BAEN BOOKS
FREE STORIES 2011

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Space Hero © 2011 by Patrick Lundrigan

Tanya: Princess of the Elves © 2011 by Larry Correia

The Grimnoir Chronicles: Detroit Christmas © 2011 by Larry Correia

Kings © 2011 by Travis S. Taylor

Mole Hunt © 2011 by Robert Buettner

Intelligent Design © 2011 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

The Brute Force Approach © 2011 by Michael Z. Williamson

Honorverse Tech Bu9 © 2011 by David Weber

The Talisman’s Trinket © 2011 by P. C. Hodgell

Pawn to King Four © 2011 by Timothy Zahn

A Baen Book Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY  10471
www.baen.com

ISBN: 978-1-4516-3778-6 

Space Hero
by
Patrick Lundrigan

The space hero came out of the old Soyuz docking ring in a flight suit that looked so new you could have cut titanium with the creases. 
"Just call me Rob," he said as an introduction, pocketing his sun glasses and shaking Jake's hand in a firm Naval Academy grip. He'd remind him later about the bone loss the long timers suffered.
Jake had the orbital shuttle ready to go, but the hero had to update his blogs and establish a downlink. "For the folks downstairs," he said, doing a tight half gainer over to the communication console. 
Jake waited as Rob, or Robert Danforth, NASA astronaut and self-appointed ambassador of good will and public relations, downloaded a pocket cam full of videos from his launch and then set up for a live Q&A session with a class of third graders in Ohio. He answered the usual questions (how close are the stars, what does the Earth look like, can you see Ohio, how do you go potty) like he'd spent his whole life teaching kids about space. Jake wondered if NASA had a training program for that, since most of the current astronauts spent all their time on the ground. Jake hadn't done much PR in the past three years, with the business of space and keeping the manufactories running the sum total of his time, both working and free.
"We don't get many of you blue suiters up here," Jake said after the sendoff from Rob admonishing the kids to do well in school and pray. 
"That'll change soon," he said, stowing his assorted com gear. "Once they pick the first crew." He gave a wink, as if he knew already who would make the cut for the first manned Mars mission. "I can't wait to see the ship."
"Let's see if our launch window is still open," Jake said, and led him though the hub, toward Freedom's main docking pod.
Wrangling a visiting NASA astronaut made for a difficult assignment. The old days of steely-eyed fighter jocks had gone the way of blank checks from the government and grand presidential visions of space conquest. Everybody upstairs these days had work to do, with some science thrown in if they had the time. Jake turned back, taking another look at the space hero. A few years back, when those third graders from Ohio were just future plans for their farmstead parents, Robert Danforth turned a shuttle launch disaster into a miraculous landing, bringing his damaged orbiter back with all hands. He put the American space program back in the news for a year or two, and launched his current career.
But he must've spent all his time doing the PR shuffle, or else he'd have known the first Mars ship and the "scheduled" first mission would remain a plan for a very long time. Jake's own manufactories had multiyear contracts that had to be completed before they'd have the robot-hours to get back to working on the Mars ships. The deep space tracking network didn't have a hertz of bandwidth to spare, with all the rovers and orbiters and the belt miners out exploring the Solar System. And robots and computers could explore the universe for a lot less cash then a tin can full of men. 
Jake and Rob floated into the docking pod. Jake introduced Rob to the duty crew, and within minutes the old astronaut had them under his spell, telling stories, asking questions, handing out commemorative pins. He knew some of them from their days at NASA, before they'd "gone commercial." Jake turned to the main terminal as Holly broke from Rob's orbit.
"Sorry, we got a load of tourists coming in," she said to Jake, "you'll have to wait until they dock."
"Good news for you," Jake said, "More time with Mr. Right Stuff."
Holly swung around, one arm on the terminal. She tucked her loose hair back with her other arm and looked toward Rob. "I dunno. Nice to have a real astronaut visiting and not yet another zero-g robot jock."
"Well, if he gets tired of shaking robot claws over at Tri-Star, I'll send him back early."
Holly gave him a hip check, nudging him away from the terminal. "Let me make sure the Love Boat hasn't gotten lost," she said, calling up a panorama of navigation screens. "Two hours late, right on schedule. You'd think Astro-Disney would run a better operation." She picked up a headset and put on her official voice. "Astro Princess, this is Freedom traffic control. Docking cleared on port seven."
Updated telemetry came in, and Holly juggled the transit lanes, a dozen ships in transit, seventeen commercial habitats, a swarm of satellites, and the usual cloud of junk and debris that filled low earth orbit these days. Nothing got past her watchful eyes.
"Damn, a five-hour layover," she said. "Remind me to tell the eggheads to lock up the labs or someone'll grab a mouse to take home."
Jake did a flip, moved in closer to her ear. "Trade ya," he said.
"No way," she said, rotating away. "But—I got two days downtime next week—you free?"
Jake sighed. If he got the space hero squared away, if his robot crews made the weekly quota, if the Russians made the next delivery . . . 
"I can find a day," he said. 
Holly gave him her best pout. "Maybe Rob will have some time," she said. "He could show me his medals and I could show him the stars."
"A day and half! I'll make the time."
Holly gave him a wink and turned back to the terminal. Soon the station shuddered as the tourist ship made hard dock, and within minutes of a good seal a dozen tourists floated into the hub, bouncing off each other and the bulkheads. Jake realized then he should have gotten Rob on the shuttle first. 
"Welcome to space," he thundered, shooting toward them. They circled around him, the usual mix of enthusiastic, rich, older people, and Rob started his standard meet-and-greet. Like the crew, most of them knew him, and before long the stories started and the autograph pen came out.
"I may never get back," Jake said.
***
Rob settled into the pilot's chair and with an uncanny ease. He pulled the checklist from the slot and flipped to the first page. Jake hovered behind him.
"As much as the world recognizes your piloting skills, sadly, the owners of this beat-up orbital shuttle, Tri-Star Industries, and their numerous insurance policy providers, don't. So I have to fly us over."
"C'mon, Jake. I've flown these in the simulators a thousand times. A quick trip, no one will know." He beamed his thousand watt smile, gave a thumbs up. "Wheels-up in ten minutes."
Jake debated arguing. He wished for failsafes and lockouts and an advanced computer interface, something to keep Rob's hands off the controls. Instead rolled into the copilot's seat, strapped in. "You can't deviate from the flight plan," he said. "Or else you'll screw up Holly's traffic control."
Rob looked up from the checklist, one hand over a switch. "Can't we swing out to Hubble, for few photos?"
Jake opened his mouth, ready to scream. Every tourist ship  boosted to the high parking orbit, but they'd have to burn all the shuttle's reserves to get there and back.
"Just kidding, sport. Man, you should see your face. Now make sure I don't make a mistake." He went back to the pre-flight, and Jake slowly calmed down. At least Rob showed he knew his way around the shuttle cockpit, turning serious and professional.
After getting final clearance from Holly, they undocked. Rob held his hand on the joystick, but the auto-pilot pulled them away cleanly, spun them to the right vector, and ignited the main engine. Rob kept alert, eyes on the viewscreen, ready for anything.
"Have you done any work on Mars One?" Rob said after they had cleared the station. 
"Way back," Jake said. "I did the chassis assembly. My robots, actually."
"Outstanding. I can see you take pride in your work--and your robots."
"At least I don't worry about strikes or sick days. But a solar flare can send the entire production line off their rails."
Rob gave a quick laugh, then turned quiet as they crossed the terminator. He looked poised for action, as if about to make a night landing on a carrier. But the shuttle plodded on, with no need for any input from her crew. 
"This mission means a lot to me. Even if I don't get selected, I'll support it one hundred and ten percent."
Rob might be a dinosaur, an old stick-and-rudder man who could fly an automated ship, but he didn't look happy doing it. He came from a previous age, and the next age of exploration wouldn't come around for a dozen years, or whenever the orbital factories caught up with demand. And he'd never get selected then. Jake hoped his enthusiasm would cover the disappointment of seeing Mars One.
"You don't have to go to Mars," Jake said. "We have a booming economy right here in Earth orbit. With your NASA training, you'd fit right in. A dozen observatories, manufactories--"
Rob held up his hand. "I know. Work like that--and I know it takes work, would drive me crazy. I can't even . . . never mind." He flexed his hand around the joystick, eyes back on the instruments. "Let's just concentrate on the flight."
Jake watched the nightside for the rest of the trip, until Tri-Star station came into view. It reminded him of an erector set gone crazy, docking hubs sticking out at odd angles, solar panels flying atop a two hundred meter boom, pinpricks of light from a dozen welding robots around the main module. Rob looked too, but his eyes searched until they found Mars One and never left. Jake reached over and switched off the auto-pilot. 
"We just cleared the transit lane," he said, "and sometimes the docking sequence goes haywire. Why don't you take us in?"
Rob smiled, and if he knew that an auto docking sequence hadn't gone haywire in six and a half years he didn't say anything. He already had the docking ring on the heads-up, and his approach and capture felt as smooth and solid as any the shuttle computers ever performed. Together they went through the shut-down sequence. 
"We've got about three hours before dinner," Jake said. "We've got a downlink ready for you, so you can catch up." Tri-Star kept shifts running 24/7, but most everyone came together for one meal a day. And they'd all look forward to a new face.
"Can we see Mars One first? She looks good on the outside, I can't wait to see the inside."
Jake had cargo coming in, and a bunch of robots to check on. He guessed Rob could find his way around, and charm anyone he met along the way.
"Why don't you take the self guided tour? I'll answer any questions later."
***
Out of habit and tradition long established before Jake ever arrived, the galley module maintained an Earthside ambience, complete with faux-wood paneling and incandescent lighting. The tables met in a single plane, providing space for everyone on-station to sit at one time--although sitting only required bellying up to the table and velcroing in. Station etiquette also meant sitting while eating. Jake came in late, grabbed a loaded tray and floated over to the table. He found a spot next to Dan, who had a pancake in one hand and a squeeze tube of syrup in the other. Dan had the next shift in Jake's production area, station morning for those who kept track.
"So did you lose the cargo?" he asked.
"Half a ton light, but the Russians got it here," Jake said. "If you get the time, have it unloaded."
Dan took a shot of syrup, caught a sticky drop before it got away. "No, the other cargo, the dead weight from NASA."
Jake looked around the table. He should have known by the volume of conversation. Just the usual table chatter, and some heated debate on the other end of the table about the World Cup.
"I left him at the ship," Jake said. 
"Well, when he gets tired of nosing around, I could use some help."
Jake pulled open a pouch, squeezed out a mouthful. "NASA paid for his trip."
"Yeah, just so he can look around, and ask questions, and get in everyone's way."
Some of the others at the table joined in the conversation, wondering when the space hero would show up. After a few months on the station, everyone got to know everyone else well enough to get along, but they all seemed hostile to Rob. A stranger on board made for a distraction, an outsider, someone to vent on. But Jake figured Rob could charm anybody. He pushed off, dinner half finished, and stowed the tray. 
Shooting down the main corridor, he stopped twice on his way to the docking ring to make sure his robots crews hadn't crashed or rebooted. Both bays had the usual hum of activity, forges running and the mills rolling. He hit the junction feet first and bounced off, redirecting himself toward the ship building hub. Not much activity down this way, orders for ship frames and modules having fallen off in the last year. Lights in the transfer tube led him in, but inside Mars One all the lights remained off. He kicked off toward the cockpit.
Rob sat in the pilot's seat, with a pocket cam velcro'd to the bulkhead aimed at him. The instrument panel, a duplicate of the one in the shuttle, showed a few systems powered on, the rest dark and lifeless.
"Oh," Jake said, "I didn't mean to interrupt a taping."
Rob looked over, the shadows across his face hiding his expression. "I'll wait for sunrise," he said. "Quite a ship you've built."
Jake anchored to the back of the flight engineer's seat, took a look around. Most of the panels had mock-ups installed, colorful decals in place of actual equipment. Mars One could fly, if she had to, but she'd never leave Earth orbit. "We still have some work to do," he mumbled.
"I know the plans and schedules, but I had to see it for myself. See the plumbing and tankage. Feel the fabric. Flip a few switches."
"We just need a few more deliveries," Jake said, suddenly defensive. Mars One would work. Nothing exotic about her design. Just a matter of putting the pieces together.
Rob shook his head. "Yeah, I know. But the Mars mission needs a lander too, and a hab module for the surface, and the refinery. Just putting the command ship together doesn't make the entire mission."
"It'll happen, Rob. NASA has put up the money, more or less, and the schedules will work out."
Rob looked out the viewscreen. An arc of Earth, glowing in sunlight, appeared behind the framework of the station.
"Back on Discovery's last flight," he said, talking slower now, in a half whisper, "when the hydraulics started to go halfway over the Atlantic, you could measure my life in minutes. I had one thing to do. One path to follow. No options. And I did it."
He shook his shoulders, like he fought back a laugh. "I made it look easy, but I never did anything so hard. And now my life has expanded, and I have years and years ahead of me, but nothing as hard or as easy as those few minutes."
The station crossed the terminator, sunlight playing on the framework outside, reflecting into the cockpit. Without the shadows, Mars One looked more real, less like a shell. Rob smiled now, as if the light had washed away his memories. He put his sunglasses on. "Time to get the video show on the road," he said, "Hit the record button for me."
***
Jake took welder number seven off-line and stowed it in the shop. Whenever he got some time he'd crack it open and try to figure out what made the damn thing reboot ten times a day. His daily checkout of the hardware done, he floated over to the terminal to check the paperwork. He had to get a dozen certs out, and make sure they had enough inventory for the next week, and get started on the quarterly report. Instead, he dug into the archives, checking into the old Mars One contracts and specs. The design looked good, no technological leaps required. But the mission plan required support ships, and landers, and habitation modules. All still in the appropriation stage. But it could happen. Could happen soon, with money and juggling the schedules. If anyone would pay for it.
The station gave a shudder as something undocked. He didn't know Dan had the cargo unloaded already. He called up his schedules, ready to get back to work, but couldn't concentrate.
Dreams. Did Rob come up here to sell a dream? A dream only he believed in? Too much business these days, Jake guessed, too much profit/loss, too much cost/benefit. They could send a boatload of robots to Mars right now, but who'd do the video shows? And what if the things rebooted during re-entry?
 Dan's face broke onto his screen, his brows knitted together. "Jake, just what the hell is wrong with your flyboy?"
"I haven't seen him today," Jake said.  
"Then Mars One just undocked all by itself?"
Jake kicked off from the console toward the nearest window. At the other side of the station, Mars One pulled away from the docking ring and the loose transfer tube. She started to roll, then the aft thrusters fired, moving her away.
Jake didn't reply to Dan on the screen. He pushed off from the window and headed out of the manufactory toward Central as fast as he could move.
The Central hub had all Tri-Star's communications and control, and by the time Jake shot in, bouncing hard off a bulkhead, everyone else had gotten there first. 
All the screens flashed warnings, and a looped clip of Holly played in one corner, declaring an emergency. All flight plans were rescinded, all stations to maintain alert.
"What has he done?" Jake asked. Dan hovered over to him.
"This has nothing to do with the space cowboy," he said. "The Astro-Disney boat hit a solar panel fragment an hour ago and lost control."
Jake let out a breath. Just the usual over-caution when any mishap occurred. There would always exist a danger of an expanding debris field after a collision, and space tracking would take a while to count all the pieces. He saw the tourist ship on the radar screen, looking to be in one piece, but tumbling.
Dan pointed to the rest of the crew. "If we get him back in time, they might not even notice," he said. "He hasn't gotten far."
Jake grabbed a headset and turned back toward the main communication console. The emergency looked under control; Astro-Disney ground control had good telemetry from the tourist ship, and although they had lost navigation, life support remained on-line. He found the com freqs for Mars One, and switched on the transmitter.
"Rob, you couldn't have picked a worse time for a joyride," he said. "We got an emergency and everyone has to stay put."
The station handshook with the ship and data flowed back and forth. Half the displays stayed dark, with the ship waiting for most of its major systems. 
"Rob, I know you can hear me. Listen, you've only got a hour or two of air at best, and we don't have time to mess around. Come back right now."
"Jake, good to hear you." Rob's voice came over the headphones with his usual bright attitude. "She flies better than I hoped."
The ship had cleared the solar panel boom, heading for the transit lane. "Look, Rob, this will mean your career. We don’t have any flight clearance, and even if we did, you don't want to fly around when a debris field could expand into your orbit."
"We have a bigger problem than that," Rob said. "I got in touch with Norad as soon as the tourist ship went off-line. Hang on, I have to program my burn, talk to you in a minute."
Dan moved in closer, picking up a headset. "Has he started the Mars mission by himself?"
Jake paid no attention. He signaled to Freedom, trying to get Holly on the line. After a long moment, her face came up.
"I don't have time to chat," she said. "Astro-Disney's got a rescue ship prepped. They should launch in an hour, and I have to clear traffic."
"We have an unscheduled launch," he said. They'd never hide Rob's joyride once he entered the transit lane. "We will attempt to recall."
"Attempt? Negative, Tri-Star station. You will recall all ships." With a jab at her console, she closed the screen. Jake switched channels.
"Rob, listen, you got to get back now."
"Jake, I'm almost ready to burn," he said. "You know what the difference between a government contract and a commercial contract?"
"Rob, please, no jokes."
"A government contract goes to the lowest bidder, a commercial contract goes to court. You should hear from Norad soon."
Dan shrugged his shoulders when Jake shot him a look. "He must have gone crazy," he said. The rest of the Tri-Star crew had assembled around his console, watching. They all looked to Jake, as if he had launched Mars One.
Then Holly's screen popped up. "Tri-Star, Norad had requested your assistance."
The alert screens shifted as the tracking updated. The circles expanded, encompassing more of low earth orbit. Tri-star and Freedom hung on the outskirts, and the tourist ship flew above them.
"Norad casts a wider net," she said, highlighting a dozen orbits that intersected LEO. "Once the tourist ship lost thrust, it put them right in line with an old booster. Can you render assistance? We've got no ships in the transit lanes." 
The telemetry from Mars One had the interception course plotted. 
"Affirmative," Jake said, feeling like he had arrived in the middle of a movie. "We will assist."
***
Jake stayed at the terminal as the rescue unfolded in slow motion. Rob still had an hour to match orbits with Astro Princess and dock, and just a nudge from his thrusters would pull them both out of the path of the booster. Some of the Tri-Star crew filtered out, back to the production areas. 
Still, something didn't look right. Mars One had most of its parts, could fly, but a lot of pieces had never been installed or tested out.
"Looks like you got yourself another mission," Jake said. He had the schematics out, and kept checking the telemetry. He worried that something wouldn't work, and unlike wrangling a dozen welding robots, lives hung in the balance.
"This one might have to last me for awhile," Rob said.
Then Jake saw it, right on the schematics. "Rob, confirm your O2 reading."
"You know what I read."
"Rob, you have to come back."
"Negative."
"Rob, you saw it yourself when you went on board. You don't have a auto docking module. You'll never mate with the tourist ship, and you don’t have enough O2 for a return trip."
"I got a mission to last me a lifetime," he said.
"Rob," Jake said. But Holly's screen came up, interrupting him. 
"Jake, what's going on? Rob's changed course."
Mars One veered away from an interception with the tourist ship. "Rob, speak to me," he said, switching channels.
"I knew about the docking module," he said. "But I won't need it to hard dock with the booster. I'll just take it out of harm's way, and the rescue ship can bring the tourists back home."
Jake punched up the orbit of the booster. "Rob, that's an eccentric orbit. You'll never get back in time."
"I know. But I had to do this."
"Rob, you still have the fuel. Turn back now. The booster might not even hit."
"I can't take that chance," he said.
"What about Mars? You could still go to Mars."
"That's a long way off, my friend, even if everything falls into place. To tell you the truth, I just can't wait that long."
Slowly the ship diverged from Astro Princess, toward the booster.
"Getting kind of stuffy in here," Rob said. "Two minutes to rendezvous."
He made a neat hard dock, grappling the front end of the booster on the first try. The two jittered as thrusters stabilized them.
"I'm going to let the autopilot take over from here," he said.
Mars One's main engine fired.
"Mainly," Rob said, his words starting to slur, "I didn't want people to forget. You'll remember me, won't you, Jake?"
"Sure, Rob. No one can forget you."
***
Holly stood watch on the docking hub alone when Jake arrived. Dan and the rest of the contingent from Tri-Star headed over to the observation deck for the memorial service. Freedom had shuttles from every station docked, and an honor guard had come up from Houston. 
Jake floated over to Holly. She closed down her terminal, plucked a data chip from the console.
"Wait," she said. "We have to talk."
Jake anchored himself. "I know this has been hard on you. I liked Rob, too."
"Not that," she said. She held up the data chip. "Telemetry."
"So Rob left before you actually requested assistance. No big deal, he had Mars One ready, so what if he entered the transit lane early?"
Holly ran her hand through her hair. "Not that either."
Jake took her hand, closed her fingers around the chip. He waited.
"The news people keep hounding me, asking for more details. They want to know everything."
"So tell them. Rob would've wanted that."
She opened her hand. "The booster never would have hit the Princess," she said. "I've gone over the numbers again and again. Nothing more than a near miss. Norad's numbers weren't as good as mine."
Jake closed his eyes. "I think he knew. And he would have gone either way." He took the chip from her hand. "NASA contacted Tri-Star this morning. They want us to finish Mars One. I can find a place for this on-board."
Holly kicked away from the console. "We'll let the news guys make up the story," she said. "They'll do a better job."

