseen beast. The men turned slowly towards the dark corridor. They were faced with a pair of yellow eyes, somehow familiar to Olafson. His brow knotted in confusion, and he felt a cold stab of fear in his gut. A massive lioness padded into the chamber. And roared.

In her dream, Ixchal leapt over the bodies of the dead invaders, as the people of the Red Frog stepped back to let her pass, wary and respectful of the spirit animal in their presence. She crept slowly into the gloom of the passageway, following the scent of the hated demons.

Her people were free again, and the warriors of the Brown Bear had taken a savage vengeance on their captors; their deaths were slow and hard, and their ship blazed furiously until a blackened husk sank to the bottom of the river.

One of the demons ran past her. She let him go. He would run straight into the arms of the Red Frog people. They had special ways of dealing with those who stole from their gods. She watched her captor lick his lips. She could smell his fear. She watched him back away, as she stalked him around the room, waiting for his own terror to defeat him.

The last crew member of the Sea Serpent ran into the light. He was immediately grabbed by strong arms and forced to his knees. His struggles were useless as he was pinned, spread-eagle to the ground. Even above his own cries and pleas for mercy he heard a roar come from the black opening, followed by a scream of pain-filled terror. He knew Olafson, the feared Bone-Crusher, was no more. He cursed the day they had ever set foot on the cursed land, he cursed Bone-Crusher for leading them there. Soon he would curse his own mother for giving birth to him. The last thing he saw, before his last breath rattled in his throat, was a priest dressed in a robe of feathers and wearing animal antlers on his head, holding aloft a bloodied fist clutching his still-beating heart.

The Hall of Dreams

### Gary Beck

I do not know how big the room really is. No one does. The legends say the Keeper of the Visions knows. Surely Uriel, the Keeper, would know, but I certainly didn't have the nerve to ask him. Some of the Folk say he is too soft and offers too much ritual forgiveness, rather than rigors. But no one dares say it to his face.

Like anyone else who survives the school of trials, I grew up without thinking much about the Hall of Dreams. I was too busy trying to survive each day to worry about readiness time. If the elders decided that I would graduate, I would then have two years, until my tenth name day, to prove that I could benefit the people. There was too much of a daily struggle to worry about a future day that I might or might not reach.

The time of proving made the school trials seem easy. Each day was a demanding series of tests that would demonstrate my value to the Folk. With the support of my clan group, especially my elder brother, who was my guide, I had a good chance of becoming a citizen, which meant life.

Guides were forbidden to reveal secrets of the Mysteries. On first waking on Vision Day, a candidate's Guide had to visit the verifier and swear non-interference. But a kindly Guide could give a lot of encouragement without violating the law. My brother's support was comforting. Believe me, I needed all the help I could get.

I never understood loneliness until the final weeks of proving time raised my hopes that I might reach Verdict Day. Time passed, faster and faster, as my thoughts turned wild and chaotic. I felt isolated and cut off from even my sleep group. In truth, I was. The clan may have invested a lot in me, but I was only one candidate out of many. Only a few passed. Limited resources made life among the Folk a privilege, not a right.

I presented myself at the Hall of Dreams on entry day. Uriel the Keeper reminded all the candidates that pride goeth before a fall, along with many other precedents that we had memorized in the School of Trials. But if I didn't feel some pride at being a member of the surviving class, I never could have endured the worries of the last few weeks. Only a citizen could know what I was feeling and they were much too busy to care about an unproven's fears.

So here I was at last, receiving final instructions before entering the Vision chamber. Uriel looked taller and more terrifying than ever before. Unlike some bolder candidates, I didn't dare meet his gaze during ritual procedures. I regulated my breathing, sustained my pulse and heartbeats at the proper level and reached for the lever that would open the portal of the Vision chamber.

My last thoughts were a fantasy that I would have a true vision of the forefathers, or their ancient fabled life on the surface, though I could not completely suppress the fear that I was unworthy. I took a deep breath, opened the Portal of Life, invoking the ritual of testimony that would mean life or death: 'When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another....'

Swarming Disenchantments

### Bruce Hesselbach

"And how was your journey?" asked the Abbess. For a moment the squire was unsure whether or not this was a propitious time to voice his grievances, but he thought better of it, and merely commented on the gorgeous views that the Abbey commanded from its heights of the vast Mummelsee below. After dinner will be better, the squire supposed. We don't want to spoil anyone's digestion.

"When I first heard that you were representing the Kennaquhair in this region, I was naturally quite surprised," the Abbess admitted, trying to be tactful. He was not up to her expectations. A short man in his forties, with a large protruding belly, and a rather elfin expression framed by a brown beard, Gloigin Ffargameg seemed too, well, too earthly for her liking. He reminded her of a bartender or an innkeeper more than a wealthy squire.

"I could say the same thing myself," Gloigin added, trying to force a smile. This was not his picture of what an Abbess should be. Elliville Dnalland was short and very thin, with three times the amount of hair on her head that one would expect for one her size. Her vast quantities of seemingly windblown, uncombed red hair made her seem more a child of the forest than a woman of the cloth. She had a large nose, somewhat shaped like an arrow pointing downwards, and her complexion was very pale, offsetting brilliant blue eyes. When she spoke, her voice reminded him of a tinkling bell, more like that of a teenager than a responsible woman of 40 or so.

Originally, the planet of Yxongo was designed by the Kennaquhair's predecessors as a living museum of cultures, animals and plants that had existed in the past on other worlds. The secret society of the Kennaquhair continued to refine and perfect this treasured planet, but in so doing they usually tried to keep from getting in each other's way.

"I suppose that, given two people working on this area for the Kennaquhair, we ought to be able to finalize things pretty quick," Gloigin said. "I mean, the region doesn't need all that much work."

Elliville raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know about that," she said. "The region is scenic and beautiful, but that doesn't mean we can't improve on it and make it better."

Fearing that he might be heading into dangerous waters, Gloigin changed the subject. "How much have you told the nuns about your mission here? Do they know about the Kennaquhair?"

She smiled. "Oh yes, I have told them and they are a great help to me. I can't speak too highly of their spirituality, their love, their learning, their enthusiasm. They understand that the general populace cannot be informed about the Kennaquhair, because it would create all sorts of disruptions to our valuable work. They think of us as being a species of angels, but of course we know that's totally wrong. It's just the best way they can cope with our abilities and our beneficent intentions. And how about you?"

"My retainers all know and they are as loyal as can be. They are practical men, and their common sense can be very helpful in seeing what will work and what won't."

"Quite."

Dinner was actually better than Gloigin expected. They started with chamomile tea with barley cakes and honey, followed by a salad including fenugreek, endives, mushrooms and olives. The main course was salmon with lemon, hazelnuts and yams. They had milk, tea, or water to drink with it.

After dinner, the nuns entertained them by playing the lute and singing. Elliville had composed a poem, and the nuns put it to music and sang it for their guest.

My heart is like a sturdy tower

Above a windy sea

Where blazing sun and driving shower

Attack and buffet me,

But joys or sorrows lack the power

To quell my constancy.

The yellow moss like old age clings

Upon my rocky side.

Alike I gaze on clowns and kings

In failure or in pride.

The waves are full of echoings;

The moon melts in the tide.

The only certainty is love,

The vines sing in the sand.

We don't know what the stars above

Or fortune may command.

The only certainty is love

Above a windy land.

After some further entertainments, the nuns retired and Gloigin felt that the time was ripe for him to broach the purpose of his visit.

"Abbess," he began, "I hope we will be able to work together, but there is one matter that has caused me some concern which I would like to discuss with you."

She gazed on him with big, blue innocent eyes and it was hard for him to be as angry with her as he otherwise might be.

"As you may be aware, there is a traditional game in these parts known as gwithslog. I myself have become quite a devotee of this game. Originally it was played on a new-mown hayfield and was a wonderfully relaxing entertainment. But you changed all that."

"I know," she said. "I made it better."

"Now," he continued, "instead of playing it on a nice, small level field, you changed the public conception of this game and everyone thinks that you have to play it in the forest, over hill and dale, through raging streams and cataracts, on glowering cliffsides, along windswept coasts. You've turned it from a mild pastime after a busy day into a, a strenuous, a... a... into an epic, if you catch my drift."

"Isn't it wonderful?" Elliville said.

"And then there is the matter of the tobacco field near Crimp Harbor which was overrun by unicorns," Gloigin continued.

"A noxious weed. You should be glad it was eradicated."

"It's a matter of sociability. Some little vices now and then are pleasant enough...." He could see that Elliville was not buying it. He decided to give it one more try.

"And then," he said, raising his index finger in the air significantly, "there was the inn at Bottelaria, which was totally destroyed by a slide from a nearby mountain."

"How can you complain about that? No one was killed, and the inn was blocking a scenic view."

"Blocking a scenic view? Why, the inn was the most scenic part of the view. In fact, it's a well-known proverb that the most magnificent view in the world is greatly improved by a large comfortable inn in the foreground. That inn was a home away from home, a place for fellowship, a refuge..."

Gloigin's voice trailed off as he saw he was not going to get anywhere. Inwardly, he felt that he was being belittled. He fumed and had a strong urge to lose his temper. However, what could he do? He was at a loss. Squires don't command Abbesses, nor does one Kennaquhair command another. But he would not take this lying down, oh no! If his visit was a failure, at least he knew what he was up against, and he would fight back.

Actions speak louder than words, and he would show her a thing or two.

Two months later it was Elliville's turn to visit Gloigin's manor, and this time it was she who had a grievance, or, more accurately, a litany of grievances. She came with four yeomen and two nuns, but the squire's large, sprawling manorhouse had plenty of room for all of them, and the table in his dining hall could seat twenty with ease.

Looking around at the walls, Elliville noticed with much disapproval the trophies of a moose, boar, elk, and stag. No attempt was made to keep the gurdlehounds away from the dining area. To the contrary, their function seemed to be that of an all-purpose trash receptacle. Gloigin's table groaned with hearty fare. His men brought out helpings of venison stew as well as ham, devilled eggs, sausages, with mounds of potatoes and many loaves of bread and bowls of butter and cheese, all to be washed down with tankards of beer and whisky. Water was not to be found among the offerings set out.

For entertainment, four of Gloigin's retainers sang a few traditional songs a cappella, including a poem that Gloigin had composed, which they set to music and which went like this:

But maybe all the birds that sing

Don't know much about anything.

Maybe their happy morning chirps

Are like the noises made by twerps.

The snow's still standing three feet deep

And yet these winged ones chirp and cheep.

Where do they find their food or nests?

Is this a time for fragile guests?

If instinct is a kind of trust,

The birds have faith, and even lust,

Despite the winter's fluctuations.

They're here in joyful congregations.

This winter's left me sorely battered.

From shoveling snow, my pants are splattered.

How come in winter's stagnancy

These little ones exude such glee?

Perhaps if I could fly aloft

This crusty earth might shimmer soft.

My fellow birds would persevere

To change the face that's now austere.

Perhaps my heart could sing a bit

If I'd escape this snowy grit

And change my thoughts of frozen dregs

For life and love and laying eggs.

After some congratulations and thanks to the singers, most of the retainers retired to a separate room to play cards. The Abbess took Gloigin aside, ostensibly to view a large hunting tapestry, but really to speak to him privately.

"I'm sure you know by now," she began, "this summer has been a perfect nightmare!" She trembled as she spoke.

The squire had a twinkle in his eye. "Really?" he said.

"I had the most charming well in Lledlwm," she continued in an angry whisper. "When people would look in it, they would see airy castles, palaces, exotic cities, pagodas, and other wonders. But you, you, you," she said, choking. "You had some horrible vulgar old washerwoman wash her dirty linen in it!"

Gloigin bit the side of his lip and said nothing.

"You disenchanted my well! Now you can't see anything in it. It's that hideous old woman who did it."

"That would be Old Fustilugs," Gloigin said. "One has to do one's laundry somewhere, and generally noblewomen aren't interested in doing it."

"Fine, one well. I also had a holy spring. The waters had curing properties. At least they did until you got up a company of barbers, tinkers and glassblowers, who put the water up in kegs and sold it to hospitals."

"Why should the benefits be restricted to a privileged few?" Gloigin said.

Elliville could not restrain herself. "You ruined my spring!" she shouted. Then she turned around and whispered,"You ruined my spring!"

"Well, the magic failed and the company went out of business, so..."

"Of course it failed! How magical is it to open up a keg somewhere? It's ridiculous! It's stupid!"

"Well, don't get so upset. It's only one spring."

"Then," Elliville said, breathing deeply to calm herself. "Then, I had a dragon."

"Very dangerous, that."

"Granted, but I also had a dragonslayer. He was a bold and trusty knight, with a burnished shield and a magic sword. What a sight he was, going forth to do battle on his white courser! I can see him now. He arrives at the foot of Draco Mountain, and scrambles up on foot to the dragon's cave. Up and up he goes, where there are sheer cliffs, a breeze coming up from the lake far below, and the crying of hawks in the air. Higher and higher he goes, almost to the dragon's lair, and do you know what he sees?"

"What?"

"A large sign, recently installed, which proclaims: 'Public notice. Dragon (draco draconis) is an endangered species. Dragonslayers strictly prohibited by order of the King. 500 Ducats fine for disturbing dragon.'"

"Well, yes, I suppose, that's true. But it was a good thing to save the dragon from needless disturbances."

"Save him? Save him? Dragons are supposed to be slain! Without the dragonslayer, I had to move the dragon to another region where he could fulfill his rightful destiny."

"Don't you think it's for the best? It could have been quite dangerous, and cause a loss of life."

"Alright, so you didn't like my dragon because he might cause a loss of life. What about the centaurs? They weren't planning to kill anyone."

"I didn't put up a sign about the centaurs."

"No, you didn't. You hired a crew of fat men with bushy mustaches to go in the enchanted Tserof Forest with big barrels on wheels and big sweepers, and you had them follow the centaurs around their village and clean up after them."

"A little cleanliness never hurt anyone."

"Cleanliness? These centaurs are proud creatures! You made them look ridiculous! You insulted their pride! No wonder they left the forest. You ruined everything!"

"I'm sure there's no real harm done," Gloigin tried to argue. "We really don't need centaurs competing for game in our forest and taking away all our food."

"What about the sea serpent? Was he competing?"

"Er, not too much, I suppose."

"You brought in tourists to view him, organized boat rides to watch for him. You had artists sell little figurines of him!"

"Why not? It was a good local industry. I rather liked the sea serpent. When his neck was crushed between the two boats of sea serpent watchers, I was just as sad as anyone."

"That's not the way to treat sea serpents. And my ogres. Look what you did to my ogres."

"Yes, I turned them into giant porcupines."

"Porcupines! Are you mad? Why would anyone in their right mind do such a thing?"

"Well, ogres are dangerous. And I wanted the north part of the forest cleared for pastures, so the porcupines seemed a logical move."

"You idiot! You've spoiled all my hard work! You've disenchanted every good enchantment I worked up. But don't think you're going to get away with this. I'm not going to give up so easily. I have an enchantment so big, so powerful, it'll make all the others seem small and puny by comparison."

Gloigin looked surprised at the degree of outrage he had caused. Elliville looked him in the eyes and said, clenching her teeth, "Don't try to stop me. This time, this time, I'm going to create an enchantment that will live for all the ages. It will be invincible. You hear that? Invincible."

And she stormed off to go to bed.

Invincible, eh? Gloigin thought. I wonder what she's got up her sleeve.

After the Abbess departed, Gloigin's days and nights were full of ominous forebodings. There were rings around Eeli, the greater moon. Stalks of foxglove bent when there was no breeze. The fire on the hearth often flickered mysteriously. Sometimes the beer seemed flat for no evident reason. And the clouds seemed to rush across the sky, as if the region were so dangerous they wanted to get past it before something horrible happened.

Gloigin sent out scouts, who returned with unsettling news.

Lothar Zamok, the deerhunter, reported: "It is said that she spends so much time in the forest that mushrooms grow on her."

Wolfred Crimp, the trapper, reported the purchases of many wagons of linen and wool. Uthred Chromo, the kennel keeper, reported that several seamstresses had been staying in the abbey and were evidently at work night and day.

Then Gloigin took matters in his own hands, and went for a trip to the mountains of Bezoar to visit King Gordabadrog, the ruler of the dwarves. When Gloigin returned he seemed a bit more confident about his chances to weather the coming storm.

Finally the news broke. Gloigin was in his favorite local tavern, the Piebald Duck, with a large company of friends. In a rather jolly mood, Gloigin himself was playing the fiddle for them, while his friend Terrence played the tin whistle. Suddenly, in burst Sir Durwood Werrick, huffing and puffing.

"We're under attack!" he said. "The Abbess has summoned a monstrous giant named Raxxar. He's devastated two hamlets and a cornfield just by walking through them. And he's heading this way."

The bartender, in a fit of panic, declared, "Drinks at half price for everyone!"

Gloigin had to stop his fiddling, since everyone had assembled at the bar and he had lost his audience. Oh well, he thought, it's time to bring up my defenses, and may Wyrd be done.

At a field just south of the village of Cynan the two antagonists faced each other. To the south was Raxxar, a giant the likes the world had never seen. He seemed to be at least 100 feet tall, possibly 120 feet. In view of his frightening size, few people noticed the fact that he was impeccably and fashionably dressed with a rakish hat, a beautiful blue tunic with marvelous needlework and a beautiful blue clasp, and shoes of the finest cordofan. Moreover, he was a handsome young man, with a bright smile, dimples, laughing eyes and an impressive bronzed tan.

To the north of the field stood Gloigin with a resolute army of dwarves. Concealed with spruce branches was a giant cannon which had been loaded with all the metal shot they could get their hands on, including iron, copper, silver, gold, uranium, and lead.

"Surrender, Raxxar!" Gloigin exclaimed, but the giant had been lost in deep thought and failed to notice that his way was being contested. Gloigin then gave the word and the cannon fired a monstrous volley, the likes had never been heard before.

It was a good thing that Gloigin had placed a disintegration enchantment on the ammunition, because the highest that the cannon could reach was Raxxar's thighs. However, due to the enchantment, when the cannonade of shot hit his thighs, the giant began to disintegrate.

"I've got her now," Gloigin thought. "How invincible is that?"

However, his exultation soon turned to fear as the giant began to disintegrate into millions and millions of swarming, angry killer bees.

"Run for your lives!" the dwarves proclaimed and fled for their mountain homes. The bees created a dark and terrifying cloud.

Out of the forest came Elliville Dnalland, and she was in tears. "Oh my poor giant. My poor giant. What have they done to you?" she sobbed. The bees heard her crying and turned in her direction. They seemed to hover over her. After some time, they went back south towards the abbey.

Gloigin felt relieved and yet mystified by the strange turn of events.

In the days after the battle, Gloigin learned that the abbess had survived and had, in fact, become friends with the bees. The swarm had created many great hives in her land, and it was all she could do to keep busy conjuring up enough flowers to satisfy them and prepare them for winter.

Summer passed on into the chilly brisk days of autumn. Gloigin and his friends were holding court at the Piebald Duck, which had become even more popular than ever since its owner had discovered "half-price Wednesdays." Some muleteers walked into the bar and said, "Bartender, we have a special delivery for you and all your customers, a present from the Abbess."

Gloigin looked up and to his great surprise in walked Elliville Dnalland. "Yes, it's true, Gloigin," she said. "Let there ever be peace between us. I've brought you a peace offering. Just open one of the kegs."

The men in the bar, sensing free drinks, were quick to comply. "What do you call this stuff?" Gloigin asked.

Elliville said, "The mead of poetry. Drink up."

He did so, and never before had he experienced such a delightful beverage.

"This is the gift of the bees that came from the giant Raxxar," Elliville explained. "He was enchanted with the spirit of poetry so that his essence would live on in song and story forever. Truly, he was indestructible, as I promised."

Finishing his tankard of mead, Gloigin looked up with a smile and said, "Let the two of us be friends from this day hence. As long as there is poetry, there will be no end of enchantment."

The Stowaway

### Jennifer Eifrig, writing as Evelyn Grimwood

As I touched the gleaming mahogany bulkhead to steady my gait, I could feel the rhythmic thrum-whoosh-thrum-whoosh of the ship's engines, and I marveled how the mechanical din, ubiquitous in steerage and below, was so elegantly and effectively muffled on the first-class deck. Ahead of me, moving in my direction, was the chief cabin steward, the brilliance of the brass buttons against his white uniform a testament to the unrelenting standards of the company. I let my gaze meet his for the barest instant before looking down; I had learned, in my few weeks aboard the H.M.A.S. TYPHON, that the trick was to convey just the right amount of innocent subservience in order to keep unwanted attention, and suspicion, at bay.

I kept walking forward, not altering my speed or length of stride, willing myself to truly be just another of the crew, anonymous and socially invisible. My eyes were fixed at a point something less than a yard off the floor, and my manner exuded professional servility.

"Kincaid, a word."

It took a moment for my pseudonym to register. Damn. So much for avoiding attention. "Yes, sir?"

The steward's eyes shifted left to right before returning to meet my own. "In my office." He strode onward, not bothering to wait for my acquiescence, and with a sense of foreboding I reversed course and followed him in silence.

We traveled the length of the ship before turning right into an artfully concealed door, located just where the cabin began to curve inward at the vessel's foredeck. From there we descended a set of stairs (a "ladder," I reminded myself) to the crew's quarters. We squeezed inside the tiny compartment that served as the steward's office, and he shut the door. I stood aside to let him maneuver himself behind the little desk that raised and lowered from the bulkhead wall by means of a set of hinges and connecting chains, and remained standing.

He perched himself atop a folding stool, and crossed his arms to regard me; I couldn't decide if the expression on his moustached face was calculating or ominous. I willed myself to remain calm, but here, in this enclosed space, my fear was difficult to contain or conceal. I clenched and unclenched my hands, and could feel sweat starting to pool between my shoulders. It didn't help that we were above the steering engines, whose steamy heat made the air moist and thick.

"Well, sit down, boy, I'm not going to eat you." The steward guffawed at his own joke, and jerked his head to indicate his trunk, the only flat surface in the compartment save the bunk.

With what I hoped was appropriate reticence, I sat down and met his eye, a slight, impassive smile on my face. "How can I help you, Mr. Howard?"

The steward chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. "I know what you're up to, Kincaid," he said. The pool of sweat turned into a freshet, and my stomach felt as though some lift operator had sent it crashing to the cellar. Mr. Howard chuckled again, and continued, "It's perfectly obvious. As soon as we arrive in New York, you're planning to disappear."

He wasn't wrong, but I had a feeling he hadn't seen the whole. My frozen brain began to thaw just a bit, like an icebox in July. "What do you mean, sir?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Obvious," he repeated. "You're punctual. You eat exactly your allotted rations, nothing more, nothing less, and never indulge in liquor with the rest of the crew. You've charged nothing to the ship's store. In short, you're towing the line, saving your pennies, and making damn sure there's nothing the company can hold against you. The only ones as does that" – here he let his Midlands accent show – "are those that are looking to skip once we touch land. The rest of them are too lazy or greedy or shiftless or unimaginative." He steepled his fingers and smiled indulgently. "Not that I blame you."

"No, sir."

"There's little enough work for any of us lads, especially you Irishmen. If it's not the farm, it's the docks. Unless you fancy dying at the other end of a Pashtun rifle in Afghanistan, all in the name of empire."

"Or contracting hemorrhagic fever in Natal," I whispered. The steward raised an eyebrow with mild interest, but didn't ask questions. Damn, why had I remembered my brother aloud?

"So, lad, I'm offering to help you." Now it was my turn to look the question. "You know Higgins?"

I did, at least by sight. He was a bit younger than I, with thin limbs, and asthmatic. "Yes, sir. Steward's boy, first class. His bunk is aft of mine."

Mr. Howard nodded, and looked irritated. "Yes, well, I imagine he's spending a lot of time there. Airsickness."

"I see," I said slowly. Altitude sickness was a real danger for the crew and steerage passengers. Bottled oxygen, brand-new this year, was not to be wasted on anyone but the highest-paying customers. Higgins's plight could be my own, although I had taken care to not overly tax my body while in flight, at least as much as I was permitted. "And what has this to do with me, sir?"

Mr. Howard tut-tutted. "Bah, boy, use your brain. I can't have Higgins in the first-class salon barfing up his socks or collapsing on the floor. It just won't do, and the company will punish us for it. You're a decent-looking lad, a mite small, but somehow you know which side of a plate is which, unlike the rest of the orangutans in this crew."

I remembered only the day before helping the self-same Higgins, when he'd dropped a tray of flatware and had trouble sorting out fish forks from fruit knives, and inwardly groaned.

"It's a win-win, boy," Mr. Howard continued, "you get some extra watches which I'll note in my log, and the swells in first class get their dinner served and cleaned up proper-like. If the time's in my log, the company will have to pay you, and you can claim experience when you're looking for work in New York." He paused. "Unless you're trying to join those Irish Republican radicals with the heathen name."

The freshet of sweat turned icy. "Clan Na Gael. No, sir. I've no business with politics."

He seemed to seek confirmation in my eyes, and I met his gaze steadily. "Then it's settled," he announced finally. "Pick up your duds from the galley."

Panic erupted in my brain as I thought of the sculpted silhouettes of the footmen's livery. "Please, sir, you can't be meaning me to act as footman?"

His laughter echoed in the tiny compartment. "Nay, you silly lad, I wouldn't let you as near it as China! You'll be busboy and cabin steward, and stay well clear of the swells, or the company will have my hide. We can't have it going round that this liner has Irish dockhands in first class. Although," he reflected, "there are plenty of your countrymen as passengers there."

I inhaled slowly. "Really, sir?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Three bucks with Irish titles. No one you'd know," he giggled. I'd forgotten how entertaining it was to belittle everything Gaelic. "So, what have you left to do on your watch?"

"I've still got to tidy two cabins on the port side, plus attend to steerage."

Mr. Howard pulled his nickel-plated watch from his pocket and clicked it open. "Then I mustn't keep you. Look smart about it, and be sure you're in the first-class salon by six-thirty, scrubbed and ready. Dinner is served at seven." He shut his watch, dismissing me.

Heart pounding, I stood up from the sea chest, made a sketchy half-bow, and retreated back to the passage, where I rested my head on the bulkhead and closed my eyes. Was I ever in the suds. I'd tried so hard to be perfectly ordinary, that in fact I'd done the opposite and attracted attention. Damn.

But I had no choice now, and I'd better be quick. I climbed the ladder back to the first class deck, walked aft past the first cabin, and knocked circumspectly on the next door, its polished brass plaque proclaiming it "B – Port."

"Come in," said a feminine voice.

I opened the door a few inches. "Steward's crew, ma'am. I'm here to tidy up."

"Very well."

I entered, eyes down, and found the tiny closet where the sweeper was kept. I ran it over the faux Oriental carpet, emptied the bin into a paper sack, wiped down the miniscule sink, and made up the bed, all the while watching the plump dowager in dusky rose satin dressing her hair in front of the looking glass from the corner of my eye. She seemed to pay no attention to me, thank God. "All finished, ma'am. Do you require anything else?" I made sure there was a lilt in my speech that bespoke my origin. That alone should be enough to keep her at a distance.

"No, thank you." Her smile was polished and distant. Excellent. "Here," she handed me a coin from the dressing table drawer.

I bowed my head. "Have a pleasant evening, ma'am."

The next cabin was empty, making my work quicker. I headed down the ladder again, to the galley where I emptied the trash sacks and picked up two heavy, steaming kettles of water from the cook. These I carried aft to the steerage cabin, which was one big room with twelve bunks fixed to the floor and ceiling, two high, with a common dining table between rows. I set one kettle on a washstand fixed to the fore bulkhead, and made sure it was fitted properly into the iron safety clamp. The other I carried to a sort of kitchen dresser, and poured the contents into a large pot with a spigot, for the passengers' tea. They watched me without comment, half of them lying down with airsickness, the others engaged in low conversation or plying the time with a desultory game of dominoes.

I retreated to the galley with the empty kettle, and exchanged it for a trolley laden with plates and a giant pan of ham and potatoes. This I rolled back to steerage, rang a brass bell above the dresser to announce dinner, and proceeded to serve up portions until the pan was scraped clean. "I'll be back later for your dishes," I announced. "Cups for tea are in the cabinet. Don't break any, or it'll be charged to your fare," I warned.

"What about cream and sugar? We've had none this whole trip," asked one man, whose expression was decidedly unfriendly.

"That's extra. If you want either, come to the galley. Cash only." I backed the trolley out of the cabin, and returned it to the galley.

The cook laughed when he saw the empty pan. "They might be sick, half of 'em, but the others are still hungry."

"Mr. Howard has asked me to help in first class tonight," I replied. "Where do I find the livery?"

The cook snorted. "Higgins is tossing up his bilge, eh? I saw that coming. Here," he opened a cupboard next to the swinging half-door that separated the galley proper from the crew's entrance, and handed me a clean white shirt with double-breasted brass buttons, and a pair of white gloves. "Mind you keep those clean," he warned, "or you'll be charged for the laundry fee." I grimaced, since keeping the uniform spotless would be almost impossible, given the nature of the work.