THE END

Tanya: Princess of the Elves
By Larry Correia
Once upon a time, in the state of Mississippi, there dwelt an elf princess. The princess lived in the Enchanted Forest with her mother, the queen of the elves, in a ninety-foot long aluminum double-wide trailer.  
“I’m bored, Momma,” the princess of the elves whined. She was sitting on the couch and painting her toenails. The princess had been complaining a lot lately. “This is stupid, stupid and boring.”   
Queen Ilrondelia grunted and used the remote to turn up the volume on the TV so she wouldn’t have to listen to her youngest and only daughter. It was an infomercial about some blanket thing with sleeve holes for your hands so you could sit all warm on the couch and still work the remote. The queen decided she needed one of those and wondered if they made it in her size. 
“Tanya! Write down that number,” the queen ordered. “I need one of them snuggly blankets for keeping warm.”
“You ain’t listening. How come you won’t let me do nothing?” Tanya said. 
“You wanna do something? Get that skinny ass offa’ the couch and get a ink pen like I said!” the queen bellowed. 
“Yes, your majesty,” Tanya answered sullenly, got up, and went to the kitchen.
“And fetch me some Ho-Hos while you’s at it…” the queen said, then thought about it. “And some ranch dressin’ for dippin’ sauce.” She returned her attention to the TV. Tanya came back, but as usual, took her sweet time, so the phone number was gone, and the queen would be forced to wait on getting her snuggly blanket with sleeves, but she did bring the box of Ho-Hos and the bottle of ranch dressing like she’d been told.  The queen took the snack and glared disapprovingly at Tanya’s too-small shirt. “Your belly’s stickin’ out.” 
“It’s fashion,” Tanya said. “You’re just jealous.” 
The queen snorted. Fashion. The girl had no sense. Tanya went back to the couch, but one of the cats had taken her spot. Tanya tossed it on the floor and went back to painting her toes. 
The queen forgot about the TV for a minute and concentrated on her kid. She didn’t do that very often. “So… You wanna do something’?” the queen asked. 
Tanya sighed. “Yeah, I do.” 
“So the Enchanted Forest ain’t good ‘nuff no mo?” 
“That ain’t what I meant,” Tanya said. “But elves used to do stuff. You know. Outside.” 
The queen of the elves pondered on that while she unwrapped a Ho-Ho and squirted ranch dressing on it. Her people had a sweet deal. The government paid them good money to stay right here in the Enchanted Forest, but some of the younger elves were getting uppity, talking about adventure. They’d been watching too many movies with fancy movie elves in them. They didn’t realize how good they had it here in the Enchanted Forest. 
The world had moved on. It wasn’t a magic world no more. It was a world of techno-thingies and computing boxes and inter-webs. It wasn’t a world fit for her kind. 
The queen knew her youngest was going to be a problem child since she’d gotten that butterfly tramp-stamp tattooed on her back. Somehow she’d gotten it in her head that she wanted to “see the world” and such nonsense.  She even talked to those damn pixies. Hell, the girl probably didn’t have the smarts not to consort with a filthy orc if left on her own. But since Tanya was the prettiest girl in the trailer park she had all the boys wrapped around her finger. Her crazy talk could cause trouble. Trouble could make it so that the government checks quit coming. 
The government didn’t want people knowing about monsters or magic or the things that lived on the outskirts. Other than shopping at the Walmart, the Elves kept to themselves. All it would take was one dumb youngster to go and pull something stupid in town, and their sweet gig would be up. And with Tanya flouncing around like a cheap pixie, talking to humans, and sneaking out, it was only a matter of time. The princess was a pain in her ass. 
“Tanya, Tanya, Tanya,” the queen said around a mouth full of Ho-Ho, “what am I gonna do wit’ you?” 
Tanya looked up from her toes. “Let me travel. You let other elves go out. You let Elmo and the trackers get work.”
That much was true. She wasn’t above farming out her people for odd jobs, under the table of course, to supplement the government checks. In fact, Harbinger from MHI had called earlier, saying he needed a diviner, and he was willing to pay big bucks for only a few days labor. “So that’s what you’s all spun up on? Cause I’m sendin’ Elmo with that boss Hunter? That’s ‘cause there’re some elves smart enough to do some job, get paid, and get back! You’d just screw it up. You ain’t wise like them yet.”
“I can do magic, too! And I’m educated!” Tanya shouted loud enough to make two cats retreat under the couch. “I got my GED.” 
The queen frowned while she chewed, chins bouncing. She never should have let the girl take that correspondence course. It had made her even more uppity. It was time to put the royal foot down. “I forbids it. You’ll be queen someday, so you need to learn ‘bout how to be a proper type ruler, meanin’ you ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 
Tanya screeched in frustration and stomped off. She slammed the door to her room hard enough to shake the whole trailer. 

It had taken another hour for her momma to fall asleep on her recliner. Tanya waited until the snores were nice, even, and loud before sliding out the window. She’d snuck out many nights before. She knew every bar from here to Tupelo, and had danced on most of them. 
But this time was different. Tanya wasn’t coming back. It was time to make it big. She was sick of the Enchanted Forest, sick of her Queenliness always bossing her around, and bored out of her mind. She was too big for the trailer park, and she was going to show them.  She had a backpack full of clothes, spell fixings, a pocket full of money (mostly stolen), an iPod with every single Eminem song on it, and her dreams. 
She’d heard the legends. Elves used to be beautiful, immortal and magical. The elder Vartinian used to tell the youngsters the stories. Their people had been brave, and had fought mighty wars against the fearsome orcs and the evil fey. It was impossible to imagine her mighty ancestors living in the Enchanted Forest and being happy. She’d heard about other elves across the sea. They had to be cooler than her stupid relatives. She watched a lot of TV. She knew what was out there. 
It had been on one of her weekend scouting trips that she’d finally come to the realization that her destiny lay outside the Enchanted Forest. After hitchhiking to Tupelo, because she’d heard about an awesome kegger, Tanya had come across a magical shrine where a mystical hero had been born. She still wore one of the great one’s holy symbols on a chain around her neck, a solemn reminder that a legend could come from humble beginnings, plus she thought her Elvis Presley medallion looked wicked cool in her cleavage when she wore one of her low-cut tops. 
If a human could go on to become a god, what amazing things could an elf of the royal line accomplish? All sorts of badass stuff, that’s what. But first she needed a ticket out of the Enchanted Forest, and by royal decree, Elves were not allowed out without leave. Sure, the queen looked the other way for Tanya’s sneaking out, as she knew that youngsters needed to blow off steam, but leaving for good would be different. Momma would be sure to send the trackers after her. So she needed to hatch a scheme that would let her go in a way that the queen wouldn’t dare drag her back. 
The getaway plan had been in her head for quite some time. The idea had started a couple years back when she’d watched some Hunters come to bug Momma for information. Tanya had always found humans interesting, especially the cute boys, but most elves hated their cousins because they were squishy, mean-tempered, and short-lived. But they respected the Hunters. The Monster Hunters put boot to ass on a regular basis, and even the snootiest elf in the Enchanted Forest had to admit that they were the real deal, so fearsome that they even owned a tribe of vicious orc barbarians, let free only to eat the babies of their enemies.
There had been a funny looking red-bearded one, a big ugly with a scar face, a black guy with badass dreadlocks, and a blonde girl with attitude, so pretty that she had left Tanya jealous enough to start bleaching her own hair. All of them except for the ugly one had come back the next year, and Tanya had eavesdropped again. These people had adventures and they made serious bank.  They were feared and respected, riding to battle on a flying death-machine driven by their insane orc slaves, and living in a mysterious palace known only as the Compound. Now that was living large.  
Summoning up all her courage, Tanya had confronted the Hunters as they were leaving and had asked what it took to become one of them. They didn’t laugh at her at all. The one with the red beard had seemed a little confused, but had started to give her a serious answer, until Momma had hit her with a well-aimed bunny slipper and ordered her back into the trailer. The slipper had nearly put out her eye, but it was worth it. Just the fact that they hadn’t laughed at her told her that there was no reason an elf couldn’t join up.   
When she’d overheard Momma saying that she was going to assign that idiot Elmo to do a little job for the king of the Hunters, she knew that she’d have to move quick. She was a much better diviner than Elmo was, probably twice as good when he was liquored up, which was most of the time.  
After sneaking out the window, Tanya had hunkered down behind the back of the trailer and waited. Most elves slept in pretty late, so if the Hunters were coming in the morning, then she’d have a good chance of reaching them first. Momma wouldn’t dare send the trackers after her if she was working for the Hunters. Tanya congratulated herself on the brilliance of her plan. 	
It was getting cold, early winter, but she’d worn a nice coat. It was a letterman’s jacket from the Boonville Blue Devils, lifted off a stupid human.  Human boys were even dumber than their elven counterparts, but she did appreciate the muscles on the ones that played football.  Luckily it didn’t take too long for her ride to show up. Even with her earpieces in, she still heard the truck arrive. It was a huge, black pickup truck with a winch on the front and a shell over the back. It had to be the Hunters. This was perfect. Everyone else was asleep. She turned off the 8 Mile soundtrack, grabbed her backpack, and ran over to rap her knuckles against the window.
 	It took a second but the window rolled down and the human behind the wheel gave her a funny look. If she were hitchhiking this was normally when she would have leaned forward so the driver could see down her shirt, but that didn’t seem like the professional thing to do. She had an act to keep up. “Heya,” Tanya said, standing perfectly straight. “You the Hunter?”
“I am,” he said politely, tipping the brim of his ball cap. It had a green happy face on it. If he was an elf he’d have been in his mid-hundreds, but Tanya figured that made him about forty in human years.  Wearing a really old leather jacket, he seemed bulky by elf standards, but probably lean compared to most of the humans she knew. He wasn’t handsome at all, kind of plain with a hard face, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, and eyes that seemed to look right through her. Elves had blue eyes too, but his were the color of ice and just as cold. This was the kind of man who made his living face-punching monsters to death. “I’m here to see the queen.” 	
“She’s probably gonna sleep until about noon,” Tanya answered, thinking quickly. “She went on a real bender last night. I’m talking like a gallon of Thunderbird! She didn’t want to be disturbed. So she sent me to meet you. I’m your diviner.” 	
The Hunter seemed a little surprised. “You’re Elmovarian? The master tracker?” 
“Of course,” she answered proudly, the human hadn’t been expecting a babe. Tanya prided herself on being the hottest of all the elves in the trailer park. “That’s my full elf name. Whenever I work with humans I let them call me Tanya.” 
“I’m Earl Harbinger,” the Hunter said. “Ain’t you a little young?” 
“I’m an elf. I’m older than I look.” Which was true, Tanya had been able to successfully buy beer when she was only fourteen with her fake ID. Momma had always said she was an early bloomer. She was twenty-two now, which was positively ancient by human female standards. “Besides, I’m the best tracker in the Enchanted Forest.” Tanya didn’t hesitate. She went for the gold. This was her ticket out of this dump. “All righty then, we better get going, I’m guessing you’ve got lots of things to murder.” Not wanting to give him time to think about it, she immediately walked around the front of the truck to the passenger side. She held her breath until he unlocked the door. She threw her pack in the back seat and climbed in the front. “Okay, let’s go.” 
The Hunter shrugged and started the engine. “Seatbelt,” he suggested. She complied. Tanya was terribly nervous, but Momma didn’t come lumbering out of the trailer. Nobody raised the alarm. The trackers didn’t come out with their sawed off shotguns and compound bows to massacre the Hunter for kidnapping the royal heir. They crossed the threshold of the Enchanted Forest and then they were free. 
“Where’re we headed?” Tanya asked, eager for adventure. 
“Indiana,” Harbinger answered. 	
The princess of the elves was intrigued. “Ooohh. That sounds exciting.” 
The Monster Hunter just watched the road. “Uh huh.” 

Exszrsd Hgth Frhnzld Wrst was Uzbek Orcish for Stab-Fighting Warrior of Righteous Vindication, but he was just Edward to his friends. And today, Edward had been asked to stay in the van. So he sat in the van, listening to AM talk radio and sharpening his swords.
Outside the van, the Hunters were preparing for battle. They would call when he was needed. Then Edward would kill things, and all would be well. 
His older brother and clan leader, Skippy, had asked him to come along to support their adopted clan on this mission. Clan mother and holy woman, Gretchen, had dreamed a dream that had told her that Edward’s life skill would be needed today to save their friends. All urks were born with a life skill. Edward’s skill consisted of stabbing things, so any day that required Edward’s skill was truly a good day to be an urk. 
Skippy, or Skull Crushing Battle Hand of Fury, as Mom had called him (strange humans, with their insistence on short names), was still busy fixing the MHI helicopter from when the giant tree beast had knocked it out of the New Zealand sky. So the Hunters were going to drive in cars, which were slow, lumbering contraptions compared to his brother’s helicopter. So when the Hunters had assembled to leave on their latest quest, Edward had just showed up with a bag full of stabbing and slashing implements and tossed it into the back of the van, which had created an awkward situation. The Hunters had gently tried to turn him away. 
That had never happened before and their actions had confused Edward. The Hunters always seemed to love when Edward stabbed things for them. Oh no, they assured him. They loved Edward, but they had warned him, this mission required the presence of an elf. 
So that’s why the Hunters didn’t want him. Elves were disgusting, foul, loathsome creatures. As tuskless as a human, but way more uppity about it. Elves and orcs had been at war since the beginning of the world. Edward would rather eat his own sword than have to put up with an elf, but Gretchen had been adamant that Edward needed to be present today or the Hunters would get in trouble. So when he’d still insisted on going, they’d made him promise to stay in the van out of sight. Harb Anger was sleeping in from being a werewolf, so they’d have him pick up the elf. 	
So Edward kept out of sight, carefully running a whetstone down his sword while listening to Rush Limbaugh on the radio. Edward did not understand human ways, but he loved their talk radio and news programs almost as much as he loved their heavy metal. When he was not practicing his stab-killing, Edward watched the news. Owen Zastava Pitt, Brother of the Great War Chief, had laughed and proclaimed that Edward was a “Fox news-junkie”. Edward was pleased with this title, for he did love the human news channel, and not just because foxes were the most delicious of all mammals, which was the whole reason he’d started watching that particular channel in the first place. Anything named after the favorite animal to hunt with his bare hands was okay by him.  

Tanya managed to fall asleep on the drive. At first she had only been pretending, snoring theatrically because the less she talked to Harbinger the longer it would take for him to figure out that he’d picked up the wrong elf. Sure, she figured she was an amazingly good diviner, being of the royal line and all, but she’d never actually done anything with magic outside of the Enchanted Forest. She wasn’t worried though. How hard could it be?
She woke up when Harbinger pulled into a gas station. The sun was high and annoyingly bright. She’d been out for hours. Blinking, she stumbled out of the truck and headed for the convenience store. Before leaving the bathroom, she reapplied her makeup and fixed her hair in front of the mirror, because she wanted to make a good impression on her new co-workers. Then she flirted with the cashier, shoplifted a couple bags of Corn Nuts, and left. When she got back, Harbinger was waiting.
“You forgot to pay for those.”
“Oh, my bad!” Tanya exclaimed. “I must’ve been sleep walking still.” She hurried back in and paid for breakfast with actual money. The boss Hunter sure didn’t miss much. She was going to have to play her cards real careful with him. 
Harbinger started talking as soon as they got back on the highway. “We got the tip yesterday. Some locals were tearing down an old factory and must have uncovered it inside. Some of the workers got killed. Local sheriff investigated, and he had some dealings with MHI a long time ago, so when they found the anomaly, they knew who to call.”
Anomaly? That sure did sound all sorts of sciencey. Tanya figured that a real smart professional-type elf would ask all the right questions, but not the stupid questions that would make them sound like they really didn't know what they were doing. “What’re we dealing with?” That seemed like a happy medium.
“The creatures haven’t been identified yet, but it sounds like they’re coming out of a pocket dimension. That’s why I called your queen and asked for a diviner.” 
“Pocket dimension…” She racked her brain and drew a blank. “Yeah, I get those all the time.” 
Harbinger scowled. He seemed to make that face a lot. “I’ve only come across four in my entire life and I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
Tanya felt a momentary stab of panic. “Well, all the time, relatively speaking.” Good. That sounded vague. She tried to change the subject. “What kind of monsters do you think they are?”
“The closest teams were already booked, so my guys didn’t get there until earlier today, but now that I’ve got Hunters on site, hopefully by the time we get there they’ll have figured it out. We’ll play it by ear. If the monsters are a pain to deal with, that’s where you come in. You can find the anchor and just break the tether.”
That was a whole bunch of words that apparently didn’t mean what she thought they meant. “No problemo,” Tanya answered, not really sure what he expected her to do. 
Harbinger didn't seem too talkative after that. Tanya still couldn’t remember anything about pocket dimensions, anchors, or tethers, so she pulled out her cell phone.  It was a desperate gamble, but Tanya was an elf of decisive action. “Gotta check in… Queen’s orders.”

 	Ilrondelia, Queen of the Elves, stabbed listlessly at her bowl of cornflakes and bacon. Tanya had been nowhere to be found. Fool girl had probably run off, screwin’ around again, so she’d been forced to call for one of her other subjects to make breakfast. Elmo was the elves’ best tracker, and he had just been waiting around for the Hunters to give him a ride anyways, so she’d drafted him to cook her bacon. It was all soggy. Proper bacon stayed crispy in milk. 
Elmo was a mighty fine tracker, but terrible cook. It wasn’t like Harbinger to be late, so she’d ordered Elmo to vacuum the royal trailer instead of just standing around. The cat hair kept plugging up the vacuum, so it was taking him awhile and the noise was making it hard to watch TV.
Suddenly, the vacuum stopped.  The queen looked up from her soaps to see what the matter was. “You ain’t done. That carpet don’t look clean to me!”
“Sorry, majesty,” he answered blearily as he fumbled around in his pockets. As usual, Elmo was hung-over. “It’s my phone.”
The queen didn’t like those fancy cellular phones, too much communicating wasn’t good for an elf, but she’d bought a few of the prepaid ones at the 7-11 for the elves that had to take care of important outside business. The royal family had all got some too, because royalty always got the good stuff. “Well, answer it!” It might be Harbinger, and she didn't want to miss out on any of that nice, under-the-table, MHI cash.
“Oh… it’s a text.” Elmo squinted his little beady eyes. The queen was actually surprised that Elmo could read. She hadn’t known that about him. Literacy made her suspicious. Elmo started typing with his thumbs, all slow and fumbly, especially when the texter had the shakes. The queen thought that texting was a particularly stupid way to talk. “Well, ain’t that funny?” he said.
“What’s funny?” 
“Tanya’s gettin’ serious about studyin’ our ways.” Elmo wiped his nose on the back of his hand and dropped his phone back in his coveralls. “Usually that girl’s got her head in the clouds.”
“Studyin’? She should’a been cookin’ my bacon,” the queen said. She went back to her soaps. She’d punish the heir when she got back from… wherever she was. “Hey, where’s Tanya at anyways?”
Elmo shrugged. “She didn’t say. She wanted to know what a human would call a pocket dee-mention. I told her it’s just human talk for an eskarthi-dor.” 
That was the old Elvish word for a portal world. Why in the world would Tanya care about one of those? “Gimmie that thingy,” the Queen growled. Elmo handed the phone over. Grumbling, she tried to dial the number, but her fingers were too chubby. “Damn it! Call that fool girl back.” 

Once she knew that what the Hunters were interested in was an eskarthi-dor, her confidence had grown. She’d never actually seen one, but Varty the Elder had taught the young elves about such things before he’d gone on to the Great Trailer Park in the Sky. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Tanya jumped when her phone rang, but it was only Elmo calling her back. She’d downloaded the ringtone of pig’s squealing for Elmo, but right then she was wishing she’d downloaded something more professional sounding. She looked over at Harbinger. “Gotta take this. Important elf business.” 
He didn’t so much as take his eyes off the road. “Obviously.” 
“Hel—”
“Tanya! You fool girl! I’m gonna wring your scrawny ne—“ Tanya had to hold the phone away from her pointy ear. Mom? The Queen had a set of lungs, and when she got to yelling, you could hear her clear over in Corinth. Tanya covered the phone and looked over at Harbinger, but he seemed oblivious to the monarch’s fury.  “—idiot had to cook my bacon!” 	
She had to think fast. There was no way she was going back to the Enchanted Forest. If she didn’t become an official Monster Hunter on this trip, she was screwed. “Why, yes. Everything is just great here.” 
“Huh? Get your fool ass back here befo—”
“Yes. Right away.” 
“Why you talkin’ all funny?” 
“Everything is fine here,” Tanya said. Harbinger had no idea; he was just smoking and flicking the ashes out the window. Her plan was working perfectly; she might as well use the opportunity to build her street cred. She raised her voice so Harbinger could hear her over the wind. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle that huge infestation of horrible monsters as soon as I get back. Yes. I will be sure to tell them that I am the greatest tracker the Enchanted Forest has ever seen. Thank you.”
“Tanya? You been huffin’ paint?” 
“Thank you. Bye bye.” Tanya closed the phone and checked Harbinger’s reaction. The Hunter was clueless. Yes!  She shut her phone off to avoid getting anymore unwanted calls. “Sorry about that, Mr. Harbinger.”	
“More important elf business?”
“Of course. I’m super important.”

The queen stared at the phone in her hand. Something was wrong. Tanya had been talking all sorts of weird, and she hadn’t even sounded drunk. She mashed redial.
“Hi, this is Tanya!”
“Girl, you better—”
“Ha! Gotcha! Leave a message!” BEEP.
Something was terribly wrong.
“Your majesty?” Elmo asked.
“The heir... I think she’s been kidnapped!” Somehow a mother just knew these things. This was awful. Horrible! Unthinkable! Someone had taken the heir. “Somebody done stole Tanya!”

Indiana wasn’t any more interesting than Mississippi, which was kind of sad if you thought about it. They had arrived in a small town and a police car had been waiting for them at one intersection. The police car had got in front and led them to an old, abandoned factory on the outskirts. There were a bunch of Hunters just kind of chilling, looking all sorts of cool with their fancy armor and guns, just hanging around outside the crumbling old building, but Harbinger had called them a “perimeter” which Tanya filed away as an important sounding term for hanging out. 
Harbinger got out and immediately started asking questions, getting answers, and giving orders. This was a man used to being in charge, but not all blustery and yelling like the queen. He didn’t need to hit anybody with a thrown shoe. They just did what they were told without arguing because they automatically knew that Harbinger was right. Since Tanya was going to be queen someday herself--if she didn’t get disowned for this stunt--she filed that information away. Being all sorts of smart got you more respect than a well aimed bunny slipper.
“Anybody know what we’re dealing with yet?”
“Witnesses couldn’t tell. The only thing we could get from them was that it gave everyone headaches that got close to it. Tracks say quadruped with big claws, probably seven or eight hundred pounds. Lee’s cross referencing the files on that.” It was a girl with dark hair and glasses that answered. “Local police have the place surrounded, but nothing’s moved since we got here. We’ve got another problem, though. Timeline just sped up.”
“Status?”
“Possible hostages. Two children, male, five and seven, were reported as missing yesterday. They were last seen playing around here. We just found kid size footprints, but the tracks lead up to the gate and disappear. I think they’re on the other side.”
“That complicates matters,” Harbinger muttered. “I was hoping we could just blow everything up and collect the parts. Looks like we’re going in.” 
A group of Hunters formed a circle around them. Tanya recognized some of them. Harbinger rattled off introductions, but Tanya was so overwhelmed with all the bustle and excitement that she remembered them as Dreadlocks, Blondie, Red Beard, Glasses Girl, Limpy, and the Big Ugly One. When he was done, Harbinger turned to her. “This is Elmovarian, master diviner of the Enchanted Forest.”
Red Beard looked confused. “Aren’t you the princess? Toni? Tawny? Something?” 
“Tanya.” Harbinger looked right through her. “What do you mean, princess?”
“What? No… Me? That’s crazy talk.” Tanya hadn’t thought through the idea that some of the Hunters might recognize her. Curse her amazing and unforgettable beauty! “You’re thinking of the other Tanya.” 
“No. I remember you, too,” said Dreadlocks. “Your mom hit you in the face with a bunny slipper for asking how to join MHI.” 
“Looked like it hurt,” said Blondie. 
Harbinger didn’t seem happy. “Well, that explains some things.” 
“No… I…” Busted. All of the Hunters were scowling at her now. Scowling was like a default setting on these humans. “Crap. Okay, whatever. Yeah, I’m the princess. So? I’m a way super good diviner.”
“Sure you are,” Harbinger said. “I’m going to have some words with the queen once I take you home. I can’t believe she tried to rip me off. I should have hired a gnome.”
“No, you can’t tell the queen. She doesn’t know I ran away. I’m here on my own. This is like my dream. I want to be a Monster Hunter.”
Blondie whistled. “The queen is going to be pissed.” 
All of her carefully laid plans were falling apart. “But, I can totally help!” 
“It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re going in after those kids. You’re going to sit your ass in that van and not move until we come out.”
“She can’t go in the van, Earl…” Big Ugly noted. “We’ve got a you know what in the van, and I don’t really know if he’d do very good at the whole rescue thing. He recognizes Hunters okay, but he says that other humans kind of all look the same to him.”  
“He does love decapitating folks.” Harbinger sighed. “Okay, leave Edward in the van. Can’t have her royal highness getting sliced and diced.”
“What’s an Edward?” 
“An Edward is somebody you don’t want to mess with, and he really doesn’t like elves,” Harbinger stated. “Now go sit in the truck and eat your stolen Corn Nuts. I don’t have time for your nonsense.” 
“I’m not afraid of no Edwards.”
Harbinger stopped, obviously frustrated. “Edward is an orc.” Tanya’s mouth fell open in shock. She looked fearfully at the van. “You give me any more lip and I’ll tell him to baby sit you… Corn Nuts. Now.”
Tanya ran for the truck. 

Tanya was really freaking out. Momma was going to murder her. The Hunters were so mad that now she’d never get a job. She couldn’t even show how great she was by breaking the bonds that held the eskarthi-dor to the world so it could float away, because there were some stupid human kids inside of it. She still had one last chance. She could try to talk her way out of this, but though that usually worked with Momma, she really didn’t think it would work on somebody like Harbinger. Even though it was a long drive back, and normally her whining could wear down anyone, she had a feeling that would probably just make Harbinger angrier, and if he got too angry he’d probably feed her to MHI’s pet orc.
The worst part was that it was taking forever. 
The Hunters had gone inside the old factory an hour ago. There hadn’t been a noise out of the place since then. They’d left two Hunters on the outside: Blondie and the one with the bum leg had gone inside the factory with some bazookas and a radio. They were probably there just in case something went wrong in the eskarthi-dor.   
There was a big radio in Harbinger’s truck. She wondered if she could listen in to see what was going on. It beat being bored. She flipped it on, and luckily she didn’t even need to fiddle with the knobs. It was already tuned in to the Hunter’s frequency. 
“—say again, over.” That sounded like Blondie. 
“—messing with our heads—“ The other side had a lot of static. “Can’t proceed… --ve to fall back… --the trail out now.”	
That didn’t sound good. That sounded like they were running. She didn’t think that Hunters ran from anything.
“This is Holly. Did you find those kids?”
“Negative. Had to retreat.” The other girl was talking. 
“This is Lee.” Tanya hadn’t heard Limpy talk before, but from the lack of static she assumed it was one of the Hunters that had stayed Earth-side. “I think I’ve found our creatures. Something called a mind colossus fits the description. Rare and dangerous. You need to get the hell out of there.” 
“—rking on it.” There were a series of pops that Tanya had to assume were gunshots. 
“They’re telepathic.” Lee sounded really nervous. “They can cause hallucinations, confusion, even insanity.”
“Can we block it?” 
“No known way. There’s a note here that they only affect humans. Earl?”
Harbinger stopped shooting long enough to talk on the radio. “No dice. My head feels like it’s gonna explode, same as everybody else. Looks like I’m human enough.”
I’m not human at all.
Tanya pulled out her cell phone and turned it back on. She had to wait a minute for the phone to power back up and find a signal. She found MOMMA on her address book. The queen was probably going to be asleep or too lazy to get up to answer the phone, but she had to try. Surprisingly, she picked up on the first ring.
Momma sounded even more breathless than usual. “Tanya! Where you at, girl?”
“No time to talk. This is important. Real quick, what’s a mind colossus?”
“Huh? A what? Have you been stolen?”
“No, but I need to know if a mind colossus can hurt an elf brain or not.” 
Momma sputtered. “Why you need to know something like that for?”
“Because there’s one here right now and I need to know if it’s gonna fry my brain or not is why, jeez. Quit being so nosy.” 
Momma screamed at somebody in the background. “Tanya’s been kidnapped by fey! Drive faster!” 
Momma had left the trailer park? That was impossible. “Wait, where are you?”
“I’m coming to save ya, baby!” 
Oh shit. The queen never left the Enchanted Forest except to go to Walmart, and Indiana was a whole lot farther away than Walmart. She was in so much trouble. “Uh… Okay… Cool. Now on the monster thingy, does it hurt elf brains?”
“They’re called blargs. Fey bred them to hunt humans long time back for some war. Shouldn’t hurt no elf brains, but they got claws like nobody’s business, rip you right up.” 
The Hunters were in danger. There were stupid but innocent human kids in need of rescuing. The blarg wouldn’t be able to use its magic on her, but it could still hurt her. She needed wisdom. Tanya pulled her Elvis Presley medallion, set it spinning, watched the sparkles, and asked herself, what would the King do? 
That was easy. He’d kick some fey ass, show MHI that he was cool, be the best elf ever, and never have to live in the stupid trailer park again. So that’s what she’d do, too. 
She curled her fingers around the holy symbol and made a fist. “A little less conversation, a lot more action.”
Momma was confused. “Huh?”
“Nothing, Momma…” She didn’t know much about fighting monsters. She could probably borrow a Hunter’s gun, since like all elves she could shoot good enough to poach deer, but beyond that she was pretty much clueless. The meanest thing she’d ever tangled with had been a raccoon that had somehow gotten into the trailer, and even though it had put up an epic fight before she’d brained it with a frying pan, this would probably be much harder. She would probably need some muscle for this… That thought gave her an idea, even though the idea was frankly terrifying. “Can a blarg hurt an orc brain?” 