As I moved to leave, I jerked my thumb in the direction of the steerage cabin. "That lot is growing restless. One fellow was demanding cream for his tea."

Cook shook his head. "Everyone wants to make the crossing by air, especially in the winter, because it's so much quicker. They don't realize it's so bloody cold until they're on board, and find themselves stuck below decks for a week. And if the weather's blowing gales, the trip ain't much quicker than by sea. No icebergs, though," he said, dismissing the inherent danger of air travel with a wave.

"Just thought I'd warn you," I said, and left. I carefully carried the snow-white livery forward, past the crew's common area, to my own bunk, built like a pigeonhole into the bulkhead wall. As one of the greenhorns, and small to boot, I'd been assigned the bunk farthest forward, right at the ship's prow, making it shorter than the rest. If this had been an ocean-going vessel, it would be more prone to tossing me out of bed as well, but so far I'd found that the H.M.A.S. TYPHON was fairly democratic in its movement: either it was smooth sailing or we were all fighting to keep our feet and our dinners, crew and passengers alike.

I looked carefully up and down the passageway for observers before opening the curtain to my bunk, getting in, lying down, and drawing the curtain again. This was my only private space aboard the airship, whose tonnage was necessarily far smaller than an ocean liner. My hand closed over the butt of the pistol concealed under the thin, spongy mattress, and I relaxed a smidgeon.

My watch was technically over, so no one would be surprised to find me sleeping. The crew's quarters were always kept dim, since a third of the hands were asleep at any given time. I cranked the battery for twenty seconds, and then switched on the electric safety lamp my bunk was equipped with, its feeble yellow light turning the bunk's interior into an eerie blend of half-shadow. I reached inside my uniform and located the key hidden there, and used it to open my small sea chest, lying at the foot of my bunk. I struggled out of my shirt, folded it neatly, and added it to the pile of clothing in the chest, counting to be sure that no one had stolen anything, before locking it again.

I then proceeded to change into the first-class steward's livery, a rather awkward operation since my bunk was less than three feet high and I couldn't do more than slump upright. Most of the crew would change in the passageways, modesty being a luxury they didn't seem to miss, but I couldn't take the risk. As I wriggled into the sleeves and began fastening the double row of buttons, I touched the pouch concealed in my undergarment, just to reassure myself it was still there, and still held its contents.

Eleven minutes later I was dressed and headed for the washroom. The shock of cold when I opened the door surprised me still. Here, when I touched the bulkhead, I was separated from the clouds above the Atlantic by mere inches of steel and steam-bent wood, and the thought continued to amaze and terrify me. I splashed frigid water on my face, wiped it with a bit of flannel I'd bought last-minute at the departure dock, and combed my short black hair with my fingers. The tiny round shaving mirror showed me my reflection; I still didn't recognize myself.

I exited the washroom, and saw other members of the crew heading toward the midships ladder; I joined their rank without comment, but felt their assessing stares. We ascended and trooped into the dining salon, making two orderly lines to await Mr. Howard's instruction.

He looked us up and down in a manner worthy of a parade drill sergeant, telling off one man for forgetting his gloves and scowling at the dullness of another's brass buttons. Finally he addressed us all, "Right, you lot know what's what. We're five days into this crossing, and by the looks of the weather we've got two, maybe three, more to go.

"Your job tonight is to keep the swells happy. Cook is sending up Christmas goose. Do your jobs right, and there'll be some leftover for you. As you've noticed, Kincaid is filling in for Higgins." Mr. Howard paused and let a baleful eye rove slowly over his crew. "I don't want none of your teasing and trying to trip up the new boy. We don't have time for that. First one I spot making trouble gets a black mark in my log." The assembly muttered, and I felt a half-dozen pairs of eyes on me. A black mark meant no pay for the night. I continued to look straight ahead.

Actually, I had been shocked into silence anyway by the sight of the six-foot-high fir tree bedecked with tinsel and glass baubles in the center of the salon. I knew about Christmas trees; they'd been the fashion in well-to-do British families for some years, thanks to the Queen's German family, but they hadn't caught on in Ireland to the same degree, and my father never permitted anything that smacked of English pretension in our ancient manor house while he was alive. Now that he and the rest of my family were dead, I had too many reasons to be sorrowful at Yuletide to deck the halls, anyway.

Mr. Howard barked orders, and we got to work moving the round tables so that each had a view of the tree. He sent me to the galley, and I supervised the sending of trays of plated flatware up the dumbwaiter to lay the places. When the last of the napkins were folded and the bottles of Champagne set into their coolers at the center of each table, the clock in the cabin was just chiming six bells, or seven in the evening.

During the whole of the dinner preparations I felt I was being watched. At first I assumed it was the crew, assessing me, looking for weaknesses, but on the whole they seemed to accommodate my presence among them with little prejudice. Now, as I stepped into my appointed place in the corner and did my best to impersonate a wax effigy, I detected a different prickle on my neck. I cast a look left and right just as the first-class passengers streamed into the salon, exclaiming over the tree and already well into their cups, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

I shook myself mentally. Now I needed to be on my best behavior as a busboy, and to keep my wits about me. I recognized the three Irish lords right away, and knew immediately that something was not right about them. In their white ties and stiff collars they looked oddly cautious. Had this been a voyage of pleasure, they would have been gay and laughing, flirting with all the pretty women, and enjoying the Champagne. They ate, and drank, and smiled, but their subdued manner told me this trip was a serious matter.

I managed to survive the night, adroitly switching places with another busboy so that I wouldn't have to clear the Irishmen's table and risk them spotting me. The dowager who'd tipped me earlier recognized me, and this time a genuine smile crossed her wine-flushed cheeks. She squeezed my hand as I took away her dessert plate, and I heard her call me "that pretty Irish boy" to her tablemates as I left.

I counted the last of the flatware back into the trays, said goodnight to Cook, and headed forward to my bunk. I'd been awake for sixteen hours and my nerves were frayed; no surprise I was jumpy, but I kept hearing soft footsteps and seeing shadows moving in the passage. I heard Higgins's labored breathing in the bunk aft of mine, and began to worry that I, too, was succumbing to the airsickness.

Just as I reached my bunk and leaned forward to move aside the curtain, I felt a cool jab in my back and heard a voice whisper in my ear, "Don't cry out, or I'll stick you so quick you won't have time to make amends with God." A hand slid across my mouth. "Move. Ladder. Now."

A veritable cascade of emotion swept through me: fear, of course; surprise that I'd been caught flatfooted; relief, that my captor's accent was not Irish but unmistakably American; curiosity as to who he was and what he could possibly want with me. I was inches from my pistol, but the point of whatever blade he held was already penetrating my uniform and scraping the concealing layers underneath. I had to hope, if I survived this encounter, that I'd be clever enough with a needle to mend the tear.

I nodded silently, and backed away from the bunk. I held my hands at shoulder height, and slowly rotated to face my captor, who moved the straight razor he held to my neck and continued to cover my mouth. With my eyes I asked the question, left or right? He jerked his head to my right, and I let him frog-march me to the forward ladder that led to the observation deck.

He had to let me go in order to make the climb, for this was a true ladder, not the shipboard name for a set of stairs. We emerged into the freezing, deserted observation compartment at the extreme front of the airship's hull, lined with glass windows that looked out into nothing but dark clouds.

"A stowaway?" I whispered in disbelief. No one stowed away on an airship; it was too dangerous, the conditions outside of the crew and passenger compartments too cold and lacking in air to survive, and the chance of detection within too great. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Same as you, I think." He tucked the razor into his belt, and I noted that it bore the company's mark. As cabin steward, I'd probably be blamed for nicking it. That made me mad.

"And what is that?"

"A body on the run, trying to reach New York undetected, for reasons best kept to ourselves."

He had a point.

"I've been watching you since Southampton. Seems to me we're in a position to help each other."

"By getting me in trouble?" I indicated the razor. "My wages will be docked for that. I don't count that as help."

He laughed softly, and moved closer. The only light came from the emergency lamp on the bulkhead wall, powered by the ship's electrical generator. A good gaslight or kerosene lamp would have been much brighter, but open flames aboard an airship were strictly forbidden. By the paltry amber glow I saw that he was young, maybe a year or two older than I, and pale, with sickly dark circles under his eyes. I could see blue veins in his neck, and sensed his desperate hunger and thirst.

"You're starving," I said aloud.

"Near enough to it." He was so close now our noses nearly touched.

I willed myself to remain calm, and meet his eyes. "You should have thought about that before coming aboard. How have you managed to survive, anyway?"

He laughed again, brief and bitter. "I'm – different from other men. Stronger."

"Not strong enough, apparently." I took in his pallor, his haunted eyes, the coolness of his hand as he tipped up my chin to stare directly at me, and a new, more primal fear supplanted the constant anxiety of failing in my mission. I gasped. "You're neamh-mairbh." The cursed ones. The walking dead.

He moved away. "That's one of the names."

It was very hard to find my voice. "I can't give you what you really need."

"Nor would I take it, especially from the likes of you. I'm not that far gone." Yet. The unspoken syllable hung in the air between us.

I really didn't know what to do; no protocol exists to cover such a situation. Had my brother Jonathan been alive, I'm sure he would have counseled me to murder and not think twice, but like the stowaway – I no longer thought of him as my captor – I wasn't that far down the path to Hell. Yet. And his eyes – they were soft, gentle, still human. "I can bring you food, water, and warmth, for a fair exchange."

"Are you in a position to bargain?"

"I can holler."

"And I can either slit your throat and disappear, or if by some chance help should appear I can blow your cover to smithereens with a word. I imagine that might be damned inconvenient for you." He smiled to indicate he had the upper hand in this negotiation. "But sure, let's talk deal. What do you want?"

I resisted the temptation to land him a facer. "This morning at one bell – that's eight-thirty – the TYPHON will rendezvous with the mail ship HESPERA to refuel and send along the passengers' letters and telegrams. I need to send a telegram to New York."

The neamh-mairbh cocked an eyebrow. "So, send one."

I rolled my eyes in response. "Don't think you're so clever. Telegrams cost sixpence, and have to be sent by the ship's officer. I can pay, but I don't want anyone to know I've wired." This was the part of my plan I'd lain awake every off-duty watch and pondered. It would be easy enough to slip in an extra telegram form with those I collected from the passengers and delivered to the ship's mail office. Procuring the damn form was the trouble. "I want you to take a form from the mail office, put the money in the bursar's box and mark the ledger so that the accounts match, and bring it to me before first watch." I fished in my trousers pocket for the coin the dowager had given me earlier. "Here."

I watched him ponder the risk, evaluate the payoff, and make a decision. He took the coin. "What do I get in return?"

"In about two minutes, the ship's bell will ring eight times. That means my watch is over, and I can come to the galley to eat my evening rations. I'll get you food and drink. Meet me back here in half an hour. Then you can bunk with me to get warm."

I think it was really the prospect of thawing his frozen limbs that made him agree. I gave him directions to the mail office, and told him to be sure there were no signs of forced entry. "What makes you think I can get in undetected?" he asked.

"Because you've been haunting this ship for nigh on a week, and none save me has noticed," I replied. "Somehow you've hidden yourself properly. I imagine you have abilities."

He snorted like Cook, and in the glow of the emergency light he looked human, vulnerable. "In half an hour, then," he whispered, and moved away into the darkness. It was eerie how quickly he disappeared, leaving me alone and freezing in the Atlantic night air, just as I heard a far off ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting.

I descended the ladder as quickly as I could, ran to my bunk, unlocked my sea chest, and extracted a woolen jumper that I'd bought from a fisherman's wife just outside my home village. This I pulled over my livery to protect it, and then I joined the throng of dogwatch crew heading to the galley for our evening meal.

As promised, it was leftover Christmas goose, served in broth with carrots and potatoes. I drank the broth and ate the vegetables, saving the meat in the tin mug I'd brought along for the purpose. I pocketed my rock-hard bread, and scraped the smidgeon of butter I'd been given into the cup. Probably most of the crew seated at the gimbaled table with me noticed, but as it was common practice to sneak food for later, I likely blended in more than not. I filled one of the ship's mugs with tea, and as soon as was possible to avoid suspicion, left the common room and strolled in the direction of my bunk.

There, I made a show of pulling off the jumper as if I were turning in to sleep, while the rest of the crew, ranking higher, filed aft to their own bunks. Behind my curtain I changed shirts, layering on a flannel undershirt, and counted five minutes before sneaking off in the direction of the forward ladder.

The neamh-mairbh appeared out of shadow on the observation deck like a ghost. "So?"

I handed him the tin cup and mug of tea. "All I could do," I apologized, as if I were back home welcoming a guest to the family table. "And here, put this on." I offered the woolen jumper.

He gave back the food and pulled on the jumper as if his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. I noticed his body was shivering, and his skin looked paler and bluer than before. Had he been another man, he'd be dead for sure, and days ago, probably. Once attired, he grabbed the tea, poured it down his parched throat, and gobbled the bits of meat like a hungry dog. "You first," he said, and put his hand under my shoulder, propelling me toward the ladder.

I crept below, peered down the passage, and drew aside my bunk curtain. I grabbed my scrap of flannel, cake of soap, and my Wisdom toothbrush from my sea chest and went to stand in line for the use of the washroom; Higgins followed, and I felt his baleful glare on my back for a full ten minutes. When I returned to my bunk the curtain was drawn.

I hesitated, and then got into bed.

I hadn't shared a bed with anyone since my brother and I were young, and never one this cramped. I lay on my side, facing the passage, so I couldn't see the man hidden behind me, but I could feel his breath on my neck. I thought about my pistol; had he found it? Did I dare reach for it?

"I've got your damn telegraph form," he whispered in my ear, so softly it felt as if the words went straight into my mind.

"Did you mark the ledger?"

"I did. I charged it to Cabin C-Port. They've sent the most wires this trip."

"Smart." I felt a rush of gratitude. I was used to threats and intimidation, but not thoughtfulness. Perhaps it was his quick thinking, or perhaps because I felt sorry for him, or maybe because I was so damn lonely, I realized that I had somehow come to trust this man.

He must have sensed my thoughts in some preternatural way, for he breathed, "We're square," and slid my pistol across my thigh into my waiting palm. "This will do you more good in your britches than your bed. God in heaven, you're warm."

I didn't answer, for I was too keenly focused on the feeling of him spooned along my back, every part of him greedily absorbing my body heat. I squeezed the butt of the pistol in anticipation – of what? I didn't know. I felt antsy, awake, nervous, unsatisfied.

Again he seemed to sense my mood, for he whispered, "Sleep, young 'un, we've got to both survive another day."