Edward was listening to both radios at the same time, Sean Hannity on one, his adopted tribe of Monster Hunters on the other, and it sounded like it was time to fulfill Gretchen’s latest prophecy. Edward did not know what a mind colossus was, nor did he particularly care. It would either be something he could kill or it would kill him. Either way, it would be a glorious day to be an urk.
He carefully placed the leather straps over his shoulders and cinched the buckles tight. The scabbards rattled as he adjusted them to make sure his swords were perfectly placed. He was carrying two short urkish swords on his back, two curved daggers and six small throwing knives on his belt, a push dagger hanging from a cord around his neck, four folding knives in various pockets, and a Swiss Army knife that Trip Jones had given him for his birthday. Edward had no use for that one, but found the corkscrew and scissors fascinating. The thing they were talking about on the radio sounded big, so Edward took the mighty two-handed war ax out of his bag and pulled the leather hood off its giant razor head. He chuckled approvingly. This would be fun.
Edward never used guns, though he’d tried. He had nothing against them, but his gifts for bladed combat just did not extend to human guns, which were all complicated and noisy. It was kind of like how Skippy could fly a helicopter but couldn’t drive a car without crashing. Basically Edward was a terrible shot. 
There was a knock on the back door of the van. There were many humans present not worthy to witness urk perfection, so Edward reached for his mask and goggles. He didn’t get to them in time before the door was flung open.
It was a girl. She saw his face and screamed. He saw her pointy ears and bellowed in surprise.
The elf regained her composure first. “Orc! Your Hunter masters need you. I summon you to battle!” Confused, Edward lifted his ax and pointed at himself, then at her. “No!” the elf shrieked. “Not me! The monster. Go battle the monster!” 
His first inclination was to just lop off her peroxide-colored head. The clan ancestors had always taught that the only good elf was a dead elf (and also, coincidently, that dead elves made great holiday decorations), but Edward hesitated, because he did not want to upset the Harb Anger. Edward had never actually seen an elf before. He didn't know if any of his clan had. This one was kind of scrawny. Not very impressive at all, really. 
“Come on, what are you waiting for?” She moved her hands about like she was trying to shoo him out of the van. “You guys are supposed to go berserk with blood lust. You call that berserk? You’re just sitting there. Are you going to go into a killing frenzy or not?”
That was the idea before you showed up. He put on his mask and reluctantly got out of the van. He didn’t talk much to non-urks because his English was rough, and Skippy was the one that was smooth and good with human words, but he tried anyway.  “Me… Edward.” 
“That’s more like it. Okay, cool. Now let’s go kick that blarg’s ass. I’m Tanya.” 
This was certainly awkward. Gnrwlz, god of war, commanded that he should kill all elves, but the Harb Anger would want him to be polite, and that meant no decapitations. Tanya was making this complicated, but at least she hadn’t tried to steal his soul with her foul elf magic. If he was lucky, the monster would eat her first, then he could kill the monster. Everybody would be happy. It would be like killing two foxes with one swing. 

Talking to the insane orc barbarian killer had been the hardest single thing Tanya had ever done in her life. By some miracle, he hadn’t immediately cut her ears off for his elf ear necklace that Momma had taught all orcs had, so she was calling it a win. Maybe if she got lucky, the monster would get mortally wounded, then kill the orc. That would sure simplify matters. 
She led the way into the old factory. The place was rusty, falling apart, with puddles of water standing on the concrete floor. There were huge holes in the roof that beams of sunlight streamed through. Big human machines were slowly melting back into the ground. Except for the blarg that had been hidden underneath this place forever, the only other residents seemed to be pigeons. 
They found the Hunters at the far end of the building. A brick wall had been broken down recently, and behind it was a plain old door. The Hunters were gathered around that door and pointing guns in its direction so it was obvious where the problem was. Most of the Hunters were out of breath and dripping sweat, which was odd since it was really chilly in the shade of the old factory’s walls. The ones that had been on the other side all looked like they were fighting an Elmo-sized hangover and rubbing their temples. 
Tanya gathered up her courage. “Okay. Y’all can relax. Me and the orc have got this one. That there’s a blarg nest. Its magic will screw humans up, but it can’t hurt elves or orcs.” 
Harbinger glanced her way. “You’ve got to be shitting me… Edward?”
She looked to the orc. Edward just shrugged, as if to say, I guess. At least the horrific barbarian lunatic had her back. She smiled at Harbinger. “See? Told ya so.”
“Those kids are still alive, Earl,” the girl with glasses said. “But if she could get them out, then we can blow this place to pieces.” 
 “No way. It’s too dangerous, princess. I’m not going to have the queen yelling at me because you got stupid,” Harbinger said with finality. Tanya gritted her teeth and suppressed the scream of rage. She was not used to being told no. Harbinger then addressed the orc. “On the other hand, Ed, you think you can get those kids out?” 
The orc’s voice sounded like a clothes dryer filled with rocks. “Yes…”
“All right. Remember the little pink fleshy ones are the children. Don’t hurt them. The big green fucker? It you can kill. Got it?” The orc just grunted and patted the head of his giant ax tenderly. “That’ll do. About two hundred yards straight ahead you’ll find a clearing. Owen, open the door.” 
Big Ugly lifted an enormous gun with one hand and grabbed the doorknob with the other. Everybody else aimed their guns too. Big Ugly nodded at Edward then jerked the door open. Tanya gasped. According to where they were inside the building, the door should have opened into a space about the size of a broom closet. Instead she was looking at a vast, dark, scary forest. But the trees were all bulgy, with big vines hanging off them, and something was screeching like a monkey in the background. It was like looking at a Travel Channel show about jungles, only it was in a bricked off broom closet in Indiana.
Red Beard was standing next to her. “No matter how long I do this,” he said, “There’s always something new and freaky.” 
“Clear!” shouted glasses girl as she peered into the jungle through a rifle scope. “Go get them, Ed.” 
Edward was undeterred by the sight of the mysterious jungle. Clenching his ax, he walked toward the doorway. That was one brave orc, or maybe orcs were just too dumb to understand fear, but either way Edward was about to go be a hero and Tanya was going to live the rest of her life in the trailer park. 
She had to do something, and do it quick. Glancing around, she noticed a bunch of equipment cases that the Hunters had brought in. On top of one was a big bolt action rifle. It didn’t look too different from the one that Elder Varty had taught her to shoot squirrels with for dinner. The rifle had a leather sling with loops filled with giant bullets. It was her only chance.
“What would Elvis Presley do?” Tanya whispered.
Red Beard had heard her. “Probably a lot of drugs? Why?”
Edward was walking into the jungle. He disappeared behind some big round leaves. The Hunters were covering him. Tanya snatched up the rifle, which was much heavier than it looked, and she ran after the orc as fast as she could. It was probably better that way because she didn’t have time to think about how stupid it was to randomly cross into another dimension.	
“What? Wait! Grab her!” Harbinger shouted, but it was too late. Big Ugly reached for her and snagged one sleeve of her letterman’s jacket, but elves are way quicker than humans so Tanya just shrugged out of the coat, caught the rifle, and just kept on running. Big Ugly made it a few steps after her before the blarg’s magic hit him in the brain like a hammer and he went to his knees with a shout.  
Harbinger was yelling after her but Tanya just pushed her way through the vines and kept going. It really wasn’t much worse than kudzu once she got into it, and elves were very light on their feet. Even if it wasn’t for the telepathic mind attacks there was no way a big lumbering human would be able to catch up to her. 
I did it! She stopped to catch her breath. There was no sound of pursuit. She’d lost them!  Then Tanya looked around, realized she could only see a few feet in each direction, that there was a giant fey creature somewhere ahead, and thought that she might have maybe bit off more than she could chew this time. 
She screamed when something black materialized right in front of her. She raised the big rifle, but the black shape caught the barrel in one hand. Tanya breathed again when she realized it was Edward. The orc leaned in and put one finger to his mask and made a shhhh noise.
“Don’t you shush me,” Tanya whispered. “I know what I’m doing.”  
ROOOAAAARRRRR.
Tanya almost leapt out of her skin at the sound of the blarg. She hoisted the rifle and mashed the butt against her shoulder, but nothing came out of the trees to eat her. “That sounded huge!” she hissed. Edward held out his hands as far apart as they would go, like a fisherman talking about the biggest catch ever. “Yeah. That is big.” 
The orc jerked his head. This way. He was even quicker through the vines than an elf, and Tanya struggled to keep up. It was really hot inside the jungle dimension, and within minutes Tanya’s shirt was sticking to her. Up ahead, there was a clearing, just like Glasses Girl had said there would be.  
What Glasses Girl, or any of the other Hunters for that matter, couldn’t have known was that the clearing was also the center anchor point for the entire eskarthi-dor. Tanya could see it, though, clear as day. This place was ancient, not like human ancient, but really ancient, like when the fey used to hunt humans for sport. This bubble was a leftover from those days, and apparently this blarg had been stuck here the whole time. No wonder it was so damn cranky.
The monster was stomping back and forth, angry as Momma after the time the pixies stole her credit card number and racked up all those long distance phone bills. However this monster was bigger than Momma, which was really saying something. It looked like a muscular human on the top half, but at the waist it turned into a giant lizard with four big lizard legs and a long whipping tail. It was bright green with black spots. The head was human shaped, but it was hard to tell with all those other brains growing out of it. Momma said that the fey loved to stick different critters together, and it turned out they were just as gross in person as Momma had made them sound. 
The blarg saw her and turned. She could feel the old magic pouring off that pile of pulsing green brains, but they had been designed to mess up humans, not her kind. No wonder the Hunters had been hurting. This thing really packed a wallop. When its magic didn’t floor her, the blarg charged. Tanya hadn’t even realized that she had raised the rifle. The sights were wobbling like crazy. Her arms were shaking because the gun was so heavy. She pulled the trigger but nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing. She screamed in frustration as the monster galloped toward her. Tanya turned to run, but it was too late. 
The monster was too fast. One lizard leg swatted her. She hit the ground hard and lay there, wondering about all the bright lights going off inside her head. Her life flashed before her eyes, but it was a pretty boring life, with the highlights being keggers, a few concerts, and that one time cousin Buford had built a potato cannon and they wound up shooting frogs out of it to watch them hit the side of the overpass. She’d never been a Hunter. She’d never done anything like the adventurous elves of old. She was going to die, and she’d never accomplished anything. Blinking her way back to consciousness, she saw a giant claw descending toward her throat, and she screamed her pretty little head off.
But the claw came off in a flash and went flying into the jungle. Bright orange blood poured out of the stump and splattered Tanya in the face. “Gross!” 
The orc came out of nowhere, swinging that giant ax like it weighed nothing. Edward had saved her life! The blarg reared back, slashing at him, but he dodged the attack and planted his ax square in the monster’s soft underbelly. It fell over and Edward lost the ax, but that didn’t stop him. Two swords zipped out faster than Momma’s switchblade and it was a whirl of silver and black as Edward went to town.
Tanya watched in awe. Edward moved like a kung-fu movie on fast forward. The monster had to be five times his size, but the orc didn’t seem to care. He was positively nonchalant, and he took it apart, piece by piece. It was raining fluorescent orange blood and Edward was as cool as a cucumber. He was as cold as ice. He was as cool as Elvis.
But even as quick as Edward was, that was a whole lot of monster, and it finally managed to tag him with one of its human sized hands. His clothes ripped, knives went flying, and Edward was sent rolling across the dirt to end up by her sneakers. The blarg roared, one of its brains hanging off and dripping goop, and it came right at them.
This time it was Tanya’s turn to save the day. She rolled over, scooped up the rifle, sort of aimed it, and pulled the trigger. Sadly, there was still no boom. “Stupid piece of—“ Edward reached over and flipped the rifle’s safety lever to fire for her. “Oh… thanks.”
This time when she pulled the trigger, the gun went off with the loudest BOOM she’d ever heard. It kicked her shoulder like a horse on steroids. She squealed and dropped the rifle. “Son of a bitch! That hurt!” But she’d hit the monster! The blarg made it a few more feet before it toppled over. She’d blown half its head off, and judging from the mess, the outside brains just did the magic, the inside brains worked just like everything else. And since those brains were sprayed all over the clearing…
“Yay! I'm a Monster Hunter!” Edward gave her a thumbs up. She got to her feet, rubbing her tender shoulder, and picked up the rifle. It had .416 Rigby engraved on the side. Whatever that was, it sure did pack a punch.  
Edward got to his feet and pulled off the shredded remains of his shirt. There was a big bloody scratch on his side and he used the rags to apply pressure. “Dayum…” Tanya couldn’t help but stare, because Edward was seriously the most buffed thing she’d ever seen. He made her favorite football players look like dainty ballerinas. He didn’t just have a six pack abs, his six pack had six packs. Edward may have been an odd grayish-green color, but homeboy was chiseled. He went over to the blarg, yanked his ax out of its stinky guts, and caught her looking. Edward didn't so much as bat an eye. He was all like, This? Whatever. Or at least that’s what she figured he would have said, if he’d bothered to talk. 
Damn. He was cool.
She snapped out of his orcish spell, darn all those distracting muscles, and got back to Monster Hunting business. They had to rescue those human brats. Edward must have thought the same thing, since he’d already spotted the hole they were being kept in. The kids were alive and whining, probably being kept around for a snack later, and Edward begun pulling them out.
Tanya looked around. She could feel the impressive magic here and it was really too bad that she hadn’t been able to use her skills. She could totally have wrecked this place. That would have impressed Harbinger even more than her blowing some stupid blarg’s head off. 
There was a sudden rumble. “What was that?” she asked.
Edward was dragging the kids along behind. He stopped and listened, then he lifted the ax. “More… for fight…” The sounds were coming from all around them now. The ground shifted under her feet and Tanya had to step back as the sleeping blarg buried beneath awoke. Mounds of dirt were shifting all over the clearing. There were dozens of them. She fumbled with the bolt handle until she managed to reload the elephant rifle.  
“He he he…” Edward had a very unnerving laugh. “Pinheads.” He actually sounded excited. 
They could never make it through that many monsters. Green claws burst from the soil. She was going to have to use her magic to try to break the pocket dimension. This whole place was going to fall apart when she did that. She was terrified, but she needed to think of something sufficiently badass to say like a Monster Hunter totally should… She couldn’t think of anything, though. In her defense it was her first day on the job.    

Edward had a human child bouncing under each arm. He’d left his ax buried in one monster’s head, left one sword in a monster’s belly, broke the other over a monster’s head, and had managed to run through most of his knives. If he’d known there were going to be that many monsters he would have brought more than seventeen weapons. 
The door was just ahead. The elf girl was running along behind. She kept shooting the big gun. She was also not a very good shot, but at least she was making lots of noise. Battle was always better with lots of noise. Her war cries were too high pitched though. If she was going to be a proper warrior, she was going to have to work on that.
Edward was torn. The elf hadn’t died, and strangely enough, that made him happy… But then again, he hadn’t liked humans much either until MHI had adopted his clan. She hadn’t even tried to steal his soul once, and she’d saved his life by shooting a few monsters. Gnrwlz was probably displeased, but Edward had killed many monsters today, so they were even.
The door was open and sunlight was coming through. Which was good, because the little world full of monsters was coming apart and with all the trees falling down, he might not have found his way. Harb Anger, Brother of Great War Chief, and Trip Jones were in the doorway shouting for him. There was a scream from the elf, though this one was not a battle cry, and Edward turned to see that a monster had caught her by the foot and was dragging her away.
Sadness. Edward had started liking the elf. Edward reached the door and shoved the human children at the Hunters. You know what? Edward decided that maybe he did like that elf just enough to not let her get eaten. Gnrwlz could suck it. Edward would save her, too. He turned and ran back through the shifting dirt and collapsing trees. He was out of proper urk weapons, but he still had something stabby, and that would do.
Edward leapt over Tanya, landed on the monster’s wide lizard back, and scrambled up to its globular head. He drove Trip Jones’ Swiss Army corkscrew deep into the monster’s head, twisted it in, then ripped out a plug of skull. The monster gurgled and fell, making the Swiss Army knife one of the best presents ever. Edward jumped off, scooped up Tanya in his arms and ran for the doorway as the world around him collapsed into oblivion. 

“I like her,” Red Beard, or Milo it turned out he was called, was saying. “She’s certainly energetic.”
“Crazy is more like it. Not that that’s necessarily a resume killer with this outfit,” Harbinger answered. “Skippy’s people won’t like it.”
“Ed said he’d vouch for her,” Milo pointed out. 
Harbinger shook his head. “Hell… Trip hired a troll. How much worse could this be? Oh, look, pretty-pretty princess has decided to join us.” 
Tanya woke up in the arms of an orc barbarian. Now that would have really freaked Momma out… Orcs were like the ultimate bad boys, and there was something kind of exciting about that. She was on the ground and he was kneeling next to her. Edward’s goggled head was tilted to the side, like he was saying, I got you, baby. Don’t worry. I’m here. Or maybe not. It was kind of hard to tell. When Edward saw that she was conscious he unceremoniously dropped her and wandered off.
“I got a headache,” Tanya said. The last time she’d felt this way was when she’d got into Elmo’s moonshine. “So, how was that? Pretty awesome, huh?” 
Harbinger sat down on the edge of an old piece of machinery and lit a cigarette. He took his time responding. “Not bad. Edward said you did okay. Were you actually telling the truth for once when you said your dream was to be a Hunter?” 
“It is. It really is, I swear. I’ll work hard. I want to be like you guys. I want to be somebody,” Tanya cried. “I’ll be the best Hunter you’ve ever seen.” 
Harbinger sighed. “I may regret this…” He took out a business card and wrote on the back of it. “This is the next Newbie class. And just because you’re royalty doesn’t mean you get any special treatment. Lie to me again and you’re toast. Got it?”
“Serious? I can be a Hunter?” Tanya started to tear up. “I can’t believe this. I’ve still gotta tell Momma.” 
Harbinger looked to the opposite end of the factory. “And speaking of which…”
“Tanya!” The whole factory shook from the power of the queen’s voice and the thunder of her slippers. “Tanyalthus Enderminon! I’m gonna wring your scrawny neck! Comin’ all the way up here, thinkin’ you been kidnap stolen, and you done run off playin’ Hunter!” Momma was huffing and red faced. This was the most exercise she’d gotten in a really long time. “Sorry bout this,” she told Harbinger.  
“It’s fine. In fact, I’d be interested in hiring Tanya for some other work.” 
“Really?” she asked suspiciously. “Pay good?” 
“Real good. I’ll be in touch.” 
“Better be good. You pay extra for the royal line!” The queen came over and grabbed Tanya by the end of one pointy ear and hauled her up. “We’re gettin’ you home right now, young lady!” 
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Okay! I’m coming!” Despite the aches and pains, being in torn and filthy clothing, and the embarrassment of being dragged by the ear, Tanya was happy as could be. She was going to be a Hunter. She still needed to talk Momma into it, but scary as Momma was, she was no monster. Elvis had smiled on her. 
“You’s in so much trouble.” Momma dragged her out to the old Buick station wagon in the parking lot. Elmo and several other elves were sitting in the car, giving the evil eye to Edward, who had wandered back to the van. It was an uneasy truce, only because of the presence of the Hunters.   
“Hang on a sec.” Tanya broke out of Momma’s grasp and ran over to Edward. The elves gasped, but they didn't dare make a move. Edward tilted his head to the side, confused. There was a notebook in the back of the van. Tanya grabbed a pen, wrote on the paper, then tore it out and handed it over to Edward. 
“TAAANYAAAA!” the queen of the Elves screeched.
Edward looked at the phone number and scratched his head. 
“Coming, Mother.” Tanya flounced back to the car, only turning long enough to pantomime talking on the phone and to mouth the words, “Call me.” The elves piled into the station wagon and it roared off in a cloud of oily smoke. The queen could be heard shouting until the car was out of view. 
Edward carefully folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket for safe keeping. 
The End

The Grimnoir Chronicles: Detroit Christmas

by Larry Correia

December 25th, 1931
Detroit. One of the greatest cities in the world. The crossroads of industry and commerce. The American Paris, the City of Champions, Blimp-Town, Motor City, call it what you want, it’s one crowded place. Nearly two million people live in Detroit, but as far as Jake Sullivan was aware, only a few of them were trying to kill him at that particular moment in time.  
Sure, there might have been others in Detroit that were gunning for him, as he wasn’t the type of man that made a lot of friends, but judging from the volume of gunfire pouring through the windows and puckering the walls… Six. There were only six shooters. 
He could handle that. 
“Enough! I said enough!” The gunfire tapered off. One last angry bullet bounced off his cover with a clang. “You still alive in there?” 
The seven hundred pound chunk of steel plate he’d picked up to use as a shield had worked better than expected. Sullivan checked his body for holes, and finding no more than usual, shouted back, “Yeah, but your boys ain’t. You ready to surrender yet, Johnny? The cops will be here any minute.”
“You’ll be an icicle before then.”
The temperature was dropping fast, which meant that Snowball was out there too. Both Maplethorpe brothers were Actives, which was just his rotten luck. Sullivan’s teeth began to chatter. He had to finish this before the Icebox could freeze him out. At this range, a clean shot could freeze him solid, but behind cover… even a really powerful Icebox wouldn’t be able to steal more than ten degrees a minute from room this big, but it had already been cold to begin with. That didn’t leave Sullivan much time.
“Kidnapping, murder.” He needed to goad them into coming after him. It was his only chance. “You boys been busy.”
“Throw ‘em on the list. They can only send me to the gas chamber once,” Johnny Bones shouted back through the broken windows. “Are you the Heavy? Is this the legendary Heavy Jake Sullivan, J. Edgar Hoover’s pet Active?”
Sullivan didn’t dignify that with a response
“Heard you been looking for my crew. How’d you find us? I thought you Heavies was supposed to be stupid?”
“Even a blind pig finds an acorn once in awhile, Johnny.” Sullivan picked up the giant Lewis machinegun from the floor with one shaking hand. It was a good thing he’d already been wearing gloves or he would’ve left skin on the freezing metal. “You ready to go to prison?”
“You know all about that from what I hear. So how’s Rockville this time of year?”
The infamous prison for actively magical criminals was in Montana. Sullivan had been an inmate there for six long years. “Cold. Very cold.” Some of Johnny Bones’ men were going to try to flank him while they were talking. He knew because that’s what he would’ve ordered if their situations had been reversed. Sullivan picked the most likely window, pointed the Lewis at it, and waited. “You’ll get used to it. Your brother will be nice and comfy, though.” 
“We can make a deal,” Johnny shouted, trying to keep Sullivan distracted. “It don’t have to be like this, with you all blue and frozen stuck to the floor. How about I let you walk out of here, pay you enough to make it worth your time? We’ll call it my present to you. Tis the season and all that jazz. I’m in a giving mood. What do you say?”
Someone moved on the other side of the window. Sullivan held down the trigger and let the Lewis roar. Bricks exploded into dust and glass shattered. The man on the other side went down hard.  
That left five. 
“I’d say you gotta do better than that.” 
Johnny Bones Maplethorpe ordered his remaining men to open fire and bullets ricocheted off the steel plate. Jake Sullivan was pinned down in a room that was rapidly turning into a walk in freezer by a gang of hardened criminals led by a vicious Shard. It was one hell of a way to spend Christmas. 

Two Days Earlier
“So, Mr. Sullivan, you got any plans this Christmas?” 
Sullivan finished counting out the January rent money and passed it over. It was the last ten dollars he had to his name. Paying work had been sporadic lately. “Nothing in particular, ma’am.”  
“I see,” Mrs. Brooks said. His landlord owned the entire building and the diner downstairs. It was obvious the old woman didn’t like her tenant much, but Jake Sullivan always paid his rent on time. “I don’t want any loudness or carrying on. I know how you Irish get during the holidays with the devil drink.”
“Why, Mrs. Brooks, alcoholic beverages are illegal.”  
“I know all about your disdain for the law, Mr. Sullivan.” Mrs. Brooks eyed him suspiciously, then glanced around the office, as if expecting to see a distillery hidden in a corner. Instead there was only a battered second-hand desk, a couple of sturdy wooden chairs, a bedraggled couch, and a few book shelves. “It’s only my strong upbringing that’s allowed me to forgive your horrific criminal history and your unseemly magic.” 
The landlord talked a big game, but both of them knew that she’d rent to anybody who could pay in these tough times, and that included convicted felons, less popular types of Actives, or anybody else for that matter. The old lady would rent a room to the Chairman himself if he had ten dollars ready on the twenty-third of each month. “And I won’t forget it,” Sullivan said.  
Mrs. Brooks stepped back and examined the words painted on his door. “Why would someone like you go into this kind of business anyway?”
“I like puzzles…” Sullivan said honestly. “Anything else I can do for you, ma’am?” and before she could even answer he was already closing the door on her. “No? Wonderful. Merry Christmas. Good bye.”
The sign on the door read Sullivan Security and Investigations. His last security job had been intimidating the union strikers at the UBF plant. Good work that, standing around earning money because you had a reputation for being able to crush a man’s skull with a thought. It had paid well too, but that had been months ago. The last investigation job had meant confirming to an angry wife that her husband liked prostitutes. The final bit of money from that one had just paid the rent. 
There was other work out there. There always was for a man with his skills, whether physical or magical, but Sullivan was an honest man, and he preferred honest work. There was a difference between being a felon and being a crook, and Jake Sullivan was no crook. 
Then there were the government jobs.… The monetary payment on those was meager, but completing them meant he got to stay out of Rockville. Sullivan sat behind his desk and reread the recent Bureau of Investigation telegram. It was a bulletin on the notorious Maplethorpe brothers. Their gang had recently gotten shot up in a robbery in Albion, and it was believed they were hiding in Detroit. A Shard and an Icebox, with Power to spare, armed, and extremely dangerous, wanted for bank robbery and murder. The telegram said a BI representative would be in touch if it was felt his services would be needed. 
The terms of his early release specified that he needed to assist in the apprehension of five Active fugitives. He wondered idly if the Maplethorpes would count as two.… As long as the government’s terms hung over his head, he would never truly be free. Sullivan crumpled the telegram and tossed it in the waste basket. Nothing usually came of the telegrams. 
***
The first client for the month of December arrived just before noon on the 23rd. Sullivan had been reading a Popular Mechanics article about a British Cog named Turing and his controversial attempt to build a mechanical man capable of reasoning, when there had been a delicate knock on the door.
Like all Gravity Spikers—or Heavies as most folks insisted on calling magicals of his type—Sullivan’s Power enabled him to manipulate the forces of gravity. He was just much better at it than everyone else. A quick surge of Power enabled him to see the nearby world as it really was, shades of mass, density, and force, and it told him that there was a single body in the hallway, approximately one hundred and twenty pounds. 
Hopeful that it might be business related, he quickly saw to it that both he and the office were presentable before answering. He stubbed out his cigarette and hid the magazine in his desk. Sullivan checked the mirror, fixed his tie, and ran a comb through his hair. He was built like a bull, had the face of an anvil, and wasn’t particularly well-spoken, but that was no excuse to not present well.
The lady in the hall certainly knew how to present well. She was good looking, mid-twenties, brunette, and petite. She was wearing a blue dress, ten minks worth of coat, and shoes that cost more than all of Sullivan’s earthly possessions combined. “I need a private detective,” she stated, having to crane her neck to see since he was over a foot taller than she. “Are you Heavy Jake Sullivan?” 
“That’s me.” He didn’t much care for the nickname, but it would do. At least that meant she knew he was an Active and was okay with the fact. It wasn’t the kind of thing you advertised to most respectable clients. The general attitude was that Heavies were good for lifting things and that was about it. “Please come in.” 
“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.” Her blue eyes were red from crying. Her manner was resigned and tired. 
He closed the door behind her. She was graceful, like a dancer, as she walked in and took a seat. He went to the other side of the desk and settled into his massively reinforced chair. Sullivan weighed far more than he appeared to, a byproduct of his magical experimentation, and he’d gotten tired of breaking chairs.
“So what brings you to this neighborhood?”
“You came highly recommended.” The lady glanced around the room. There was a single light bulb wired into the ceiling and the whole place seemed dingy and small. It was times like this that he wished he could afford a real office instead of this rotten dive. Judging by her get up, she could hire whoever she felt like, but apparently she was undeterred by the shabbiness of her host or his office. “I need your help.” 
“Sure,” he answered. “I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”
“Emily Fordyce. I’m here about my husband.”
So it was another jilted wife case. The rock on her wedding ring was huge, but in his experience the size of the rock seldom corresponded to a husband’s loyalty. “I’ll be glad to help, Mrs. Fordyce. What’s wrong with your husband?”
“He’s missing,” she answered with a sniff. “He was abducted.” 
Sullivan perked up. His day had just become far more interesting. “Really?” She was obviously money, so he asked the logical question. “Has there been a ransom demand?”
“There’s been no ransom, and the police say that he’s certainly dead.”
Sullivan urged her to start from the beginning. Arthur Fordyce had not returned from his office days ago. Yesterday his automobile had been found in a ditch just outside of the city, where it had been hidden by the snow. A great deal of dried blood had been found on the seat. The car was otherwise undamaged. 
Emily became increasingly upset as she spoke. Sullivan offered her a smoke to calm her nerves, but she turned him down. He took one for himself. “Your husband have enemies?”
“Oh, no. Everyone loved Arthur. He was a sweetheart.” 
“He gamble? Owe anyone money?” She shook her head in the negative. Those minks didn’t buy themselves. “What did he do for a living?”
“He was a Healer.” 
Sullivan stopped, match hovering just below his suddenly forgotten cigarette. “A Healer?”  
Emily nodded. “He’s an Active and very skilled. He works freelance, fixing anyone that can afford his services. The finest families in the city have used him.”
Healers of any kind were rare, Active Healers with significant amounts of Power were especially so. They were talking about somebody who could cure any illness or mend any wound with a touch. Someone who was literally worth more than their weight in gold. “I’ve never actually spoken to a real live Healer … Who were your husband’s recent clients?”
“Arthur didn’t speak about many of them. You see… sometimes influential people need to be discreet.…” Rich guys with syphilis, went unsaid. “I know he did do a Healing for an unsavory man recently who may be some sort of criminal. His name was something Horowitz.”
That was a bad sign if it was who he was thinking of. Abraham Horowitz was a local legend amongst the bootleggers, but it did give him a place to start. Sullivan spent the next hour learning everything he could about the last days of Arthur Fordyce. When he’d exhausted his questions and Emily looked like she would begin crying again, Sullivan decided that she needed to get home. 
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea, but we’ve not yet talked about your fee.… Whatever it normally is, double it. I’m prepared to write you a check in advance.”
He’ d need operating money, but his pride didn’t like taking money for work unperformed. “That’s not necessary, ma’am.” 
“I’ve got more bank accounts than husbands. Just find him.”
“All right, then. I’ll do my best, Mrs. Fordyce,” Sullivan promised. 
Emily pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her eyes. “I know you will, Mr. Sullivan. You came highly recommended.”
Sullivan certainly hadn’t performed many jobs in her neck of the wood. The Fordyces lived over on mansion row in Woodbridge. “Who recommended me?”
“Arthur, of course.” 
Sullivan didn’t know what to make of that response. “Your missing husband…”
“I’m sorry, that must sound rather crazy.” His expression must have confirmed the idea. “Not recently obviously. No, it was because of a newspaper article several months ago. It said you helped the government capture some Active madman.” 
“I know the one.” He had gotten a brief mention in the papers after he’d helped the BI arrest Crusher Marceau in Hot Springs. There had been no mention of Jake being a recently released convict, thankfully, because that would have sent J. Edgar Hoover into an apocalyptic fit. 
“Arthur knew right away who you were and said that if we ever had need of a private detective, then you would be the only man for the job because you didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. You see, he had a lot of respect for you. Arthur was in the First Volunteers during the war too, Mr. Sullivan. I believe every survivor of the Second Somme knows who you are.”
Sullivan was humbled. His respect for Arthur Fordyce had just grown tremendously. Very few Healers had bothered to join the Volunteers. “Men like your husband saved a lot of lives over there.” 
“Arthur led me to believe that you saved even more, Mr. Sullivan.… Now please do it again, and if my husband has been…” She choked on the word, then couldn’t finish. Sullivan came around, but he didn’t know the first thing about how to comfort a grieving woman. Luckily, she waved him away. “I’m fine … I’m fine. I’ll be going.” 
Sullivan opened the door for her. Emily stopped, and her voice grew unexpectedly hard. “If Arthur is gone, then I don’t want the men who did it arrested, I want them gone too. Do you understand me, Mr. Sullivan? If they hurt him, I want you to hurt them right back, and if you do so I will double your fee again. I want you to do to them what Arthur said you did to the Kaiser’s army.” 
Sullivan closed the door behind her. Rage at the men who might have made her a widow notwithstanding, Emily didn’t know what she as asking for. He wouldn’t wish the fate of the Kaiser’s army on anyone.
***