I awoke alone, barely in time for my next watch, which began at four-thirty sweeping out the galley mats and proceeded upwards to the first-class deck. I gathered the shoes left outside the cabin doors for polishing, and collected the passengers' mail and telegraph orders, giving the stack from Cabin C-Port an extra glance. Sure enough, there were several telegraph orders addressed to New York, and I slipped my own in among them. I delivered the lot to the third officer, who took them with a curt nod. "Stop lingering about, Kincaid. We'll get the passengers' cables where they need to go. You have business elsewhere."

I did, a daily appointment with a mop and bucket, and left without comment. Once the port and starboard first-class washrooms were swabbed, I went back below to swap my cabin boy's white apron for that of ship's shoeblack. Through the whole of my watch my gaze darted left and right, into corners and dark places, looking for my erstwhile bunkmate, but I never saw him. Once the sun was well up I imagined he'd stay hidden wherever he was, and I'd see him no more till after dusk.

A bell tinkled in the galley. Cook called, "C portside is ringing, Kincaid." I swore silently, dropped the boots I was polishing, and did my best to wipe my hands clean on a rag. "Don't forget the damn apron, boy!" I untied it, dropped into onto the bench, and ran up the ladder as quick as safety would allow.

Above, I knocked on the door of Cabin C-Port, and it opened a few inches to reveal one of the Irish lords I'd recognized the night before. I kept my face bland. "You rang, sir?"

He blinked as if trying to place me. "Yes. Has the post been sent?"

"I collected all the letters and wire forms myself, sir. We haven't met the mail ship yet, but I expect we will shortly."

"Oh." A pause, another speculative glance. "Bring any post for us directly, will you? And the newspapers. All of them."

"Very good, sir."

He laid a hand on my arm as I turned to leave. "Have we met before, my boy? Which is your county?"

"I'm told I have a common face, sir, as my father had acquaintance throughout Waterford."

He cracked a smile and let me go, and I was forced to rejoice at escaping. As I retreated in the direction of the galley, I felt the ship's engines slow, and the docking gear descend. We had rendezvoused with the HESPERA.

There was a flurry of activity on the engine deck, much shouting of orders and scrambling to obey. Docking with the mail ship was tricky in the best of weather, and this morning a very fresh breeze was blowing milky clouds that looked as though they'd be darkening into thunderheads in a few hours. The TYPHON tugged and twisted against the giant hook and cable that tethered her to the HESPERA, like a balky jenny.

At one point I heard the first mate screaming instructions to the third officer, whose job it was to descend the cable and oversee the transfer of mail, supplies, and fuel. The deckhands shouted encouragement, and the handover was completed in near-record time and we were once again under our own steam, fighting the headwinds to New York. I swiped my blacking brush over the last shoe, cleaned up, and headed to the mail office. I sorted the post and wires into the little boxes in the salon, but I delivered copies of the Oceania Mail, the Trans-Atlantic Post, and New York-Hibernia Express to Cabin C-Port, sliding them under the door to avoid another face-to-face encounter.

At the end of my watch I was entitled to breakfast, but during the night another of the steward's crew had taken ill, and I was forced to work a second shift in steerage and the first-class salon. It was after noon when I finally got to eat, at which point I remembered my bunkmate. "Sir," I approached the cook, "I've worked doubles twice in twenty-four, and got chivvied out of breakfast. Could you see your way to maybe giving me an extra helping at luncheon?"

"You're a cheeky bastard, Kincaid," he scowled, but he held me back while the rest of my watch finished their meal and left the common room. "Here ya go, boy, but don't make a habit of askin'. I'm to tell you, Mr. Howard wants you to help with the swells' dinner once again. Now go flop before someone else nabbles you."

I pocketed what I could, and carried the rest away in my tin mug once again. We weren't allowed extra rations, but I knew that none of the crew would complain if I kept pulling double shifts. I headed to the observation deck, which was empty to the December winds, and casually set the mug below the wooden bench that rimmed the bulkhead. I stuffed a thick slice of cheese into a crevice nearby, and then slowly consumed a slightly shriveled apple. I tossed the core overboard through an open porthole, and retreated to the relative warmth of my bunk.

I was unconscious within minutes, and slept through fitful dreams until I became aware of the glow of the crank-powered safety lamp. Judging from the weak light filtering through the curtain, I guessed it was about four in the afternoon. My next watch began at six-thirty.

"Rest, young 'un," came a thrilling whisper in my ear. "You've got time yet." My pulse quickened, and I felt not fear, but excitement. I rolled toward the interior of my bunk to face the stowaway. His skin was just as pale, but the blue veins had faded, and his eyes were lively, black and glittering and dangerous. "Don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

We were already only two inches apart, but I moved closer, and reached my hand to stroke his hair. "How much longer do you have? Before the curse consumes you?"

He sighed in exasperation, and then did exactly what I'd wanted: he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me, not gently, but with fierce possession. "You Irish, you're so superstitious. It's a disease. Nothing supernatural about it."

"How long?" I repeated.

He kissed me again, moving his mouth to my neck where his tongue flicked my pulsing vein. "Not long. I've fought it for half my life now. After this trip..." His voice trailed off, but his lips didn't stop teasing my lips, my ears, my jawline.

"Half your life? How old are you?" I wondered, breathless.

"Old enough." He drew away and now his eyes looked hunted. I never broke his gaze, and finally he said, "We were the federals' secret weapon. The Rebs never had a chance against us; all we needed was to infect a few, and the contagion spread like wildfire. They were starving, anyway, and once some had the new hunger, they turned on each other, and spread it more. Those who tried to resist went mad, deserted, or were shot by their own men. It was always a numbers game; the President knew it, and made a deal with the devil. After the war, we disappeared. Anyone who didn't was hanged as a spy or deserter, no one the wiser."

Good heavens, that was nearly twenty years ago. "Where did you go?"

He shrugged, as best he was able in such a confined space. "Europe, mostly. I had this idea maybe I'd be welcomed among my own kind. The disease came from the old world, but the funny thing was, they weren't keen to have a new breed of carriers. I ended up back where I'd started, more or less, working for the federals since the Department of Justice was established in '71. That's how I came to be at the Southampton docks, trying to catch Jonathan Connor's gang sending money and instructions to Clan Na Gael." He paused. "And that's when I spotted you."

I lay absolutely still, and spoke not a word. My feet went ice cold, and I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. I knew he could, too. "You do know that the HESPERA keeps a log of all the wires sent from this ship?" When I still didn't answer, he said, directly into my ear, "You're playing a deadly game. Please tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to those lads in Her Majesty's intelligence service, currently residing in Cabin C-Port."

This information surprised me. "I thought they were Fenians."

He put his hand on my cheek and turned my face so that our noses touched, and stared directly into my eyes. It was hard to focus at that distance, and I felt dizzy. "Saying that did a lot to convince me you really are as innocent a babe as I want to believe," he said. "What are you trying to do?"

I closed my eyes, really feeling as though I'd vomit, but I mirrored his hand on my cheek. "My countrymen think Jonathan Connor was a martyr. I can tell you my brother was an arrogant, selfish bastard who sold me for a dream of an Ireland that never existed. My father's family is old, older than the Normans, older than Bloody Henry, older than Union, and they survived them all. Somehow that led Jonathan to think he had a right to be more important than he was. He joined the Connaught Rangers after he ran afoul of local politics, and when he came home in a coffin everyone said it was so sad, another example of what England does with Ireland's sons. Funny, they don't seem to care as much about the daughters." I paused to swallow. "He sent me a letter from Natal, to tell me he'd been supporting the radicals, and that I was honor-bound to continue after he was dead. I burned his letter and thought no more of it, until a bomb exploded in London on the anniversary of Jonathan's death, and the Clan signed my name to a notice in the Post claiming responsibility."

My neamh-mairbh lover exhaled softly. "Making you Britain and America's most wanted cabin boy."

"Aye." I stiffened in remembered anger. "The Clan demanded money – a lot of money – to retract the claim. I'm supposed to meet them in New York. I wired ahead to warn the authorities."

"Then you should watch your back." He said no more, but made good use of the remaining time before I had to rise, wash, dress, and report for duty.

Dinner in first class was a merry affair, as this was supposed to be our last before arrival in New York the following day. The captain joined the passengers, resplendent in his dress uniform, and ordered Mr. Howard to unlock the ship's symphonium and clear the floor for dancing. The two other busboys and I did so, and Mr. Howard dimmed the electric wall lights before fussing with the Christmas tree for a while. When he finally flicked a switch and stood away from it, the room gave a collective gasp of delight, for the garland of glass baubles encircling it was aglow with red and green lights. I noticed that they flickered in time with the rhythm of the ship's generator, whose vibration I could feel in my toes. With a last glance back at the Irish lords, I exited the salon to finish my watch helping Cook clean up the galley.

I felt an arm twist round my neck and a hand cover my mouth before I walked two steps. "Gotcha," whispered a London voice. It was Higgins. A burning jolt of fire leaped through my body, and I twitched like an epileptic before everything went black.

I came to in darkness, hands bound and freezing, and it took the noise of the ship's engines to tell me where I was: in the baggage compartment forward of the engine room. It was so cold in here that I could feel my breath condense and freeze. I toppled over the mountains of trunks and valises and sacks, and crawled as best I could in the direction of the noise; at least the bulkhead nearest the engines would carry some residual heat. I didn't bother trying the steel door to the passage; I knew it would be locked from the outside.

I have no idea how long I sat there; it felt like forever, until the hatch squealed and opened wide enough to admit a sliver of light and Higgins's thin form. He shut it again, and struck a match to light the lantern he was carrying; I eyed it warily, hoping the spark wouldn't set the entire vessel ablaze.

He crouched in front of me and held the lantern to illumine my face. "Yep," he said with a satisfied smile, "I see it now." He chuckled. "When Mr. Howard hauled me out of bed this afternoon, he told me you'd been poaching my wages. He also told me to help you by tidying the first class cabins and blacking the shoes. The blokes in C-Port left a stack of newspapers in the bin. When I spread them out to do the boots, you'll never guess whose face was looking up at me."

It was an easy riddle, actually. "Jonathan Connor's."

He laughed. "Ha, you're quick. He's been dead for more than a year, but I knew I'd seen that face before. Took me a bit, but I puzzled it out. You tried to swindle me out of my pay this trip, but I fancy the five hundred pound reward I'll collect for catching Jon Connor's sister will make up."

The air moved behind him. "I can pay you more," I said, "lots more."

Higgins sat back on his haunches, skeptical. "Oh, really? Why do I feel you're bluffing?"

"I've got a sack of my mother's gems, more than a thousand years old, hidden in my corset. They're yours if you let me go."

I knew he'd never do so, but his curiosity was piqued. He reached for my torso with his free hand, and as he did an angry, cold, hungry vampire emerged from the shadows. He sank his fangs into Higgins's exposed neck with such pent-up ferocity I had to look away. Higgins screamed and dropped the lantern, which rolled with an unlucky lurch of the ship toward a pile of wooden crates filled with Seville oranges.

I toppled toward them, trying to smother the flames with my body, but was only partially successful. By the time I looked back, Higgins's spent form was prone on the floor, and the neamh-mairbh was loosening the ropes on my wrists with a marlinspike. He pulled the pistol from my trousers and handed me Higgins's pocket Faradic in exchange. "Go!" he ordered. "Save the ship and the people aboard while there's still time."

I hesitated, wanting to say goodbye, but his eyes were still burning like the growing flames. In saving me, he'd sacrificed his humanity. I ran, sobbing like the green girl I was so recently, weeping for the lives and futures that had been expended in a pointless struggle for one small nation's destiny.

My screams of "Fire!" sounded the alarm immediately, and all hands fell in to help. All night, we fought the blaze with everything we had, emptying the ballast tanks and drinking reserves, even dousing the smoldering luggage with the dregs of Cook's morning coffee for good measure. The atmosphere seemed to sense our need, and about dawn the long-threatening skies opened and drenched us with icy rain and sleet. The captain ordered a drop in altitude, and the officers herded the passengers, first class and steerage alike, into a miserable huddle on the observation deck, ready to be packed into the lifeboats, should the ship be lost.

So it was that the TYPHON entered New York harbor, crippled by the loss of electrical steering, but the captain's skill kept us from crash landing. When the passengers had been safely evacuated, the crew did its best to secure the vessel and resume the routines of disembarkation. With the Irish lords gone, I felt marginally safer, but I knew the real danger was when I stepped off the ship. Would Clan Na Gael be waiting for me? Or the American police?

I reported to Mr. Howard for the last time, turning in my ruined livery and settling my account. He handed me my pay in American currency. "Sure I can't change your mind, Kincaid? You saved us all last night. Who would have thought Higgins would be mad enough to try to rob the baggage hold, and fool enough to set it ablaze? I could use a man like you."

I shook my head. "Thanks, Mr. Howard, but I've got business in New York. If it doesn't work out, maybe I'll see you again."

He nodded. "The TYPHON will be in port awhile by the looks of it. Come back if you want."

I stepped off the gangplank and onto American soil. No one paid me any attention. Somewhere out there, I knew, were a gang of men who wanted my money and my name, but for now I was alive, free, and possessed of a secret fortune. I could live as either a man or a woman as I chose. For a brief, precious time, I had known what it was to be protected and valued. I was almost happy, if I ignored that gaping hole in my heart.

I followed a knot of people to a steam-powered omnibus, paid my fare with the unfamiliar coins, and sat near the door. I didn't care where I went, but drank in the city's vibrancy and bustle and enthusiasm as we moved through the streets. Finally, when I spotted a sign in a window saying, "Rooms to Let," I stood up and lugged my sea chest off the bus.

As I stood in the darkening street, a strong hand closed on my arm. "Can you love a dying man?"

Tears, this time of joy, filled my eyes. "I already do."

The Last Glance

### Gary Beck

"I don't want to go! I've been looking forward to my free period for weeks and I made plans to work on my laser experiment with Muffy. You don't have the right to make me go, if I don't want to."

But all Mom said was: "No more arguments. You're going, whether you like it or not. This is a very special occasion and you're not missing it. Now get ready and I'll meet you at the front lock in ten minutes. And hurry."

I didn't want to go to the dirty, radiated surface just to sigh over the stump of an old tree, that didn't even have any leaves. Earth surface was no different to me than any other hostile environment; it was out to get you, one way or the other. I'd just as soon take an excursion to Mars, or Venus. At least that would be treated as a proper scientific expedition. Not like these nostalgic sightseeing trips, where old folks sentimentally mooned about relics from the past and usually neglected their survival procedures. But if I didn't humor Mom, she'd make life hell for weeks. So I suited up and headed for the front airlock.