It was snowing when he left the office. 
Arthur Fordyce’s automobile had been towed to a police lot. A quick phone call to a Detroit P.D. officer who owed him a favor got Sullivan inside for a quick look. The car was a ritzy ’29 Dusenberg roadster. The paint gleamed with tiny flecks of real gold. Ostentatious, but fitting for a Healer. The only thing that spoiled the perfection was the gallon of blood someone had left to dry on the leather seats. Most of the blood was on the driver’s side, like it had pooled around a body. No wonder the law was assuming it was a murder instead of a kidnapping. 
Sullivan was still poking around the Dusenberg when there was an angry cough from behind. He turned to see Detective Sergeant Ragan. “Afternoon, Detective.” 
“What’re you doing in there, Sullivan?” 
He’d cultivated a decent enough relationship with many of the local cops, but not all of them. Ragan was in the latter category. An old fashioned, hard drinking, tough guy, Ragan didn’t like magicals, and he especially didn’t like ones with reputations for having accidentally killed a law enforcement officer, even if the officer in question had been a murderous piece of work. “Mrs. Fordyce hired me to find her husband.” 
“Find her husband’s body is more like it…”
“Who you think did it?” Sullivan asked, still going about his business.
“Whole case is fishy. I’m thinking the wife had him popped, just to get the insurance money. Fellow like that’s bound to have a hefty life insurance policy.” 
Sullivan snorted. “That’s rich.”
“Why am I even talking to the likes of you? Get out of there! That’s evidence.” Sullivan climbed out of the car, quickly hiding the handkerchief he’d used to wipe up some blood. “You can’t be in here. Who let you in?”
“Nice fella. Forgot his name. About this tall…” Sullivan held his hand out about shoulder height then moved it up and down six inches. 
“You private ops are a pain in the neck. I ought to have you arrested for tampering with evidence.” 
That would never hold, but Sullivan definitely didn’t want to spend Christmas in a cell. It was time to go. “My apologies, Detective.” Sullivan tipped his hat and walked way.
***
Sometimes prejudices make life harder than it needs to be. Sullivan was fairly certain that if Ragan was running the official investigation then there was no way in the world that he’d resort to consulting a Finder. Ragan distrusted magic, and besides, any clues divulged through magical means wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law. Sullivan didn’t have those issues. He just wanted to find Arthur Fordyce and get paid. 
To be fair, it wasn’t just about the money this time. Fordyce was a fellow veteran of Roosevelt’s First Volunteer Active Brigade. Sullivan had never associated with any of the unit’s Healers, other than to dump wounded soldiers onto their tables. The valuable Healers had been kept as far from the front as possible, while the dime-a-dozen Spikers were always where the bullets were flying.  Healers were officers, Sullivan had been an enlisted man, but despite those differences, they’d both shared a little slice of hell in the biggest battle in human history, and that made them brothers.
Sullivan would have done his best no matter what, that was just his single-minded nature, but Fordyce wasn't some anonymous victim. He was First Volunteer, and that made it personal. 
The fourth best Finder in Detroit lived in a humble home in Brush Park. Sullivan couldn’t afford the other three. A reliable Finder demanded a premium wage. Finders existed in that nebulous grey area of Active popularity. The public considered them useful but scary. At least Finders were far more well-liked than their more powerful cousins, the Summoners. Most religious types simply wouldn’t tolerate them or their alien Summoned.  
It didn’t help that Finders tended to be a few bricks shy of a wall. Talking to disembodied spirits all day tended to do that to a person. Bernie was all right though… Usually.
Sullivan knocked and only had to wait a minute to be let in. Bernie was a pudgy, unshaven, wild-eyed fellow, and today was wearing some pajamas that had seen better days. “Sullivan! Good to see you, my boy.” 
“Nice hat, Bernie.” 
Bernie’s head was wrapped in tin foil cone. “Keeps some of the voices out,” he explained. “I picked up a screamer this morning. Poor thing won’t shut up. You know how it goes.”
“No. Not really.”
“Come in! Come in!”  Bernie dragged him inside. The interior of the home was filled with stacks of newspapers and at least a dozen mangy cats. Bernie kicked stray felines out of the way as he led Sullivan to the living room. “Did you bring me a present?”
“I got you a sandwich.” He passed over a paper sack. Bernie had a reputation for forgetting to eat when he was on a Finding, and Sullivan needed him focused. Sullivan then pulled out the red-stained handkerchief. “And this.”
Bernie took the handkerchief. “Oh…” He sounded disappointed. “I meant a Christmas present.” 
“Sandwich isn’t good enough? Well, if you Find me the body that blood came out of I’ll give you fifty bucks. This is a rush job.” 
The Finder studied the stain. “Half up front… And you still owe me a present.” 
“Fair enough.” Sullivan had cashed Emily Fordyce’s generous advance check already and he counted out the bills. “What do you get for the man that’s already got everything?”
“I’m almost out of tin foil.” Bernie shoved a particularly ugly cat off the couch and took a seat. He placed the handkerchief on the stack of newspapers, that judging from all the dirty plates and dishes stacked on it, served as his table. “Rush job, eh? I’ve got just the spirit for you. Strongest thing on her plane. I call her Mae, ‘cause you know, she kinda reminds me of this poster of Mae West I got. Bringing her in burns up all my Power for a few days, but she works real fast. I’m warning ya, if this body ain’t close, it could take time.” 
Sullivan leaned against the wall. His overcoat was black and he didn’t particularly want to cover it in cat hair. “If you can do a Finding for me today I’ll get you two rolls of foil.” 
Bernie rubbed his hands together greedily. “You got a deal, but lots of things can go wrong. If the body is buried real deep, takes time. If the thing I’m Finding is behind iron… If it’s been cut into little bits and scattered, or if it’s been burned to ash, or if—” 
“Just do your best, Bernie.”  Sullivan settled in to wait. He knew how erratic this method was, but when it worked, it worked really well. They’d used the disembodied creatures of the Finders as scouts during the war. Nobody knew where the creatures came from exactly, they tended to be flaky, but they could cover a lot of ground and see things a person couldn’t. 
Bernie concentrated on the handkerchief, scowled, confused, then cheered up as he remembered he was wearing a hat. He took the tin foil off and went back to concentrating. “That’s better. Here comes Mae.”
The lights flickered and the house shook. Stacks of newspapers tumbled. Cats screeched and ran for cover. At first Sullivan thought that they were having an earthquake, but then the wind hit, sending the curtains billowing across the room. Sullivan stumbled back as his fedora was blown off.
“Ain’t she a good girl? Yes, she is. Mae’s my good girl.” 
Bernie hadn’t been lying. This one was a doozy. Sullivan had been around many summonings, but this was the first time he’d actually been able to see the shape of the vaporous creature, even it was only for an instant. The thing hovered in the center of the room, a weird conglomeration of winged hippopotamus and six-legged porcupine with four glowing eyes, and then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
The curtains and blowing trash settled. Sullivan picked up his fedora and brushed away the cat hair. “Impressive critter… Though I don’t see the resemblance to Mae West.”
Bernie put his tin foil hat back on. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, Sullivan.”  
***
Mae had told Bernie that it was going to take awhile. Arthur Fordyce wasn’t close, which meant she needed time to roam. Sullivan was still holding out hopes that Fordyce was alive, he was a Healer after all. Despite the volume of blood, he could only assume that Healers could fix themselves like they could fix everyone else, provided he was conscious or had Power enough to do it. Hopefully the demon-hippopotamus-porcupine ghost would come back with good news.
In the meantime, Sullivan had another lead to follow.
Abraham Horowitz ran with the Purple Gang, and the Purple Gang ran most of Detroit. Predominately Jewish, they were strongest on the east side, but there wasn’t a criminal activity in this city that they didn’t have a piece of. Mostly they stuck with bootlegging, tried to limit their killing to competitors, and kept the petty crooks under heel well enough to keep the law happy. They were tough enough that even Al Capone knew it was easier to just buy from them than to go to war.  
If you saw a boat on the Detroit River with gunmen on it, then it probably belonged to the Purples. Nobody brought Canadian booze across the river except for the Purple gang, and if you got caught trying it, you’d get boarded, robbed, and sunk… And swimming is difficult with a .45 slug in your chest. The locals called them the Little Jewish Navy, which meant that Abraham Horowitz probably held the rank equivalent of admiral. 
The snow had gotten worse and the worn out tires on Sullivan’s old Ford didn’t get the best traction, so it took him awhile to get across town. Horowitz’s base of operations was at a sugar mill on the river’s edge. The mill was legitimate. The hoodlums hanging out in front of the business office obviously were not. 
Sullivan stopped the car and got out. The sun was going down and taking the last bit of warmth with it. He threw on his scarf and gloves, but left his coat open in order to get to the .45 automatic on his hip. He knew some of the Purple’s muscle since they’d also worked the UBF strike, so wasn’t expecting any trouble, but with these types violence was always in the air.
Three men were loafing on a bench at the top of the steps. To the side, the rollup doors to the sugarhouse were open and two burly men were throwing burlap sacks onto the back of a truck. He didn’t even need to activate his Power to know they were like him. The way that each of them were effortlessly lifting four or five fifty-pound sacks at a time told him that the workers were fellow Spikers. A bunch of guys sitting around smoking while Actives did all the work… Figures. 
The Purple thugs got off the bench when they saw him coming up the stairs. The lead tough intercepted him before he could reach the door. The kid was barely old enough to shave, but had already developed a street swagger, but everyone was tougher when they had two buddies standing behind them. He tossed his cigarette into the snow. “Whadda you want?”
“I want to talk to Mr. Horowitz.”
“You got an appointment? You don’t look like you’re here to buy sugar.”
“Tell Mr. Horowitz it’s about a mutual friend, Arthur Fordyce.”  
The three thugs exchanged a look that told him they recognized the name, but the kid didn’t budge. “Who’re supposed to be?” 
“Jake Sullivan.” He looked over the group. Unfortunately, he didn’t recognize any of them. “Isadore Lebowitz around? He can vouch for me.” 
“Buddy, Izzy got put in the ground weeks ago. He ain’t vouching for nobody ever again.”
“I hadn’t heard.” 
They were starting to fan out around him. “He got shot in the teeth. If you was his friend, you should’a knew that,” said the second thug as he walked behind Sullivan. The sharks were circling. 
“Mr. Horowitz said no visitors,” said the last, this one with the bleary eyes of someone on the weed. “Not till the bone man leaves town.” 
“Shut up, idiot,” hissed the second.  
Sullivan didn’t have time for inter-gang nonsense. “Why don’t one of you guys go ask Mr. Horowitz if he wants to talk to me.” 
The kid snickered. “Yeah? Well, he’s busy. You should come back… oh… never.” His buddies all had a good laugh at that. “Now beat it ‘fore we beat you.” 
Sullivan’s magic was collected in his chest, just waiting. He’d saved up quite a bit. He activated the Power, using just a bit of his reserves, and tested the world around him. The weed head had something dense enough in the small of his back to be a pistol. The leader had something metal in his pocket. The Spikers loading the truck both stopped and looked over his way, having sensed the subtle flux in gravity.
“I’m not leaving until one of you asks Mr. Horowitz if he’ll talk to me.”
The leader glared at him and the look in those cold eyes said that he’d seen a fair share of blood spilled in his young life. “Last chance to walk away,” he said. 
Sullivan took his time taking out a cigarette, putting it to his mouth, and striking a match. The thugs watched him light up, incredulous as he took a puff, held it for a moment, then let it out. “Last chance to get your boss.”
 He had to hand it to the kid. He was fast with that straight razor. It came out in a silver flash. “You know what time it is now, big man?” 
Sullivan shrugged. “Can’t say I do.”
The kid held the razor low at his side. “Now’s the part where you say you don’t want any trouble.”
“Does that ever work?”
“Nope.” 
The kid lunged. The razor zipped out like a striking rattlesnake. Sullivan grabbed his Power and twisted gravity. When in a hurry there was no time for finesse. A small piece of the world broke. Up was down and down was up. The kid’s feet left the ground as he tumbled, surprised, toward the overhang. He slammed into the sheet metal cover overhead. Sullivan let him hang there for a moment, just so that he could know he’d barked up the wrong tree, before cutting his Power. The kid hit the concrete in a shower of dust and snow. 
Sullivan turned just as the weed head went for the gun under his coat. He had plenty of Power stored up, and it never hurt to make an example of idiots, so Sullivan drastically lessened the strength of gravity around his target before he slugged the punk square in the face. Weedy left the ground, flew back to end of Sullivan’s range, then fell and bounced down the steps. A little nickel-plated pistol went skittering off into the snow. 
There was one Purple left. He was just standing there, too flummoxed to move. Sullivan removed the cigarette from his mouth and pointed at him. “Like I said… I’ll wait here while you go tell Mr. Horowitz.” 
The punk jerked open the doors and ran for his life. Sullivan looked over to see the two Spikers coming his way. One of them had picked up a length of pipe. “Brothers, you don’t want to try me. I may be like you...” Sullivan let a bit more of his Power slip so they could feel the obvious surge. Gravity distorted. Falling snow stopped and hung in mid air. The workers looked at each other, surprised at the display of control. Sullivan cut it off before he wasted too much precious Power. The snow resumed falling.  “But I’ve got way more practice.” 
The Heavies returned to their truck, but they kept an uneasy eye on him. The punk at the bottom of the stairs was moaning about the condition of his face. The kid with the razor was out cold. That’s what they got for picking a fight with someone who’d survived Second Somme and Rockville. Sullivan took a seat on the bench and finished his smoke. 
Two minutes later the door opened again. This time four Purples filed out and they all trained shotguns on him. “Mr. Horowitz will see you now.” 
***
Abraham Horowitz sat behind a giant oak desk, thick arms folded, and prepared to listen to Sullivan’s request. The bootlegger was a steely-eyed killer, past his physical prime now, but this was a man who’d grown up busting heads and collecting protection money. This was not somebody to short change, so it was probably wise to start with an apology. “Sorry about your boys downstairs, but I didn’t do anything until the kid tried to carve me a new smile.” 
“Well, they should have asked me first. There was no need to be impolite to guests. Bad for business.” Horowitz grunted. “From your rep I’m surprised you didn’t just kill ‘em all. You’re a living legend. Way I hear it, you got a early release ‘cause you’re so good at it… You cut a deal with the enemy to take down dangerous Actives, right? You wouldn’t happen to be here on the government dime, are you, Mr. Sullivan?”
“No, sir. Far as I’d tell anybody, you run a sugar mill, that’s all. As for the enemy, any man would make a deal with the devil to get out of Rockville. It’s a hard place. I just do what I’ve got to get by, same as anybody.”  
“I’d appreciate it if no Purples ever show up on your list, Mr. Sullivan, ‘cause that could be unpleasant for everybody.”
If one of the Hoover telegrams had a member of the Purple gang on it for him to help catch, Sullivan would make damn sure he had plans to get the hell out of Detroit real quick afterwards. “I’d like that very much too, sir.” 
“Respect... Let me tell you, I wish you would’a taken Isadore’s job offer after the UBF strike. A Heavy like you could make a lot of money working for the Purples. My Heavies down there said you’re downright frightening how much Power you got.”  
Of course he was good; he’d done nothing but practice the entire time he’d been in Rockville. “You honor me, Mr. Horowitz, but I’m just a simple man,” Sullivan said. 
“Isadore said you were a whole lot smarter than you talked, too. My people appreciate an educated man, especially a self-educated man such as yourself. Izzy, may he rest in peace, said you read books like some sort of professor.”
“Reading’s my hobby. Keeps me out of trouble.” 
“Seems like a man who’s avoiding trouble wouldn’t end up in the middle of it so often.” 
“Just curious I guess… Like I’m curious about Arthur Fordyce. His wife hired me to find him.” 
Horowitz chuckled. “I liked old Arthur. You’re probably wondering how we knew each other. Well, let’s just say that Arthur didn’t care much who he Mended as long as their dollars were green. Last time I used him was ‘cause I’d started losing my vision and couldn’t feel my toes. He fixed me up good as new and told me to quit eating so much sugar. Ha! Not with this sweet tooth.” Horowitz pounded one meaty hand on the desk, then he paused and frowned. “Well, shit… Now that he’s gone I might have to cut back… Arthur did other things for the Purples too. If one of my boys got shot and I needed him back in action quick, I’d go to Arthur. He was good at pulling bullets out but not asking about who put them in, if you get what I’m saying. Son of a bitch charged an arm and a leg, though.”
“You know who might have taken him?”
The gangster shrugged. “Lots of folks. Maybe somebody who needed something fixed couldn’t afford to pay an arm or a leg. Sick folk can get mighty desperate.” 
“These are desperate times,” Sullivan agreed. Detroit was better off than most of the country, but even here there were tent cities growing on the fringe. Lots of people were out of work, hungry, and hurting. 
Horowitz made a big show of studying Sullivan for a long time. “Maybe not just sick folks get that desperate.… Come to think on it, maybe I know somebody else who couldn’t afford a Healing, but might need a Healer real bad… Maybe I could tell you something that would help us both out of a jam.”
He was looking for an angle, but men like Horowitz always were. “I’m listening,” Sullivan said. 
“You ever hear that old saying, kill two birds with one stone? You got to find somebody and I don’t get to eat sweets because the only Healer in Detroit is gone... and maybe, just maybe I know somebody who might have taken poor old Arthur. Maybe there is this crew mucking around in my area, robbing banks where they shouldn’t be, but maybe this crew have been muscle for another group that the Purples don’t want to mess with. Maybe this crew works with the Mustache Petes…” Sullivan knew that the Mustache Petes were the Sicilian-born gangsters that ran New York. The word was that Purple gang had an uneasy truce with them. “Maybe this crew was caught robbing a bank and got themselves shot to bits by policemen over Albion way. Maybe they’d be desperate enough to steal a Healer… Maybe this is something I’d like to take care of myself, but my hands are tied on account of business reasons. What do you say to that?”
That’s a lot of maybes. The last BI telegram had said the Maplethorpe gang had gotten hit in Albion. They certainly wouldn’t be above kidnapping. “That’s very… forthcoming of you, Mr. Horowitz. If this crew was to get rolled up by the law they’d be out of your hair.”  
“You find your man, this other crew goes away. Two birds, one rock. Bam. As long as you never said where you heard it from…” 
“Of course. How about you let me know where this crew is and I’ll go get your favorite Healer back?” 
“Doubt it. Johnny Bones enjoys killin’ too much, likes to cut on people so they die slow, and his brother Snowball’s damn near as mean. The second he got his crew Mended, Arthur probably died. Let me put the word out. As soon as I know where that crew is I’ll be in touch.”   
Sullivan knew when he’d been dismissed. Horowitz didn’t offer to shake on their deal. As far as the gangster was concerned selling out Johnny Bones was like taking the garbage out to the curb for pickup. Sullivan stood to leave. 
“One last thing, Mr. Sullivan. When you come up against Johnny, you’re gonna have to kill him fast. Shoot him, squish him with your Power, whatever you got to do. Don’t try to talk to that crazy Shard. He’s sly. He’ll cut you to pieces or his crazy brother will freeze you just to watch you shatter like glass. Mark my words. Take them fast or you’ll regret it.” 
***
Sullivan debated his next move. Mae was still coming up with nothing. If Horowitz was right, Arthur Fordyce was probably already dead. Until he got a lead on where the Maplethorpes were holed up, he was at a dead end. If Horowitz was wrong, he was wasting his time.
Well, not exactly wasting… Which was why Sullivan’s last stop for the evening was at the Detroit office of the Bureau of Investigation. Horowitz wasn’t the only man that liked to kill two birds with one stone. 
The BI office was near the Fisher Building. The giant art deco skyscraper was impressive, even if they were turning the lights down at night to save money now. It was late, the snow was still falling, and most everyone had gone home for the night, so Sullivan left a note for the agent in charge of the manhunt to contact him. 
He got home around 11:00. Sullivan’s mind was too spun up to go to sleep, so instead he found himself pulling out a book he’d purchased last year on the history of the First Volunteer. He’d found it a fairly accurate, yet rather dull account of the events in question. To be fair, it would be rather difficult for some academic historian to chronicle the unrelentingly bleak meat grinder of the trenches, the sheer mind-numbing spectacle of Second Somme, or the final march into the blackened ash wasteland that had been Berlin. 
Even though Sullivan had been the most decorated soldier in the unit, there was only one picture of him, and it was a group shot of some Spikers taken somewhere in France. All of them were tired, dirty, starving, cold, suffering from dysentery, wearing their rusting Heavy suits, carrying their Lewis guns, and lucky to be alive. The book only had two pages about the Gravity Spikers. That was it. All that fighting, all those sacrifices, condensed into two lousy pages, and sadly one of those pages was mostly about his own exploits. He didn’t deserve his own page. He’d just been lucky. Of the men in the photo, only ten percent had come home alive. 
But it wasn’t bitter reminiscence that had caused Sullivan to open the history book. There were photos for most of the officer corps and Sullivan was looking for one in particular. When he found Captain Arthur Fordyce’s entry at first Sullivan thought that he’d found the wrong picture… He checked again, just to be sure, and it was correct. Fordyce certainly didn’t look like what he’d expected.  
Fordyce had to be in his sixties in the picture, and it had been taken back in 1916… Fifteen years ago… Has it really been that long? Sullivan had been so young that he’d had to lie about his age to enlist, and he was quite a bit older than Emily now. For that reason Sullivan had been expecting a younger man. That was not such an odd thing, especially for a man of Arthur’s success, to have such a young beautiful wife. 
Too damn young to be a widow. 
He fell asleep after midnight, which made it Christmas Eve. 
***
Sullivan checked on Bernie and his cats in the morning, but still nothing from Mae. Bernie said that was a very bad sign, meaning that the target was not in an easy to find state, as in above ground or in one piece. Since he was actually a little worried about Bernie’s health, Sullivan made sure to drop off another sandwich. 
The BI agent in charge of the manhunt had Sullivan come into the office to talk. Most of the G-men tolerated him, a couple respected him because he was very good at his job, and a few openly despised him for being an ex-con. But like it or not, when it came time to arrest somebody who could bend the laws of physics, Sullivan was damn handy to have around. 
The head of the Detroit office was a weasel named Price. He was a ticket-puncher, a man who existed primarily to get promoted. Price loved getting in the papers. Hoover didn’t like sharing the spotlight with his underlings, but Sullivan had no doubt that Price would end up in politics as soon as he got an arrest big enough to make headlines. 
The agent in charge of the manhunt was a homely fellow by the name of Cowley, fresh off the morning dirigible from D.C. Apparently he was one of Hoover’s personal favorites. Which inclined Sullivan to dislike him automatically. Sullivan briefed the agents about what he’d heard, though he was careful never to mention the Purple gang.
Despite looking like he’d be much more comfortable behind a desk, Cowley had listened intently enough that Sullivan had come away suspecting that the agent might actually have a clue about being a decent cop. He also didn’t seem dismayed to find out that Sullivan was an Active. Cowley’s primary concern was that if Arthur Fordyce was alive, he be returned safely. Price was mostly worried about how the arrest of the Maplethorpes would play in the news, but rescuing a Healer… Sullivan could see the wheels turning there.
Cowley showed him sketches of the members of the crew. He memorized the names and faces, but since none of them were Actives, he wasn’t as worried about them. Kidnapping was a local matter, not a federal crime, but both Maplethorpes were on the most wanted list, so it was agreed that if Sullivan helped capture them it would count as two against his quota. He made sure he got that in writing. 