The group was milling around central airlock, waiting for latecomers. Muffy was there, looking as unhappy as I was. We went to personal frequencies and she really let me know how upset she was. She had been in the middle of a refraction/contortion test that we had been preparing for months, when her Dad insisted that she go with him to the surface. She told me that she tried to explain how important the timing was for the experiment, but her Dad wouldn't listen. "All he kept saying was: 'we may never find another tree on the surface. This may be a unique event that'll never happen again in your lifetime.' As if I care anything about that dumb old stick." She was really fuming.

We went through the exiting cycles with the rest of the group, commenting freely on the various shortcomings of our elders, critiquing the poor preparation and sneering at the shoddy equipment check for the trip. I was just reminding Muffy that even the sloppiest maintenance techs carried lifelines and power packs in the corridors, let alone on surface trips, when the leader's annoyed voice overrode our circuit. "If you tads have any more complaints, submit them in writing and stop griping on the group frequency."

I knew I had switched to personal and quickly looked at Muffy. She shrugged acknowledgement that she was still on group, but answered the leader firmly: "Sorry about the group blare, sir. And no insult meant to anyone personally. But I must request that proper excursion procedures be exercised, in accordance with regulations." She really had nerve.

Even though each citizen had the right to be protected by proper safety procedures at all times, in practice everyone cut corners. Leader sputtered about how long it would take to send for packs and lines, but Muffy wouldn't give an inch. "Safety regs are specific for a good reason, sir. They save lives." There were some resentful mutters over the public circuit, but Muffy ignored them. I moved closer to her to show my support and got some glares for my trouble, but I didn't care. I admired her more than anyone else, except Dad.

Dad was a molecular engineer and a political activist. When the dispute began between the elders who dreamed of returning to the surface, and the 'moles', who were committed to subsurface, Dad spent all his rest time trying to show the elders how hopeless their idea was. When reasoning with them failed, he organized a team of the foremost scientists and thinkers. They prepared a master chart that showed the resources necessary to reestablish life on the surface. Some of the elders never forgave him for shattering their dream, but the conflict was over and energies were turned to developing the underworld.

For a while, a lot of people were really angry at Dad and threats were made, but he knew he was right and stood firm. Later he gave me some good advice. "When you really know you're right, and that the other way would lead to disaster, you've got to stand by your convictions. Frequently people want things without quite knowing how to get them. But they can want them so badly that they overlook the consequences. Sometimes they'll even forget common sense and reason. When that happens, you've got to be able to settle things down before there's a disaster."

Dad was my ideal. I didn't think he was perfect, or anything like that, but I always watched him when he was dealing with others. He always seemed surer and more confident than everyone else. I hoped that I would become as capable as he was, but I wasn't counting on it. I hadn't seen much of him lately. Ever since he started working on the molten pool project, he rarely got home. It started when maintenance techs first noticed rising heat patterns in some corridors, but no one paid it much attention. Dad was the first one to realize that it wasn't just vented waste energy, but emissions of external heat from pockets of molten metal that could potentially threaten our very existence. When others finally realized the danger, the project was quickly organized and Dad was appointed leader. Project molten pool became the number one underworld priority and Dad had the authority to requisition anything he needed: men, materials, even personal possessions, if necessary. It was a comforting thought knowing that Dad was in charge. I didn't miss him much when he was away, but when I saw him, I always felt a lot better.

The equipment finally arrived. Properly suited we continued cycling to the surface lock. It was repetitive, going through sixteen levels the same way each time, but after the confrontation on equipment, everyone was careful to follow regs. Then we were out. I felt no exhilaration, only apprehension. I had been on the surface before and knew how suddenly radiation storms blew in. I looked for our weather watcher and wasn't reassured. It was Turly IV. He had been a class ahead of me in survival school and I remembered how optimistic he always seemed. I knew how dangerous that could be and often wondered how he passed Trial Day. Hoping for the best was the surest way to get fried. I cued Muffy on personal and we agreed to alternately monitor the weather circuit.

The surface was incredibly calm. Visibility was about 400 feet, maybe more. The dust clouds were barely moving. When I scanned the surface from the underworld, the video monitor softened everything. But standing here, seeing farther than ever before, it was hard to imagine a surface covered with grass or trees. If I hadn't seen old videotapes, I'd never have believed it. Sometimes I wondered if the tapes were authentic. They could have been chroma-keyed computer generated. But Dad said it was so and that was good enough for me.

Leader brought us to the Tree and the elders murmured all kinds of ritualistic stuff. Someone recited an old poem about the forest primeval. It sounded stupid to me. I scanned the weather circuit and noted a radiation increase. The normal turbulence was preparing to move back in. I waited thirty seconds, but when Turly didn't notify us, I sounded radiation alert. Turly protested that I was too nervous and maybe I shouldn't be allowed on surface, but I cut him off and read the last counter level and he subsided. I could never figure out how he survived Trial Day. Maybe it was true that influence sometimes affected some candidate's results. He sure wasn't a survivor.

We headed back to the reentry lock, moving faster as the wind picked up. I kept a watchful eye on Turly, because accidents happened sometimes. A breached airline on surface could be serious, even fatal. But the return trip was uneventful. Many of the group lingered, drawing their stay out as long as possible. The leader, always last in, was getting impatient. I let Muffy precede me and started in. I looked back and my last glance was at that pathetic thing they called a tree. As the lock began to cycle closed, I heard some of the group crying. I looked at Muffy. She had heard them too. We shook our heads at each other, both thinking the same thing: what a waste of time and assets. The worst sin in the underworld was waste, since we didn't have enough of anything.

Well, at least we wouldn't have to go to the surface again for a while. As Muffy started describing the new refraction problem, my irritation at the elders began to fade. As my last thoughts of the surface departed, going wherever finished thoughts go, I focused my energies back where they belonged: on the future of the underworld.

Clam Chowder

### Bruce Hesselbach

"Listen up, everyone!" said the tavern owner. "It is my great honor to present the 789 Vornish Cup to the Royal Navy Polo Club and its Captain, Prince Uthred Gellethin!" Great cheers resounded through the Purple Poloshirt Inn as the large silver cup was given over.

The ornate cup sported a dashing polo player and pony on the top, but at its base were many historical vignettes of the Islands of Photenvre: fabulous beasts, flying oysters, and the legendary explorer Empedocles Philomoron.

Even the defeated team seemed in a good mood, being feted by the winners to all they could drink and eat at the Inn. The Prince was a tall, brawny man of 20 with dark brown hair and a full mustache turned down at the ends. He sat next to his best friend Sir Granville Mulchford, who had known him since early childhood. Large pitchers of beer were being quaffed to many joyous toasts.

"Ten florins says the waitress will mention the weather," Granville said.

"Done."

One of the members of the team was toasting the ladies, some of whom sat admiring them from another table. "I saw Lanna Gyrren rooting for you in the stands," Granville told the Prince. "I wonder that she's not in here with the others."

The Prince didn't wonder at all. Lanna was 18, gorgeous, and one of the most eligible rich commoners in the realm. She had been a foundling, adopted by Admiral Gyrren late in life when it was clear that he and his wife would have no children. The Admiral was a capital chap, a commoner who had risen through the ranks to be one of the leading commanders of Ullerin's navy. Innumerable times Uthred had gone sailboat racing with Lanna. She had a high forehead, normally covered with bangs from her reddish brown hair, green eyes, and a wonderful smile. Her adoptive mother died when she was ten, and her father passed away just last year.

"I love her, Granville," Uthred admitted, "but my father wouldn't hear of it, and the lady in question has told me many times that she won't so much as visit me if I don't give up gambling."

"Well, 20 ducats says she loves you too and would elope anywhere with you."

"No bet there, Granville. I never bet against myself."

"And this polo team would follow the two of you to the ends of the world if you but gave the command."

"Would that I could. But if I ever left, what would we have? My brother Smead heir to the crown?"

Granville shuddered. The younger brother Smead was a notorious bookworm, a boy of 16 who was fluent in five languages and spent every hour of every day devouring every book he could lay his hands on. "Dear me," Granville said. "I daresay that Smead is a fine intelligent fellow, but if he had to lead an army against Ullerin's enemies, what would he do? Get his professors to throw books at them?"

The waitress came up. "Great weather for a championship match today, wasn't it?" she said, and Uthred cringed.

Some of the polo club members' girlfriends now came over to join the champions in their hour of triumph. Admiring the cup, one of them said, "What a fine picture of Empedocles that is! Do you suppose his story is true?"

"Of course it's true," said Uthred. "After all, they named a seafood dish for him."

"Here's to Clam chowder a la Empedocles! Three times three!" toasted Granville, and the crowd clinked their tankards together noisily.

"Everyone is afraid to sail north," Uthred said, "where Empedocles discovered his new continent. People think they will get burned up by the heat in the tropic doldrums. But if I had a fearless group, like the members of this club, ten skeat to one I could find that unsettled continent and claim it in the name of my father King Cennth the Great!"

"Hear, hear! Good Prince, no one will take that bet, since it's a sure thing we would follow you anywhere!"

"Hear, hear!"

At that minute an old souse was in the process of walking out of the tavern, and he collapsed on the floor.

"Fifty florins he revives and gets up!" a club member said.

"Done!"

The innkeeper and a waitress rushed over to the fallen patron. "Nellie," he said, "go fetch the doctor."

"Doctor?" said a club member. "You can't assist him! A bet hinges on it!"

Meanwhile, in the castle of Plornish, King Cennth was on his way to visit the court wizard, Phlargo. The wizard had his laboratory in a remote wing of the castle. As the king approached, the large wooden door to the laboratory creaked open.

"Good day, your majesty," a voice called out from deep within the cluttered room. Cennth was a fairly handsome man, of average size, with dark, bushy, intimidating eyebrows.

"Oh, there you are, Phlargo," said the King, spotting him behind a table filled with specimen jars and a large bat being dissected. "Have you heard the news?"

"I've been in the laboratory all day, Sire. Please tell me what is happening."

"Our world is being destroyed. What else is new? There have been further earthquakes south of Dinexuxinee, and Niffleton has been swallowed up by a sinkhole."

"Yes, the menace gets worse every year."

"Not just every year, Phlargo. Every month. The time for action is now!"

"What does your majesty have in mind?"

"All of the four islands of Photenvre are gradually sinking under the sea. Our only hope is war, to defeat the kingdom of Ethlertheldon to our south, and try to annex some higher ground."

"But your majesty has had wars with them in the past, and they are notoriously hard to conquer, being a larger kingdom than Ullerin."

"Yes, and Fenno keeps trying to interfere. If only we could get Fenno to be our ally, I know that the two of us could defeat Ethlertheldon."

"Fenno's king is too old for war. He won't do anything except try to stab you in the back if you attack Ethlertheldon."

"It seems hopeless, but I know there is a way. We have to find a way. I need your help with my son, Uthred. He could be a big help to me as an army commander if I could get him to give up drinking and gambling. That's why I am coming to you, Phlargo. I want you to cast a mighty spell that will stop my son once and for all from ever drinking and gambling again."

"A tall order, that," the wizard said, stroking his gray beard. "You don't want to break the lad's spirit, and mind control can be stifling sometimes. I have an idea."

"Good, I knew I could count on you."

"Your son has a pair of lucky dice, does he not?"

"Yes, yes, he does. He keeps them in a wooden box with a portrait of Lucky Newt Zuchilo, the undefeated wrestler. He thinks the luck will rub off on them. They are really a strange pair of dice, made of whale ivory and much larger than normal dice."

"Take me to them."

Two nights later, Uthred and his friends were gathered in a back room at the Purple Poloshirt inn and tavern for an epic crap game. Uthred's friend Granville had been raking in the loot, when finally it became Uthred's turn. He opened up a leather bag and pulled out the large dice, each one as big as an apple and made of solid whale ivory. Everyone placed their bets, and the betting ran particulary high that night. Uthred shook the dice, said, "Do your stuff," and hurled them down the wooden ramp towards a small barrier.

The crowd gasped.

The dice hit the barrier, rolled back up the ramp, rolled onto the floor, and started rolling back and forth bouncing against the walls. People jumped up and were running about trying to follow them. Some men jumped up on top of chairs so that they would not interfere with the path of the energetic dice.

"Holy Higbe!"

"They're unstoppable!"

"Watch out!"

"Here they come!"

"By my beard!"

"There they go!"

And the dice escaped out the door and down the road.

"After them!"

"Follow those dice!"

It was no use. The lucky dice rolled off down the road and out of sight of the gamblers. "I need a drink," Uthred said. "And make it a double."

"We can't give up the wager," Granville said. "The rules are that if the dice roll out onto the floor, or anywhere, we are to let them continue rolling, and when and where they stop, that's what the result is."

"But suppose they never stop."

"They have to stop sometime. Nothing can go on forever."

"I suppose you're right, Granville," Uthred admitted. "First thing tomorrow morning let's get our horses and give chase. Does anyone want to come with us?"

And the largest bettors, who happened to be the other four members of the polo club, agreed to come along to see the results of the throw. "We'll meet you all tomorrow morning, then," Uthred said. "The dice are cast!"

Early the next morning the polo club rode off in hot pursuit. Fortunately the large dice left a trail in the dry dusty road. One of the polo club members brought a pack of harriers with him, and they were able to follow the scent of the errant dice. However, the polo club left the hounds in Wrickwick, because the trail seemed fairly easy to follow. The dice seemed to bounce around quite a bit on curves in the road, which gave the horsemen a fighting chance to make up for lost time.

In the town of Lionsfoot, inhabitants told them that they were catching up to the dice. Perhaps if they could beat the dice to the bridge over the south branch of the Aosmhor River, they could burn the bridge and the dice would get stuck in the water and come to a stop.

On they rode at a furious pace. Up ahead they could see a cloud of dust coming from the bouncing of the large dice in the dusty trail. By this time there were a few large lammergeiers circling in the air, thinking that some hunted prey would soon meet its end.

They rode and they rode. When they seemed to be closing in, they heard: Rattle, rattle, rattle rattle! The large dice bounced over the rickety bridge, the bridge started shaking and vibrating, and a few planks began falling off into the river below.

Seeing this the horses all came to a sudden stop to avoid risking injury or death. "We were supposed to wreck the bridge on the dice, and instead the dice wrecked the bridge on us," Granville groaned.

"The dice have turned."

"Our luck has run out."

"No, men," Uthred said. "We will prevail. There is a reason for this pursuit, and it is not in vain. I can't believe that God plays dice with the world. Let's just rest the horses, and we'll pick up the trail again even better than we did before."

After a rest, they resumed their way south. The dice went off the main road onto some narrow farm roads around the edges of Sreathmere. This formerly prosperous market town had fallen victim to earthquakes and a sinkhole. The ground was rent in places with huge cracks and the land subsided into a large depression. Here and there were vents with white dust floating out above them. No inhabitant or animal was anywhere to be seen. An eerie silence prevailed.