***
The rest of the day was spent chasing leads to nowhere. Nobody had heard anything, and if they had they weren’t talking. He placed a telephone call to Mrs. Fordyce to inform her that he was still looking, but had no real progress to report. He’d tried to sound encouraging but failed. 
When darkness fell, Jake Sullivan returned to his office to prepare. His magic was ready, Power built up in his chest, just waiting to be used to twist gravity to his will. But Power burned quickly, and once it was gone, it took time to replenish. So that meant guns.
One of the Lewis Mk3 machineguns he’d brought back from France was kept hidden under the floor boards of his office. He dragged the huge weapon out, cleaned and oiled it, and loaded the huge drum magazines from boxes of military .30-06 ammunition. Twenty-six pounds of lethal steel, the Lewis was big, ugly, and effective, sort of like Sullivan. It was a lot of gun, but the BI hadn’t specified that the Maplethorpes needed to be taken alive. 
He’d fought his whole life. He was good at it. As a soldier for his country, as an inmate for survival, and now as a… what am I? Somebody who didn’t know anything else? A slave to the G-men? No. It was better if he told himself that he was doing this one for a young widow and to avenge another First Volunteer. It seemed more pure that way.
The Lewis went into a canvas bag. He went downstairs, ordered a late dinner, and waited.  Burning Power was like hard physical exercise, so he treated himself to a real good meal in preparation. Mrs. Brooks was glad for the business and didn’t even enquire about why the usually frugal Sullivan suddenly seemed to be Mr. Big Spender. A ten year old serving as a Purple gang runner showed up while he was polishing off his coffee, gave him a note, and took off.
Sullivan read the address, finished his drink, put out his smoke, and left a generous tip. It was time again to go to war. 
***
The address was for an auto parts factory on Piquette. Like many other businesses in the area, it had recently been shut down and the workers laid off. He parked a block away and went in on foot. Between the lousy weather, the fact that most of the surrounding businesses were closed, and it was late Christmas Eve meant that there wasn’t anyone around. Regular folks were eating hams, singing carols clustered around the fire, or some such thing, not spying on an abandoned factory through a hole in a fence.
After an hour of miserable cold a blue Dodge rolled up to the back door and a man got out carrying grocer’s bags. The lights of the city reflected off the snow clouds enough to give him plenty of pink light to see by. He recognized the lean, broad-shouldered fellow making his way to the back door from one of the sketches Agent Cowley had shown him as one Bruno Hauptmann, a German immigrant and member of the gang. This was the hideout, all right. Hauptmann was walking with a bad limp. He knocked on the back door and a few seconds later it opened and he disappeared inside. 
Location confirmed, he debated calling the BI. There was strength in numbers, but the only person Jake Sullivan trusted was Jake Sullivan. The G-men would probably just get in his way, but at the same time, if he got killed, he didn’t want the kidnapping trash to escape. Finally, caution won out and he hurried back to the phone booth he’d parked by. The switchboard put him through to Cowley. He gave them the scoop, then reminded the G-man to make sure the rest of his boys knew not to shoot at him. The cavalry was on the way. 
But he’d never been the type to wait around for cavalry. Sullivan removed the Lewis Gun from his car and headed back to the factory. 
They might be watching through the long row of windows, so best to move quick. He reached the fence, and using just enough Power to lighten himself, leapt cleanly over the barrier. The door was solid by any measure, but not built to withstand someone like him. Not even pausing, Sullivan lifted one big boot and kicked the door wide open. The interior was dim, lit only be a single shielded lantern. Hauptman and another man with one arm in a sling were caught flatfooted just inside, stuffing candy bars in their faces. 
Sullivan leveled the machinegun at them. “Hands up.” 
“Cops!” The stranger went for the revolver stuck in his waistband. Sullivan moved the gaping round muzzle over and simply shot him dead. The body hit the cold concrete without so much as a twitch.
The .30-06 had been deafening against the metal machinery surrounding them.  Ears ringing, he turned the gun back on Hauptmann. “Your friend was an idiot. Let’s try that again.” Terrified, the kidnapper reached for the ceiling.  “Better.” Sullivan looked down the rows of darkened machines, but there was no sign of anyone else inside. He picked up the lantern and lifted the cover, filling the space with light. Sullivan walked around a big hydraulic press. There were several mattresses and blankets on the floor, but the rest of the gang was out. 
 Damn. “Where’s Fordyce?”
 “Who?” Hauptmann asked.
“Don’t play stupid.” Sullivan concentrated. Using Power in big bursts was easy, fine control took more concentration. He  gave Hauptmann another two gravities. The German grimaced and stumbled against the wall. “Talk. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 
“You wanna end up a pancake?” Sullivan dropped one more gravity on him. Hauptmann screamed as bones creaked. “Don’t be a baby. I do pushups in that.” The kidnapper was surely feeling it. “Where’s the Healer?”
“I don’t—” Hauptmann’s head sprayed red as the window behind him shattered. 
Sullivan instinctively flung himself to the floor.  A muzzle flashed outside as someone worked a Tommy gun across the glass. He needed cover, fast. There was a thick steel plate leaning against the hydraulic press. With no time for finesse, he grabbed the plate, surged his Power so hard that it felt light as a feather and jerked it around to use as a shield.  
Sullivan cursed himself for turning up the lights. Dummy. The others must have returned and seen them inside. Bruno Hauptmann was a few feet away, missing a chunk of skull, just staring at him while his brains leaked out. At least that guy’s kidnapping days were surely over.
The bullets kept on hitting the plate in a seemingly never ending stream of hot lead. They’d get tired soon. Sullivan checked his pocket watch. Cowley’s men should be here any minute. Then he noticed the time. 
Well, Merry Christmas to me. 
***
The BI rolled up, ready for a fight. They just hadn’t expected the fight to be ready for them. The first car to arrive was hit immediately. Bullets pierced the radiator, the windows, but luckily not the two agents inside, who bailed out, took cover behind their vehicle and returned fire. A Detroit police car arrived from the opposite direction thirty seconds later. It too took fire from a member of the Maplethorpe gang armed with a stolen BAR. Within a minute two other cars had arrived, and the street collapsed into the a chaotic gun battle that the morning papers would describe as the Detroit Christmas Massacre. 
However, Special Agent Sam Cowley was not thinking about how this would play out in the media. That was his bosses’ job. Cowley was too busy being pinned down behind the rapidly disintegrating engine block of his car as an automatic weapon poked holes in it. The Maplethorpe gang had a reputation for using overwhelming force during their robberies, which is what made them such high profile targets. Most of them were vets of the Great War—from both sides—and they knew how to work together. The responding officers were outmatched as the gang moved out of the factory’s parking area, using the low brick walls for cover, taking turns shooting while the others moved or reloaded.   
A nearby officer cried out and dropped his pistol. The gun metal gleamed with ice crystals. Cowley gasped in pain as he was hit with a surge of unbelievable cold. Snowball was attacking. Cowley rolled out from under the car but couldn’t spot the Active. He got a bead on one of the gang and emptied his .38 at him. He couldn’t tell if he’d struck the man or not since he ducked behind the factory wall and disappeared. 
There was an unholy scream. Cowley turned to see that Johnny Bones had flanked them. The Shard ripped his claws free from an officer’s belly, then he came at Cowley, grinning, his skull flowing and twisting under his skin. Terrified, the agent broke open his revolver, punched out the empties, and tried to reload with numb, shivering, fingers. Johnny Bones aimed his Thompson at Cowley.
Then it was as if someone had thrown an invisible lasso around the Shard and yanked him sideways. Johnny flew through the air and collided violently with a light pole. The Tommy Gun clattered away. The Shard got up slowly as his bones returned to their normal shape. “Kill the Heavy!” he ordered.
The parolee, Sullivan, burst through the window and rolled through the snow as a wave of force tossed the criminals every which way. Sullivan rose, cutting down his enemies like an avenging angel, wielding a giant black rifle that ripped an unending stream of thunder. 
“The big one’s on our side!” Cowley shouted.
Sullivan ducked. The wall above him was instantly frosted over. Even from across the street Cowley could see the ice particles striking the Heavy, but the Icebox was behind cover and he didn’t have a shot. But cover didn’t matter to Sullivan. Grimacing through the frostbite, he focused in on the Icebox’s position and Snowball Maplethorpe fell into the sky. Sullivan calmly shouldered his machinegun, like a sportsman shooting waterfowl, and blasted the Icebox out of the air. 
“Mikey!” Jonny Bones shrieked as his brother was riddled with bullets. Sullivan must have cut his Power, because Snowball dropped back to the Earth, to lay crumpled, staining the snow pink. “You son of a bitch!” Bones took a few steps forward, then realized that the rest of his gang was in a bad way. The Shard turned and ran down the street. 
Sullivan dropped his now-empty machinegun and took off after Johnny Bones. Cowley closed the cylinder on his Smith & Wesson and aimed at the fleeing Shard. “Stop,” Sullivan ordered, and as the big man ran past he said, “We need one alive.” 
***
He’d fought a Shard in Rockville once. Just another punk with a chip on his shoulder, thinking that if he could off the toughest guy on the block that would somehow make him king. Sullivan had ended his life, just like all the idiots before him, and all that came after, but it had been a valuable learning experience. 
Shard magic worked on a biological level. Their skin was remarkably tough and elastic, their bones could change shape and density as they desired. They were rare, and loathed by the public, considered disgusting freaks…Sullivan felt bad for them, but that was still no excuse for kidnapping. Disfiguring magic or not, Johnny Bones was done. 
A police car roared into the next intersection, sirens blaring. Johnny slid to a stop in the middle of the street. He looked around, but there was nowhere left to run. He saw Sullivan coming with .45 raised in one hand. Desperate, Johnny spread his arms wide. “I ain’t got no gun. You gonna shoot me down like a dog in the street, Heavy?” His breath came out in a cloud of steam.
“Where’s Arthur Fordyce?” 
“You killed my brother!” Johnny struck himself in the chest. “Come on, finish it. I ain’t going to Rockville and I ain’t going to the chair.” 
Sullivan’s Power had just been burned too hard for him to do anything fancy with it. He didn’t dare try the trick he’d done to Hauptmann. He’d probably just accidently splatter Johnny all over Detroit. “Tell me what you did to him.” 
Johnny Bones started walking toward Sullivan. “If you don’t got the balls to shoot me down like a man…”  The Shard’s fingers were suddenly twice as long as normal and ended in points like needles. “I’ll just take you with me.”
Sullivan sensed that there were G-men coming up behind him. “Hold your fire and stay out of this,” Sullivan ordered, and even though he wasn’t in charge of these men in any way, when he used his sergeant’s voice, men knew not to question. None of the cops said a word as Sullivan put his Colt back in the holster. “I’ll kill you clean, Johnny, but not until you tell me what I want to know.” 
The Shard swung. His Power-fueled body was a killing instrument. Sullivan ducked away, narrowly avoiding the claws. Johnny slid sideways as Sullivan twisted gravity, but his own Power was overheated and scattered. It lacked force, and Sullivan couldn’t risk giving him a good spike without killing the man. Sullivan raised his fists and the two Actives circled, looking for an opening.
Johnny came at him with a flurry of potentially lethal jabs. It would have been intimidating to anyone else. Calm, Sullivan timed it, cocked his fist back, and slammed the Shard square in the face. Johnny’s entire skull seemed to squish to one side. He reeled away and Sullivan saw his chance. He slugged Johnny again and again. The Shard wasn’t the only one with a magically hardened body, but Sullivan’s came from years of exercising in increased gravity until his bones were dense as stone, and now he used them to beat Johnny down.
He pressed the attack and drove a fist deep into Johnny’s guts, knocking the air right out of his opponent. “Not used to somebody who can fight back, huh?” When Johnny went to his knees, Sullivan circled, came from behind, wrapped one arm around Jonny’s throat and used the other to pin the Shard’s elbows to his side. Sullivan hoisted the much smaller man into the air and choked the shit out of him. “Where’s Fordyce?” he shouted in Johnny’s ear.
There was a sudden piercing heat through Sullivan’s left forearm. He grunted and let go, stepping away as the bone spike pulled through his muscle. Blood came gushing from the wound and splattered the snow. Johnny raised his arm. A narrow shard had extruded from Johnny’s elbow and it was painted red. Sullivan looked at the hole in his arm. “Haven’t seen that before.”
“You killed my brother, you bastard…” Johnny gasped, blood running freely from his nose and down his shirt. He charged and Sullivan struck him square in the throat. Johnny hit the ground with a gurgle. 
“Yeah. Your Power don’t do much for the soft bits.... Where’s Fordyce?”
Johnny Bones’ face was purple as he staggered to his feet. “I don’t know who you’re yappin’ about. You keep saying that name. Means nothing to me.”
“The Healer you kidnapped.” 
Johnny stopped and started to laugh like Sullivan had just said the funniest thing ever. “Him? You think I took him?” The laugh grew harsh and desperate. Johnny knew his time was up. “You been played, Heavy. Check my boys. We ain’t had no Mending…”
The man he’d shot in the factory… His arm had been in a sling. Hauptmann had been walking with a bad limp. This crew had never had a Healer… Sullivan had played the chump.
People had come out from somewhere into the street to see what was going on, kept back only by the circle of lawmen. They stood there, two Actives, having fought like gladiators for the crowd. Sullivan surveyed the cops and the witnesses, sighed, and let his injured arm hang limp at his side. 
The Shard faced him, eyes desperate, seething with Power as more stabbing chunks of bones stretched his skin. Nothing left to use, he was going to burn it all. Misshapen and jagged, Johnny no longer looked human.
“Stand down, Shard. It don’t have to be like this.” Sullivan drew his .45.  
“Maybe before you used my brother as skeet… Ain’t got nothing to live for now.” 
Johnny Bones bellowed as he charged. Sullivan extended his hand and fired three times. 
***
Sullivan gave the BI his statement. He got read the riot act by Special Agent in Charge Price, who was more upset about having to talk to the bloodthirsty press than he was that three police officers had been severely wounded. It was going to take some spin to say that a running gun battle in the streets was a good thing, but at least he did have a pile of dead gangsters to show for it. Surprisingly, Agent Cowley stuck up for Sullivan, said that they’d been unprepared for how much firepower the Maplethorpes had brought to bear, and that they shouldn’t have driven right into a bullet storm. 
Sullivan was kicking himself for calling the BI to begin with—he should have just handled it himself—but he was even more mad that he’d been set up. They plugged the hole in his arm and wrapped it in a bandage. Just a new scar to join the constellation of old scars… There would be no fancy Healings on the taxpayer’s dime for some dumb Heavy. 
Cowley had come up to him at one point and thanked him for saving his life. Sullivan wasn’t used to gratitude from official types and didn’t really know what to say in return. The exhausted agent took a seat across from him. “Sure has been one heck of a night. Not just for us, but all over town.... Sounds like one of your local gangs decided to clean house too. One of them Purples got hit. Abe Something-witz.”
“Horowitz?”
“That’s the name. Tough guy from what I was told. Had to be an inside job since they got him at home. No sign of forced entry, so he let them in. Pow. Single bullet right in the back of the head. Found him in the kitchen with a bottle of wine open and a glass in each hand.” 
Sullivan clammed up on the topic. Cowley thanked him again for saving his life and left to send a report to his superiors. Then after another few hours of answering the same questions over and over again, Sullivan was free to go. 
About damn time. He had questions of his own that need to be answered.
***
“Mae found your body. You owe me twenty-five bucks and a present.” 
Sullivan was in a phone booth not far from the police station. “Dead or alive?”
“Not just dead, but sliced into pieces dead,” Bernie answered. “That’s why it took Mae so long to find him.”
Sullivan groaned and rested his forehead on the cold glass. It had all been for nothing. “Where?”
“All over the city. Five, maybe six different places so far. Maybe more she hasn’t found yet, but I told her that was good enough. Mae found the first piece in a deli uptown. She says most of him had already been eaten.” 
Chopped into pieces and… “Did you say eaten?”
“Yeah. Of course. People ate him.”
What kind of sickos was he dealing with here? “Bernie, you’re telling me somebody chopped up Arthur and ate him?”
“Yeah… Why’s that so weird?” Bernie chuckled. Sullivan didn’t see what was so damn funny, since there was a gang of cannibal lunatics on the loose in Detroit. “Huh… Arthur. That’s a funny name for a porker.” 
“Porker?” Fordyce hadn’t been fat. 
“Porker. Pig. You know, oink oink, pink with a curly tail…. Oh… Wait... Mae says he was one of the white with brown spots kind.”
The blood in Fordyce’s car… He hadn’t given Bernie any details about the case, just asked him to find the body that the blood had come from. “Thanks, Bernie,” Sullivan mumbled as he returned the earphone to the cradle. 
***
The Fordyce home was the nicest one on a very nice street. The sun hadn’t been up for very long when Sullivan arrived, left arm bandaged and throbbing, to bang on the door. The butler tried to shoo him away, but Sullivan pushed his way inside and told the man in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t get Mrs. Fordyce. The butler threatened to call the police. Sullivan said good. 
After being escorted into the study, he took a seat on an overstuffed couch and waited, reading the spines of the hundreds of books on the walls. The collection made him envious. Emily Fordyce joined him a few minutes later, still tying the waist sash of an oriental silk robe. Her hair was undone and hung to her shoulders. 
“Late night?” he asked. 
“Yes, I’ve just been so worried.” But they both knew that’s why she hadn’t gotten much sleep. “Have you any news?”
Sullivan shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, lady.” 
Emily stopped. “Why… Whatever do you mean?”
“You can drop the act. I know I’m not the one that did all the killing last night. So how long have you known Horowitz? Must have been long enough that he wasn’t scared to turn his back on you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sent me to Horowitz. He sent me to Bones, who was such a rabid dog that you figured there was no way he’d be taken alive for questioning. Horowitz wanted him gone and Bones was as good a scapegoat as you’d ever find. Then you shot Horowitz because the only way two people can keep a secret is if one of them’s dead.”
The shocked expression that briefly crossed her lovely face said that he’d gotten close enough. She tried to play indignant. “How dare you accuse me!” She pointed at the door. “Get out!”
Sullivan stayed planted on the couch. “Why the pig blood?”
“How—” She caught herself too late. Emily’s arm fell. “If you knew Arthur, you’d know that the pig was appropriate. Well, I do say… You are smarter than you look.”
“Just a bit,” Sullivan said. “I’m assuming you had Horowitz stage the crime scene. You don’t strike me as the type that likes getting your own hands dirty.” 
Resigned, she walked around behind the ornate desk and flopped into Arthur’s wide rolling chair. “Not usually… The authorities had to declare that Arthur was dead before I could collect his insurance. I wanted to be elsewhere at the time for an alibi.”
Sullivan looked over at the giant painting of Arthur Fordyce hanging over the fireplace. “So, where’s your husband?”
She shrugged. “Argentina, I think. He’s run off again with one of his many mistresses. Again. The man’s seventy-five with the libido of an eighteen year old sailor. He does this all the time. He’ll be gone for weeks, sometimes months, before he crawls back, begging forgiveness.”
It was actually more surprising that he was alive than that he was a philanderer. “But why make it look like he was dead if he’s coming back?”
“Timing, Mr. Sullivan, timing. I had to be ready to act as soon as he ran off again. Arthur is declared legally dead. I get the insurance money, which is significant—let me tell you—I clean out the accounts and I leave the country.  The jerk comes home to find out he’s dead and broke. Serves him right.”
“If you hated him so much, why didn’t you just leave him?”
“I married that old fool for his money. I just didn’t realize how awful long a Healer can stick around.” She rolled her eyes. “I divorce him, I get nothing. It’s hard to poison a Healer slow enough to make it look natural. They just keep making themselves better. Believe me, I thought about just shooting him in the night and blaming it on robbers. The kidnapping was Abe’s idea.” 
“How’d you know Horowitz?” 
 Emily was looking around the desktop for something, suddenly she swept aside a book to reveal a small revolver hidden beneath. “Ah ha!” she shouted as she reached for it. She’d shoot him, say it was self defense or something… but Sullivan’s Power had recovered from last night’s escapade. He slammed multiple gravities down on the little gun. Emily tugged on it, grunting and pulling, but she couldn’t budge it. “Damn you, Heavy!”
“Unless you’re secretly a Brute, you’re not going to lift that piece…” He took out a smoke and struck a match. “So how’d you know Horowitz?”
Red faced, she gave up. “I was a dancer in one of his joints. That’s how I met Arthur… Arthur met lots of girls through Abe. I was just the first one sharp enough to catch him. Ugh… I can’t believe I’m admitting that.” 
“I can see why. You do put on a great show.” 
“Five years later, the old bastard was still kicking so we hatched this little plot… Timing was perfect, Arthur left again, and there was a crew that Abe wanted gone anyway, to  blame. Plus they were too stupid to get taken alive, and even if they denied it nobody would believe a filthy Shard. Should have been perfect.” 
“Arthur didn’t recommend me at all. Horowitz did.” 
“Sure, you and Arthur were in the same unit, but he didn’t know you from Adam. Abe couldn’t tip the cops off without implicating himself. He said you had a killer’s rep and you were motivated to keep the G-men off your back. Two birds, one stone he said.” She gave the revolver one last pensive tug. “So what now?”
“I decide what do with you.”
Emily was thinking hard and that was dangerous. “Abe got greedy, but once the insurance comes in, I’ve still got his share.” She rose from the seat and walked over to Sullivan while untying the sash on her robe. Stopping in front of him, she let the silk hang open, revealing that she wasn’t wearing much of anything underneath. “Poor little me… Defenseless against a big strong man like you. Oh, have mercy, Mr. Sullivan… I can make it worth your time.” 
“I bet you could.…” Sullivan blew out a cloud of smoke as he examined the dancer’s body. Emily waited, smirking. This was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. He stood up, gently took the edges of her robe in hand, appeared to think about it for just a second, and then covered her back up before stepping away. “But that would’ve been more tempting if you’d tried to seduce me before you tried to shoot me.”
“You no good—“
Sullivan looked toward the ceiling. “Mae! It’s time to go.” There was a sudden blast of wind as something stirred in the room. Emily’s hair whipped wildly and she had to struggle to keep her robe shut. The fireplace popped and sparked as something flew up the chimney and disappeared. 
“What was that?” 
“That’s Mae, a disembodied spirit. I brought her with me. Sweet girl, considering what she looks like. I had her record our talk and she’ll be able to show it to anybody with a Finder.” 
“But… No judge will allow that. No jury is going to take the word of a demon, you idiot. You’ve got nothing. I’ll deny this whole thing. You’re a felon and a stupid Heavy. I’m somebody now. Nobody will believe the likes of you!”
“I’m not going to show it to the law, girl. I sent her to the Purple gang…” Those two words hung in the air like the smoke from his cigarette. “I’m sure they’re mighty anxious to know who murdered their admiral.” 
“No…” Emily sank to her knees. “Oh no.” 
“I’ll be keeping your advance because I did solve the case.” Sullivan paused briefly on his way out the door. “And if I were you, I’d start running. Considering those Purple boys, you’re gonna want a head start.” 
 Outside, he could still hear the screams of frustration and the breaking of furniture but the sounds faded as he walked down the steps to his automobile. He needed to get some sleep, but first he owed Bernie some tin foil. 
The snow had really cleaned the air. There were kids running in the road, pulling each other on the sleds they’d just found under the tree. The people next door had built a snowman. It was a beautiful morning. Sure, he’d been tricked, lied to, stabbed, and had killed several men, but they’d had it coming, and he’d knocked two more off of J. Edgar Hoover’s to-do list. So all in all, not too shabby... 
As far as Christmases went, he’d had worse.
THE END