By day, the riders seemed to get close, but by night the dice opened up a new gap between them. The polo club traded horses at two inns and kept up the pursuit. By the sixth day they took a narrow wooded track and crossed the border undetected into the hill country of Ethlertheldon. This was an area much depopulated by war and border raids, where most of the inhabitants preferred to live in the safe shadows of a string of border castles.

As they continued the hunt in the hill country between Swivelsby and Ochlabar, they began to get discouraged. They could not seek for an inn to refresh the horses. Dense clouds proclaimed that the relatively dry weather of the journey might soon come to an end. Were it not for the winding nature of the roads, which slowed the dice down, they would be falling even further behind.

Evening set in with a dense fog, and the men had not had a bite to eat in the last two days. Up ahead they saw a light coming from a small hovel in the woods. Uthred went on ahead and knocked at the door.

"Anon, anon!" croaked the voice of an old woman, who opened the door. Inside one could see that she had been roasting yams on the hearth. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the low roof. The floor was dirt and there were buckets here and there to catch leaks from a porous roof.

"We are tired travelers. Might we stop here for some rest and shelter, and perhaps buy a little food for ourselves?"

"It is time," she said. "It is time that you have come, Prince Uthred. Rest tonight and tomorrow morning I will show you where your dice have gone."

They all tried to squeeze into the hovel and were given small portions of cooked yam to eat. Late in the night a tremendous thunderstorm came through and mild earthquakes shook the ground below them. The booming of the storm, the flashing of lightning, the raging wind, the incessant drips through the roof made their night most uncomfortable, but at least they were indoors. Uthred consoled himself that the flimsy nature of the hovel meant that, should it collapse in the earthquakes, perhaps a portion of the company might survive. What were the odds he would make it out alive? And why was no one awake to bet on it with him?

The next morning the peculiar little old woman took them out on foot on a narrow track up a muddy hillside. Trees were downed on all sides but the track zigzagged around them. "Is this a trap?" Uthred wondered.

At the top of the hill was an enormous crater with huge cracks emanating from its center in a spider web pattern. "Here is where your dice have gone," the old woman said. "Go down a bit and see their track for yourself. Do you see that white material? That is the core of the land on all the islands of Photenvre. That is why they are breaking apart and sinking. They are floating islands and their hull and keel are rotting away in the sea below them. Soon everyone will perish when the islands sink."

Uthred and his friends descended and saw that the layers of dirt and rock were underlaid by a strange white material. When they took it in their hands it was as light as a feather, as soft as a thick dry sponge.

"Who is this old woman?" Uthred asked Granville. "How does she know that this material is the core below all the islands?"

"Let's ask her," Granville replied.

But when they got to the top again, the old woman was nowhere to be seen. Moreover, when they returned to their horses, which had been tied up outside the hovel, the dwelling had completely disappeared. All that remained was a square area of earth with marks where the travelers had slept.

"Gentlemen," Uthred said, "I propose to you that this old woman was telling the truth. Along the coast, we see large areas sinking into the sea. In the interior, we see huge sinkholes swallowing up whole cities and towns."

"What shall we do?"

"My father has often thought that if he annexed this hill country in Ethlertheldon we would be safe. But you and I can see this country is no safer than any other, especially since the whole island may be sinking. What we need to do is to commandeer two boats, fill them with supplies, and seek the continent up north in the legend of Empedocles. If we succeed in that, we will have a new land to settle, but if we die, it's just another roll of the dice we have to risk."

"We are with you."

"If we tell people about this sinking, will they believe us? And if they do believe us, might they all panic?" asked Granville.

"You have a point. We must keep this information secret for now. But I would like everyone, if they can, to bring a woman along on our trip, one who understands the risks, and also bring some trustworthy male and female retainers who are willing to go, so that, in case we cannot make it back, we may be able to start a colony in this new land."

"Won't people get suspicious from us sailing in ships like that?"

"No, we will say that we are on a trip to trade songs and music with the other islands of Photenvre. Since this is a well-established tradition on all the islands, no one should question it. I will tell my father privately that it is to sound out allies in these other countries."

"Uthred, you are our leader. Where you go, we follow."

Back in Plornish, the King was full of care. Word had got out that his son and friends had left town in a rush. Some thought it might be the start of another rumored war. Lanna Gyrren worried that the Prince might be killed, and that perhaps she had been too harsh on him. Yes, they could never marry, but at least she could support her old childhood friend, and one who, in her heart at least, was much more than just a friend.

Then she heard that he had returned from a trip to the south but no one could tell her what he did there or what his plans were or if there would really be war, as some said would happen.

Four days after his return, in the middle of the night, he appeared at her mansion on a hill overlooking the harbor and demanded to see her. She dressed and went downstairs to meet him.

"Lanna," he said, "my friends and I have been down south and we are convinced from what we have seen that the islands of Photenvre are sinking and will eventually be destroyed. We have decided to go on a secret mission to sail north to see if we can find a new land there to colonize and settle. I have loved you with all my heart for these last two years. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you. I want you and you alone to be with me as long as I live. Will you marry me and sail with me to seek a new home?"

"But what would your father say?"

"It doesn't matter what he would say. We are leaving this morning at dawn. If you come, we will elope and marry on board and never return unless we have to."

She looked into his eyes.

"Say yes," he said. "I have given up gambling for this one, last gamble that you will say yes."

They kissed for a long time, and vowed to be true to one another forever, come what may.

The polo club left on two ships with a number of trustworthy retainers, both male and female. With high hopes, they set sail for the north and crossed the equator.

King Cennth waited for weeks for word from his son. He sent boats out to look for them, but no one knew where they had gone. He told his son Smead that he would be the next king if Uthred had met with harm. In time, Smead began to take a more active role in the court, learning about the operations of government.

Two months after Uthred's departure, King Cennth and his son Smead received word of a severe earthquake 120 miles from the capital near the town of Tromathon. When Cennth and Smead arrived there, they saw a gaping hole in the ground, a large depression around it, and puffs of white dust floating in the air. Then they heard a sort of rattling sound, and to their surprise they saw a pair of large dice the size of apples come rolling towards them and stop. "What is this?" said King Cennth.

Smead went over and picked up the dice. "It looks like sevens," he said.

### America

### Paul Freeman

They say my mother was cursed by a travelling gypsy the night she gave birth to me. I can see the truth in that. I gave her nothing but cause to despair from the time I could totter on two legs. My father was a liar, a thief and a black-hearted bastard. He made his fortune off the backs and misery of other people. I inherited his evil streak and nasty temperament, and my long suffering mother's good looks, a combination that was to serve me well, but would lead to my ultimate doom.

Both my parents died just short of my nineteenth birthday. My father was beaten to death, in the street, by a jealous husband. No doubt he is even now supping with the devil, in an honoured spot at the right hand of Beelzebub. My mother died of shame. I was their only son, though I had three older sisters. They were the wrong sex, so I inherited everything. My family was the closest thing to gentry in a pitiful, windswept place at the edge of the world. A few miserable acres on the side of a rocky mountain rented out to desperate men, who dig in the hard barren soil, barely growing enough to pay the rent, let alone feed their families.

There is not a woman between the ages of sixteen and thirty, within sight of the mountain and beyond who has not had promises of love and a better life from me. I take what I want and leave nothing... well, save for a few unwanted gifts, who will likely as not look me in the eye one day and spit in my face. With a sneer and a look of contempt I turn from their tears. I am truly my father's son.

I've never had a taste for strong whiskey... okay, that's a lie, not the last you'll hear uttered from these lips. That's what I am, a fibber, a twister of truths, a bull-shitter, a bloody liar. Not the worst thing I've been called either, a rogue and vagabond, a cheat and blackguard. All true. One lesson I've learned, and learned it the hard way, no matter how big of an evil bastard you are, no matter how strongly meanness and nastiness runs through you, there is always someone meaner.

I first saw her on stage. I was transfixed, bewitched, I had to have her. To this day I wonder did she cast a spell on me. She was a dancer with a travelling show, all the way from the US of A, bringing a taste of the Wild West to the villages and towns of this backward land. To me she was exotic, the way she looked, the way she danced, the way she sounded. I sold the family land for half what it was worth, despite the protestations of my sisters, and paid for passage to America. From New York to Chicago we danced and drank, we laughed, we fought, we made love. It was passionate, explosive passion. She told me she loved me, I told her I hated her, we both lied. We followed the gold trail west, in search of easy money and an easier life. All we found were sad desperate people scratching in the dirt, much like home, I suppose. The money ran out, my inheritance squandered on opium and liquor. "What should we do now?" said I. She shrugged and smiled and closed the door behind her.

I have nothing; even the shirt on my back was stolen from a drunken cowboy as he slept in a stupor. "Good enough for him," I can hear them say back home. They're right too. I'm stuck here now, where the summers are too hot and the winters are too cold, where the whiskey would rot your gut and every second person wants to steal the eyes from your head. I've burnt my bridges and can never return.

Sometimes I conjure images of home. I can almost feel the soft rain on my face, hear the whistle of the wind through the trees on a moonlit night, or smell the pungent earthy smell of a freshly tilled field or an open peat fire. What I usually imagine, what occupies nearly every waking thought and haunts my dreams, giving me no respite even in sleep, is the taste of peaches from her lips, the hint of summer meadows in the air when she passes by. And that is no lie.

### Despair

### Paul Freeman

"Hey! Wake up, you can't sleep here."

"Huh?"

"Come on, up!"

"Okay, okay, give us a sec'," he said, wiping sleep from his eye.

"I've told you before you can't sleep here. If I catch you again I'll arrest you. Understand?"

He pulled himself up into a sitting position and nodded. He glanced up quickly at the uniformed police officer and looked away quickly, unwilling to make eye-contact. It was not just the uniform, he rarely made eye-contact with anyone anymore.

"This is a public park, not a doss house, how do you think it looks to a young mother with little kiddies coming for a play in the park, only to find you sprawled all over a bench?"

"Sorry," he mumbled an apology.

"Look at the state of you, I could smell your stink before I saw you."

"Sorry."

"Five minutes... if you're still here when I get back I'll have your sorry arse before a judge."

He nodded once, but the policeman had already turned on his heel and moved on. His head throbbed, his throat was parched, his stomach felt queasy. It was a warm summer's day and yet, despite wearing a heavy winter coat, he shivered from the cold. He brought a hand up to his temple, it came away sticky with blood. How had that happened? he wondered. A fuzzy image came to mind of being heckled and pushed around by a gang of faceless youths, dressed in hoodies and tracksuits.

His arms, legs, and back ached, a cramp knotted in his stomach and lower abdomen. He wasn't sure if he needed to eat or shit, or both. He reached for the bottle beside him. Cooking sherry. He held it by the neck and tipped it back, retched, and then drank some more, draining the bottle.

"Eww! Mummy, that man is so smelly."

He no longer flinched with shame when young mothers pulled their children out of his way. It hurt at first, cutting him to his very core, especially the little ones, the fear and disgust in their eyes. Blocking out the memories was the first thing he had to do, and the booze helped with that.

"Keep walking, you're scaring the kiddies." The policeman was back. He nodded and shuffled on his way, keeping his eyes low. He wondered where he would sleep tonight. Best not come back for a day or two.

He walked on, leaving the calm and peace of the park behind. All around him the sounds and smells of the city assaulted his senses; buses and trucks belched out noxious fumes, people hurried past, all giving him a wide berth. A car screeched to a halt, the driver shouting and gesticulating at him, before he realised he was in the middle of the road. He shuffled on, not answering, not looking back.

"Oi, you, clear off!"

He looked up from the skip. A man dressed in a chef's aprons had come out of a doorway into the alleyway and was shouting at him, so he dropped the leftover food back into the bin and moved on.

He rummaged through the on-street bins for whatever he could find, scavenging whatever food he could get his hands on or anything he could use. A piece of cardboard he dragged from one bin would make sleeping on the cold streets a bit more bearable.

He felt dizzy and disorientated most of the time now, his body ached for food and sleep, his mind craved drink. Drink to take him away, drink to help him find the oblivion he constantly sought.

"Malone?" He looked up from the bin. "Jesus, Malone, is that you?" A man dressed in suit and tie addressed him.

Malone? That was his name once. Not anymore. He shrugged off the man and shuffled on. The man followed.

"It is you, Malone. What the hell happened to you?"

He pushed him away and tried to move on, but the well dressed man was persistent.

"This used to be my boss," he laughed, turning to his friends.

"Come on, Freddie, leave him alone, he stinks," a woman's voice said.

"Seriously, this was my manager at the bank. He got fired when he came into work drunk one day and told all the customers to go screw themselves. Apparently his wife had taken the kids and buggered off with another man."

"Please, Freddie, I want to go." He could hear the fear in her voice.

"Jesus, Malone. Here," the man said and shoved a tenner into his hand.

He looked up when the couple walked away, tears blurring his vision. He looked down at the ten pound note, and he wanted to run after them and tell them to keep their bloody money, tell them he didn't need it, or them, and tell them to go screw themselves. He scrunched the note up tightly in his fist, his knuckles turned white. A sob escaped from his throat, a harsh guttural noise, a mournful wail of despair.

He wiped away the tears and snot and unfolded the note, calculating how much booze he could get with it.

He wanted to forget.

Devil's Glen

### Paul Freeman

Long ago, there lay a village at the foot of the Mountains of Mourne. A collection of drab, white-washed cottages topped with yellow and brown thatch, half hidden by mist drifting down from the dark peaks. One day a stranger rode into town on a tall black horse.

"The name's Flanagan," he said in an exotic Yankee drawl, as he stooped to enter a smoky hostelry. He had returned to the old country in search of his relatives, he told the assembled patrons. No one had heard of any Flanagans living locally. Save for one old boy, but he kept his whist, drained his whiskey and slunk out the door.

He had a memory of a Flanagan alright, Mary Flanagan. He was but knee high to a grasshopper at the time, but he still remembered vividly the night they dragged her, spitting and cursing from her cottage. Witch and Devil's harlot they called her. His face was pressed to his mother's skirts, lest he witness the black deed done that day. But he still remembered her screams and the thick cloying scent of burning flesh in his nostrils. It was on the eve of Samhain seventy years prior to that very day.

"Can I buy you boys a drink?" the tall Yank asked three local lads.

"Aye, sir. That'd be grand." The three supped the pints of porter and small balls of golden malt presented to them.

"Do ye like a game o' chance?" they asked the stranger, winking at each other, for they had a quare way of dealing a hand of cards, in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains.

"Why, I like nothing better," the stranger grinned good naturedly, as he stroked grey, drooping whiskers. With neither a curse nor a frown the stranger's pile of Yankee dollars crossed the table, while the boys drunk his black ale and gut-twisting whiskey. "Well, you've plum cleaned me out, I'll grant ya that. I've not a dime left," he said.

The local lads had done well, but greed is an awful thing and the accumulation of wealth is as frustrating to a young man as chasing its tail is to a dog. "Have ye naught left to wager, what about yer watch?" asked one.

"Or yer gold cufflinks?" asked another.

"Well, I do have one thing," the stranger grinned, fishing a gold sovereign, thick as your thumb, from his waistcoat pocket. "What would you boys stake for this little ol' thing?" The three young men gawped, they'd never seen its like, doubted anyone within sight of the mountain, or the whole county even, save maybe the Lord Lieutenant, had cast their eyes on such a prize as was presented to them by the strange foreigner. "Would you bet your immortal soul?" the man asked. The three boys, blinded by greed and coveting the treasure like nothing they had ever wanted before, failed to notice the sly look cross the man's dark eyes.

The old villager who ran from the inn reached his cottage just as a wind wailed across the rocky heights. He shivered at remembered tales, from his youth, of banshees and malign spirits, ghosts of aggrieved ancestors riding the mountain winds.

The stranger put down his cards, four aces. The boys put down theirs one by one. All their cards were blank, not a mark, not a symbol. The man began to laugh, not the good natured rumble of before but a harsh, mocking cackle. The three young men of the village covered their ears with their hands, but nothing could drown the demonic howl.

The old man heard laughter in the air, a woman's laughter. An image of Mary Flanagan's dour, hard face came unbidden to his mind, sending a shiver of icy fear piercing through him, chilling his veins.

### From Here to Where

### Jennifer Eifrig

Diary of Chaplain (Lieut.) Roger Matthews, 9th New York Volunteers

September 17, 1862, 5:30 p.m. – Sharpsburg, Maryland

I freely admit I spent as much of today as possible in my tent, cowering from the incessant boom of artillery fire, followed by the muffled crack of rifle shots. The noise was a drumbeat, a roll call, a tattoo leading up to the denouement that I would have to face eventually. All morning, Col. Hawkins received reports of the engagement with the enemy in a cornfield below a German Baptist church. We heard tell that the 12th Massachusetts boys were slaughtered en masse by the rebs, until someone thought to bring in the three-inch guns and fire point-blank into the corn, silencing the enemy's war cry forever. All this before seven o'clock in the morning.

It went on. Charge, retreat, slaughter, stalemate. Green men and veteran soldiers alike were wild-eyed with terror and fury. Officers fell, their replacements were dispatched to assume command, and found their new division decimated. Gen. Mansfield of CT bunched his men tight to prevent them bolting, and left the enemy with a target the size of a barn. He paid the price for his mistake with a mortal wound to the stomach; last I knew he lingered in agony, not expected to live the night. Maj. Gen. Sumner tried a daring attack to gain ground, but in the end nothing was achieved except to bloody the earth still more. Some have whispered that Gen. McClellan held back, that we could have crushed the rebs for good if only he had the stones in his trousers to commit his army. I don't know. All I know for certain is that the day went on, and on, and nothing except death reigned supreme.

There are whispers about me, too, of course. Some say I have no stones, either. I'm not like Father Corby, who rode with Brig. Gen. Meagher's Irish Brigade to give absolution on the field to those about to die. I'm not a crack shot. The thought of a bayonet makes me shudder, when all my fevered brain can do is think, I am not meant to be here. When I graduated from Union College in 1854, there was no talk of war. Slavery was an abomination, a blight on our new Jerusalem, but I will wager my soul that there was none in this country that would have believed we would come down to slaughtering each other by the thousands in less than a decade.

The fighting ended twelve hours after it began, and now it is time for my tour of duty to commence. I must assist with the retrieval of the dead and wounded, and visit the field hospital that has been set up in Gen. McClellan's headquarters, a house and barn owned by a Mr. Pry and his family. I will bring my faithful dog with me, selfish beast that I am, for I know I will have need of comfort.

Addendum, 9:30 p.m.

I take up my pen again in great agitation. I will not write of the devastation I witnessed, the four thousand dead on both sides, the nearly twenty thousand wounded. All I will say is that the destruction is greater than mortal man is meant to witness, and I am unable to take it all in.

No, I write instead about one man. So many lives lost and ruined, and all I can think of is one soul, who even now teeters on the edge of the great divide. He has undone me.

I have held my secret inviolate. No one suspects; or, if they do, none has come forward with an accusation. War, ironically, has a way of civilizing mankind; when there is such a larger peril to be concerned with, individual men are more tolerant of the peccadilloes that would otherwise inflame their prejudices and passions in peaceable times. I have labored alongside my fellow soldiers since the outbreak of hostilities, and I have been accepted, and my reticence for battle is attributed to my profession.

Yet, I had barely begun the rounds of the field hospital – I should call it what it really is, a barn, whose cattle has been shooed into the autumn fields – when I felt someone's eyes upon me. I said prayers with one man, read to another, held another's hand while the surgeons sawed off his shattered leg, and none of this disquieted my thoughts, but the awareness of being observed gnawed at me. Finally, in a corner of the barn reserved for most savagely wounded, those beyond saving, I found him.

He was blond, thin, and looked younger than his thirty-three years. His skin was gray, and already his eyes were beginning to sink in his head. Fever had set in, and his blood-soaked bandages were also wet with perspiration. Yet he had the bright clarity of those who can see the divide and the gates of Heaven, and he wasted no time in idle chat.

"You are one of us," he said.

"Brother," I told him, "we are all soldiers together." His regimentals proclaimed him a member of the Pennsylvania Reserves, who had seen some of the worst of the cornfield. I looked him in the eye as I took his hand. "I will say a prayer with you. Is there anyone you would like to write to? I am happy to take dictation."

"Brother, indeed," he replied, and expended what little strength he had in struggling to sit up on the hay-filled sacks supporting him. "I speak only to you." He looked down at Caesar, who was regarding him with solemn canine eyes. "Yes, you are one of us."

I put his words down to delirium, and signaled to the matron to bring water.

After he drank, he continued as if no interruption took place. "I could rail against almighty God that I have found you just when He is calling me out of this world, but it is not my place to question divine Providence. I have little time, so listen carefully, brother."

I thought wildly about escape, but his eyes had netted me completely. I began to understand. I whispered, "I am listening."

"You are not like other men, are you, Chaplain?"

I squirmed at the thought. "No."

"Nor I." We let the words hang in tacit silence, acknowledging the gulf that sat between us and the rest of mankind. He stared into the distance, as if trying to glimpse the future. "Perhaps someday we will be accepted, someday we might have homes and families, but not now."

"No," I agreed, and in that moment I fell completely, shatteringly in love.

I read to him, and prayed with him, and saw to it that he was made as comfortable as possible. Finally I had to leave, and now I sit writing about him, because I know this is all that I will have left of him.

September 18, 1862

Gen. McClellan never issued the expected order for a second attack. Instead, I spent all day assisting with the exchange of wounded under a flag of truce. The more I saw, the more I hated this war, and the blacker my spirits became.

I returned to the field hospital to check on my beloved. The fever was higher, and bright spots of color sat on his livid cheekbones. The matron shook her head and moved away when I asked if he might possibly recover. My heart, already aggrieved, broke into pieces.

"You are a man at war with yourself," he said when I sat down beside him.

It was true. I had volunteered, as the only honorable thing to do, but this battle had turned me traitor. I was angry, jealous with Death for stealing the only love I had ever known.

"You can't save me," he said, "but you can save yourself."

"How?"

"Leave."

How many times had I thought that, just today? I could disappear into the woods and never return. But doing so meant I was a wanted man, to be hanged or shot on sight. My family would be shunned, and go to their graves knowing I was a coward.

"I cannot."

"You must. You must live. Others will depend on you someday. I feel it."

Once more we read and prayed together, and then I departed for my camp, my thoughts absorbed in the glow of my lantern as I picked my way through the darkness.

September 22, 1862

I am bereft. My beloved died in my arms three days ago. I have spent the time alternately cursing the universe and weeping in my cot, Caesar at my feet.

My beloved was right. I cannot stay here. I am lost to all sense of duty. No thought but the instructions of a dying man fills my head. In a world gone utterly black, I have but one hope: that what he told me is true, that out there awaits a future destiny for me beyond anything I could have believed possible or right.

Can it be true? I am a Son of Anubis, capable of magic in service to almighty God? I would not credit it, only another miracle occurred today, one that has recast this war into a holy battle to exterminate the plague of slavery and build – perhaps – a new country in which men of all colors are brothers.

When word arrived that the President had freed all slaves in the Union and Confederacy, we were stunned into silence and awe. Then, cheers broke out among the troops who had survived Sharpsburg, because it meant that their comrades had died for something after all. The proclamation did not lighten my heart, but rather hardened my resolve.

I am leaving. Tonight. Now. I will take Caesar, and seek out the Sons of Anubis as my beloved made me promise to do. I will leave behind my duty, my reputation, my name, and my honor. In my heart, I am already fled. Here is no more. There is only the future.

### Over the Black Hills

### Paul Freeman

I ran away from home at the age of fourteen. I watched my father break his back toiling on barren rock to pay a fat, foreign landlord an exorbitant rent. Every night he drank himself into a stupor, not before I felt the sting of his belt or listened to the pleas of my mother as she begged him to stay his hand, while she prayed to the Lord, our almighty God to protect her.

The day I walked down that country lane, the dark hills behind me, supposedly on some errand or other which I can no longer remember, I felt exalted. Behind me I left the life of my father which I was bound to follow, another ignorant peasant following a life of servitude. Ahead lay adventure, a road to a new life. One where I was master of my own destiny. My heart sang with the joys of freedom, even as the fear of discovery threatened to overwhelm me. If I was caught, I knew I would be thrashed, beaten black and blue by a father who himself had been mercilessly abused by a harsh life and vengeful god.

Fourteen years of age without a bean to my name and barely an arse left in my trousers, I set out into the world. I'd never been but more than a couple of miles from home before, never beyond the sight of the mountain. I glanced back once, taking in the grey clouds over the dark shape of the rocky slopes. The wind chilled my bones and I turned my back on home forever.

I arrived in County Cork long after my shoes had given up the ghost and walked barefoot through town and county. If I'd had a plan I'm sure it would have evaporated like the leather on my over-worn footwear. The sights and smells of the city threatened to overwhelm my senses. I am and always have been a country lad, simple at heart, even now after I have travelled the world and seen more things than any man ought to see.

I was there no more than a couple of hours when a kindly stranger took pity on me, at least he appeared kindly to a naïve lad unused to the ways of the world, and bought me a meal and fed me full of ale. When I woke, my stomach lurched and head span. Rough hands grabbed me and shook me awake. I was hauled kicking and spitting from my slumber and dragged up a wooden ladder. A hatch above opened and bright light pierced my eyes.

"Welcome to the Royal Navy, boy," a harsh voice cackled. I looked around, taking in the sight of the ship that would become my home. All around was the deep blue of the ocean. I immediately ran to the rail and spewed my guts over the side. My first day in the navy and the first day I felt the bite of Percy Fletcher's lash. I still bear the marks, and more besides, on my back.

A month later I fought my first battle. When I say fought, I cowered in the corner with my knees clung tightly to my chest, jumping and whimpering at the thunderous roar of the guns. I pissed and shit myself that day. Not my finest hour.

I'm still aboard that ship, only now I am the master. Some years after that first day I led a mutiny and we flung his majesty's officers over the side. Percy Fletcher is still with us, only now he administers justice at my say so, with an undiminished, lusty relish. We travel the high seas in search of easy prey and plunder, terror of the waves, loathed and feared by all.

I've killed some men in my time, both by my own hand or with a barked order. But the closest I came to dying was in a whorehouse in London. A harlot by the name o' Daisy O'Brien took exception to me not havin' a brass farthin', havin' screwed her royally for half the night. I ran from that place with me breeches around me knees and me coat and hat tucked under me arm. She put a musket ball in the right cheek of me arse and left me with a limp to this day. She was a feisty wench; I was almost tempted to go back and give her some more, but I liked having me bollocks attached to the rest o' me.

I've dined with kings and emperors, been entertained by the royal circus in the Orient. Supposedly it's all in the mind, the miraculous feats of balance those performers are capable of, lyin atop o'poles no thicker than your arm. I'm a God-fearin' man, despite me evil ways, but I'd swear there's witchcraft at play there, some eastern dark magic.

They say it's a long way from here to there and it is a long way from the banquet hall of the Chinese emperor to the black hills of home. Me ma and da are long since dead, buried on the side of that stony mountain. Did I mourn them? I reflected on the death of my mother. She'd had an awful cross to bear all her days and I'm sorry I never helped her more in her hard life. As for me da, he was a bitter, savage man all his life, and no, I feel no guilt, I did not mark his passing.

Maybe someday they'll ship me own bleached bones back home and bury them in that hard earth. Holy lantern Jaysus, I hope not.

### A Disastrous Decision

### Mark Roman

It could have happened to anyone. It was just a shame for the human race that it happened to Tim. But we all make mistakes. How many of us might not have made exactly the same natural, spur-of-the-moment decision and brought about the same calamitous consequences upon ourself and all of Humankind?

It happened around 3am. Tim was woken by a bright flash of light and a thud that jolted his bed. His eyes shot open and he found himself staring at the silhouettes of two strangely-shaped figures entering his bedroom through a cavernous hole where his window had been. In an instant he slid under the duvet and cut his breathing. His mind raced as he tried to work out what was happening. Those figures. What were they? College mates trying to prank him? Too short. And what had happened to the window?

He stiffened as he heard movement and then a burbly, sing-song voice that said, "Hello there, little human-human."

Tim froze.

"We are Thereem and we come in peace-peace," continued the burbling voice. "Sort of-of."

The last statement caught Tim's attention. Tentatively he surfaced and poked an eye over the bedcovers.

"Sort of?" he asked, surveying the two aliens in the weird glow that filled the room. The creatures were long-necked, with short, stubby legs, long snaking arms, and what looked like a beer gut. Their tiny heads were topped by fleshy protuberances, like crowns of jelly. Each had two independently wandering eyes that surveyed the room and would occasionally flick in Tim's direction. He was relieved that there was no ray-gun or lightsaber pointing at his face. "What do you mean: you come in peace, 'sort of'?"

The aliens looked at one another and made a noise like a girlish giggle.

"Our intentions are largely friendly," said the other alien, with a similar burbly voice.

"Largely?" queried Tim, sitting up.

"Sort of. Come with us."

"No way. Who are you?"

"We already said," said the first alien. "We are Thereem. I am Zablik and this is Thrbok-Thrbok."

"The Ream?"

"It's pronounced 'Thereem-Thereem'."

"Thereme-Thereme," tried Tim.

"No, there's only one 'Thereem', not two. And it is pronounced 'Thereem'. Put your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Like this: Thereem-Thereem."

"You keep saying two The Reems!"

The other alien, Thrbok, raised a snaking arm. "Zablik has a speech impediment. Please ignore it as he is very sensitive about it."

Zablik swivelled to face Thrbok. "Speech impediment? How dare you-you. I have no speech impediment-impediment."

Tim said nothing, thinking it best to stay out of it. He gave the name another try, "Threem."

"Hah!" said Zablik triumphantly, pointing at Tim. "Now that's what I call a speech impediment-impediment." The jelly-like protuberances on his head waved wildly. "Anyway, we have no time to waste. You must come with us now-now."

"Is this an alien abduction?" Tim shrank back, pulling the duvet up to his chin.

"No," said Thrbok. "It's an alien rescue. We have come to save your species."

Tim caught his breath. "Save my species? From what?"

The Thereem burbled to one another for a few seconds.

"Well?" prompted Tim.

"Er, there's a black hole heading towards the centre of your planet."

"A black hole?"

"As it falls, it will suck in the Earth. We estimate there are two of your Earth hours left before the crust caves in, and everything with it."

Tim was at a loss for words. "But..."

"You must get ready for escape-escape."

"This doesn't make sense. Where did this black hole come from?"

"Ah," said Thrbok.

"Erm-erm," said Zablik.

Tim threw back the duvet cover and swung his legs to the floor. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the two aliens. "Did you guys have anything to do with this?"

"Ah," repeated Thrbok.

"Erm-erm," repeated Zablik.

"Well?"

"You are a creature of limited intelligence. We wouldn't expect you to understand," said Thrbok.

"Try me."

Thrbok's eyes crossed and then uncrossed. "Well, it turns out that the spaceship we ... er ... borrowed was a black hole transporter. How were we to know? Anyway, as we were making a tight turn through your planetary system the black hole, kind of, slipped out. Most unfortunate."

"I'd say so. That's how you define 'largely friendly,' is it? Destroying our planet."

"We all make mistakes," said Thrbok. "And at least we plan to make good our error by saving your species!"

Zablik stepped forward. "We only have two hours-hours."

Tim threw up his arms. "How the hell are you going to get everyone off this planet in two hours?"

The aliens exchanged glances. "We're not-not," said Zablik. "Not enough room in our craft-craft."

"We can only take so many."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "How many?"

The aliens exchanged glances again. "Seven," said Thrbok.

Tim gave an involuntary laugh. "Seven?"

"More than enough to keep the species going. And you're our first. Aren't you lucky? We just need six more to go with you."

Tim stared at them open-mouthed.

Thrbok stepped forward and swept an arm to indicate the house. "Who else lives in this domicile?"

Tim hardly heard the question, so Thrbok repeated it.

"My landlady. My monstrous landlady and her poor, hen-pecked husband."

"Would you like us to save them?"

Tim choked. "Er, not particularly." Then he corrected himself, "That's to say, they wouldn't be in my top six."

"Very well. Please select your top six. You will be the last of your species, so please choose fit and healthy individuals to maximize breeding and survival chances."

Zablik seemed suddenly agitated and pointed both his rubbery arms at Tim, burbling at Thrbok as he did so.

"Good point," said Thrbok with a nod. Then he turned to Tim. "We should have asked before. Are you fertile?"

Tim blinked several times at the question. "Er, well, I should imagine so. I've never been tested."

Both Thrbok and Zablik peered closely at him. "Hmm," said the former. "No time for an anal probe. Pity. We'll just have to take your word for it."

Tim's mouth dropped open and he felt his nether regions contracting at the thought. He lowered himself onto his bed, trying to take it all in.

"Hurry," urged Thrbok.

"What?"

"Six others-others," Zablik reminded him.

"Ah," said Tim. He shook his head in an effort to focus. He reached for his mobile phone and scrolled down his contacts, stopping at Samantha. He hesitated. Dare he? He hardly knew her; didn't even have a picture of her for the icon. But he'd been thinking about her for most of the past week. If he'd had a picture he would probably have spent all his time just gazing at it. And he felt they had hit it off instantly.

"Hurry-hurry!"

"OK, OK." Tim tapped Samantha's blank icon and waited, his heart suddenly thumping in his chest.

Two rings, three rings, four rings, and then a click.

"Hello?" said a sleepy voice on the other end. Tim's stomach gave a somersault.

"Hi, Samantha. Er, this is Tim. I don't know if you remember me. From the Freshers' party last Saturday night."

"Who?"

"Tim. Studying Chemistry. We chatted about some stuff. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it's important. There's a black hole heading towards the centre of the Earth and these two aliens called the Thereme ..."

"Thereem-Thereem," corrected Zablik.

"... Theream, have broken into my bedroom ..."

"What? What the hell?" croaked Samantha. "Are you insane? It's 3 o'clock in the morning!"

"I know, I know. It sounds crazy, but ..."

Just before he heard the click Tim caught the word "Creep!" It was like a knife to his heart.

"Well?" asked Thrbok.

"Technical hitch," said Tim, still hurting. The conversation had not gone well. Could he call again and try a different tack? His insides churned.

"Maybe we've got the wrong person-person," said Zablik, turning as though to leave.

"No, no. I'm good," said Tim hurriedly. "I'll call Barry. He's my best mate and he'll round up two or three girls in no time. He has a talent. You'll see." Tim tapped Barry's leering icon.

The Thereem exchanged glances. "Perhaps we should have gone straight to Barry's place," said Thrbok.

"Agreed-agreed." Zablik nodded.

"I'm sorry, the person you are calling is not available," said the recorded voice on Tim's phone. "But if you ..." Tim killed the call and sighed in exasperation. He gulped as he sensed the aliens were about to move on. With a shaking finger he scrolled up and down his address book. Jenny? They'd broken up two months previously, but she might still have feelings for him. If only he still had feelings for her.

"Time's running out," pressed Thrbok.

"I know, I know." Tim scrolled once more through the address list. Who else was there? Flora? Quite a nice girl, but she was studying abroad. Jane? No, he'd never really fancied Jane. Molly? No way.

Besides, who'd believe his crazy story and come at such short notice?

There was a sound of movement on the ceiling above their heads. All three froze.

"My landlady!" whispered Tim. "She doesn't allow company after 10 pm. I think she primarily means lady friends, but if she sees what you've done to her window I expect she'll extend the ban to aliens."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like her to come along with us? Save a lot of time and trouble."

"God, no!" spluttered Tim, his eyes popping.

"Why not-not?"

"Er, ..." Tim's mind raced. "She's not ... er ... not fertile. At least, I sincerely hope not."

"Must push you, then-then," hissed Zablik.

"Alright, alright!"

It was at that point that Tim made the biggest, most disastrous, most far-reaching mistake of his entire life.

He phoned his mum.

And so it was that he now found himself in an alien spaceship, fleeing a collapsing, crumbling Earth far below, his heart aching at thoughts of the fair Samantha, down there, being sucked into a ravenous black hole, and soon to be crushed out of existence – abandoned to her ghastly fate along with seven billion other people.

He thought fleetingly of Barry, too, but more about what might have been had he answered the phone, than about the guy himself.

Instead, here he was in the company of his mum, his dad, granddad Alf, Great Aunt Agatha, Bert from the pub and last, but not least, Rosie Scroggins from the Bingo Club.

What his mum had been thinking when she had assembled this lot, Tim could not imagine, but propagation of the human race could not have been uppermost in her mind. Or, if it had...

Tim shuddered.

Humanity was doomed and he no longer cared.

Acknowledgements

"RNA" by Gary Beck first appeared in Aphelion, the WebZine of Science Fiction & Fantasy, issue #113, August 2007.

"The Last Glance" by Gary Beck first appeared in Twisted Tongue Magazine.

"Swarming Disenchantments" by Bruce Hesselbach first appeared in Neonbeam Magazine, March 2008, to whose editor grateful acknowledgement is made.

"Hall of Dreams" by Gary Beck first appeared in Eloquent Stories, July 2006.

About the Authors

### Gary Beck

Gary Beck lives in New York City and has spent most of his adult life as a theater director but has also had numerous published works. His novels include The Conquest of Somalia (published by Cervena Barva Press), The Dance of Hate (Calliope Nerve Media), Material Questions (Silkworms Ink), Dispossessed (Medulla Press), Mutilated Girls (Heavy Hands Ink), Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press), and Acts of Defiance (Artema Press).

His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. His collection of short stories, A Glimpse of Youth, was published by Sweatshoppe Publications. Several collection of his poetry are available: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press), Dawn in Cities (Winter Goose Publishing), and Assault on Nature (Winter Goose Publishing). His latest collection, Songs of a Clerk, will be published by Winter Goose Publishing soon.

His original plays and translations of Molière, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced off-Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues.

Connect with Gary at:

Website: http://garycbeck.com

Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/Gary-Beck/e/B00959Y3PA

### Jennifer Eifrig

Jennifer Eifrig is known to time travelers in the steampunk dimension as Evelyn (Mrs. Josiah) Grimwood. Her debut urban fantasy novel, Discovering Ren, is available from Cogwheel Press. She is a contributing author to FictionMagazines.com's Prof. Dobb's Historical Primer of the Extraordinary (2014), and has published numerous non-fiction articles that you will likely never need to read. A graduate of Bates College and Wesleyan University, she puts her expensive education to good use eking a peculiar living advising hallowed institutions of collecting and learning in everything from securing capital to fighting mummies.

Connect with Jennifer at:

Blog: http://www.JenniferEifrigAuthor.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/JenniferEifrigAuthor

Twitter: http://twitter.com/eifrigjen

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/eifrigjen

### Paul Freeman

Paul Freeman is author of the Cogwheel epic fantasy series, Tribesman. He is from Dublin, Ireland, where he lives with his family. He has also published a short story in the steampunk anthology, Strange Tales From the Scriptorian Vaults, published by Kristell Ink. He can also lay claim to one quarter of Season of the Dead, published by Spore Press, a novel about the zombie apocalypse told from four perspectives by four authors.

Connect with Paul at

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Tribesmanseries

Twitter: https://twitter.com/PolFreeman

Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6552299.Paul_Freeman

Amazon author page: <http://www.amazon.co.uk/Paul-Freeman/e/B009NJW3F4>

### Bruce Hesselbach

Bruce Hesselbach is an attorney who lives in Newfane, Vermont. His first novel, Perpetual Motion, published by Cogwheel Press in 2013, is a steampunk novel set in Switzerland and Germany from 1876 to 1889, a love story between a time traveler's daughter and a doomed inventor threatening to help Germany win the Great War.

Previously Bruce wrote High Ledges, Green Mountains (Bondcliff Books, 2005), a memoir about hiking Vermont's 270-mile Long Trail. An avid hiker, he has climbed over 490 different mountains to date. He is the author of seven published short stories. To date, 62 of his poems have been published in the small presses. His poetry group, the Londonderry Poets, have published two anthologies, Blackberry Picking (1995) and Chancing the Weather (2000).

As chairman of the Newfane Conservation Commission, he helped create hiking trails in the Newfane Town Forest. He graduated cum laude from Yale in 1972 with a BA in English, and received a JD in 1975 from Villanova Law School. His favorite reading matter includes Travel and Exploration, history, the Musket and Pike Era, fantasy and steampunk.

Connect with Bruce at

Writing website: http://www.hesselbachwriter.com

Hiking website: http://dickenshiking.bravehost.com

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/brucehesselbach

### Mark Roman

Mark Roman is a research scientist by day and an occasional, spare-time writer at night. He lives in London with his wife and two children. His first book, The Ultimate Inferior Beings, was published by Cogwheel Press in 2012. He is now collaborating on a second book which, if it takes as long as the first to see the light of day, should be out some time in 2047.

Connect with Mark at

Book's website: http://tuib.webnode.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/mark.roman.1485

Amazon author page: <http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Roman/e/B008ALNF3K>

### Cogwheel Press Books

### Extreme Change

### Gary Beck

A middle class family flees the crime and poverty of Detroit for a fresh start in New York City. A fire leaves them homeless and in the nightmarish clutches of the welfare system.

" _Mr. Beck writes with compassion and sensitivity which makes for a truly great and eye opening read."_

" _I really loved this book. For me it was a real page turner."_

" _It's one of those books whose characters and scenes stay with you long after you've finished reading."_

### Discovering Ren

### Jennifer Eifrig

When Isadora Ambrosine accepts a bundle of amulets in a Cairo marketplace, her new calling will threaten her life, destroy her family, and force her to choose between revenge and sacrificial love.

"Beautifully written."

" _Jam-packed with magic, myth, and action."_

" _Had me holding my breath."_

" _Not your run-of-the-mill story!"_

### Tribesman

### Paul Freeman

An ancient evil is rising from the desert. Culainn and Persha, warrior and mage stand alone against a tide of darkness. All the while, Morrigu, the dark god of the north seeks to use them as her own tool.

" _A classic fantasy hero."_

" _Fantastic epic."_

" _Awesome and epic."_

" _A must read for all epic fantasy lovers!"_

### Warrior

### Paul Freeman

The search for the merchant's daughter continues as Culainn crosses the mountains into the frozen north... home, to face his past and the many demons he left behind.

Striking a bargain with the witch-queen, Neeve, he agrees to fight her enemies, the Shadow Druids and Blue-Woads, in return for her aid in freeing the girl he seeks. Will she keep her word, or has she treachery in mind?

All the while, the dark god, Morrigu, continues to haunt Culainn's dreams, seeking to control him and make him her own champion.

Book 2 in the Tribesman series.

### Perpetual Motion

### Bruce Hesselbach

After Sybil Hardenbergh's time-travelling parents save Fritz von Lassberg from drowning, Sybil fears that Fritz may be helping Germany prepare to defeat England in the Great War, and, what is worse, that she is falling in love with him.

" _An exciting tale of invention and a race to change history ... A timeless, satisfying storyline that stayed with me."_ Elizabeth G Macalaster, author of Reckoning At Hart's Pass _._

" _Perpetual Motion is a story with all the classic elements you expect of steampunk fiction--gears and gadgets and intriguing inventions and gorgeous architecture, to name a few--but it shakes them up, gives them a twist, and with a generous splash of sci-fi and time travel thrown in you get a highly original, thoroughly engrossing novel that is unlike anything you've ever read before."_ Mary Ruth Pursselley.

### The Ultimate Inferior Beings

### Mark Roman

An ill-chosen spaceship crew encounter a race of loopy aliens and find that the fate of the Universe is in their less-than-capable hands.

" _A little gem. A rip-roaring read with bundles of hilarity."_

" _A funny, fun quick read."_

" _Even the appendices are witty."_

" _A real mind strgnardorf!"_