Kings

by Travis S. Taylor

“All hail to Abhir!” the Corps of Seven sounded.
Michael saluted smartly and then raised his staff, caught up in the excitement and cheers of the crowd. The Corps of Seven was a conglomeration of the most amazing military minds in recorded history – in forever. The Seven stood before the crowd and before Him.
“Grace to you,” Abhir said calmly in His booming voice as He filtered by the Corps. Michael could feel Him smile upon his presence. The mere thought of that filled him with pride. But it was more than just pride. His presence and acknowledgement of Michael somehow had an overwhelming physical effect upon him. There was the increasing and near unstoppable urge to adore and honor Him. Michael couldn’t explain it.
“To the General, to Abhir,” the crowd continued.
“All hail, Abhir!”
One uniformed man standing beside the Corps stepped forward and spoke through the sound projector at the five million subjects below that surrounded the palace as far as the eye could see – praising Abhir.
“Impressive soldiers, each and every one,” Abhir said to himself.
“To General Abhir, to Him who loved us and with His own blood made us kings, emperors of worlds, and generals of armies, in the name of His Father. Glory be to Him and His dominion forever and ever! Hail Abhir, General Abhir, Emperor Abhir!”
Abhir approached the edge of the palace overlook and peered down at the sea of elite soldiers below. They stood below him, ready and willing – in fact anxious – to give their lives for the Emperor. Abhir felt calm and confident as always and definitely looked the part of the Emperor of the Universe. The Corps of Seven stood firmly behind him in their smart golden uniforms. Abhir stood straight, ran his fingers over his long white hair and then straightened his golden Corps insignia band. The insignia bore a man holding seven suns in his right hand and wielding a brilliant shining sword before his face as if he were poised to kiss it.
“Bring the creature in,” Abhir said in his booming voice. The crowd below had no problem hearing Him.
Michael and two of the other members of the Corps moved to a doorway off the balcony and opened it and stood post on either side. Four men in Army of the Seven Stars uniforms led the creature forward.
“Its name is Jacob, sir,” Michael whispered and then backed away toward his post position. Abhir nodded in acknowledgement.
Jacob fell before Abhir, trembling, panicking, his eyes wide with fear. Then he grasped his left side in agony and collapsed completely. Michael held his staff over Jacob and then looked at his Emperor announcing the creature’s death. “The shock must’ve killed it, sir.” Michael grinned at the primitive. He understood that the strain of meeting one’s maker must be too overwhelming for such simple creatures.
Abhir knelt to the frail creature and touched him, thinking how much alike us they look; the geneticist did well. “Do not be afraid of me,” Abhir said as Jacob jumped to life, coughing and eyes wide again.
“Who are you?” Jacob asked.
“I am not for you to fear but instead to love. I am your beginning and your end, or rather what you will become in the end. But you and your peoples will never reach that end if you do not circumvent the path you are presently on. My generals tell me that your people are on a downward spiral into despair and might not survive. But if you and your people will join us willingly and give yourselves to me I will show you the path to overcome your obstacles, to eat from the fruits of life, and to join us in the everlasting paradise that is My domain.”
The crowd cheered, “Hail, Abhir!”
“And what if I decline?” Jacob asked, still trembling.
Michael stepped forward as though he would rap Jacob with his staff, but Abhir warned him off with a sideways glance.
“These things you can say to your people.” Abhir began. “These things you should say to your people. These things you will say to your people. Any peoples who bear the mark of the Seven Stars shall be fearless of the evils of this universe and will live forever in paradise and never want. Those who do not I fear will soon find themselves at the mercy of my evil adversaries and will know no such days of paradise of which I speak.”
“What price would such enduring paradise require?” Jacob asked.
“Only love and gratitude and the desire to do your part in perpetuating the Great Kingdom of the Seven Stars would be required of you and your people.”
“And what part is that, Great One?” Jacob sneered as his hatred for required servitude overshadowed his fear of the overwhelming sights before him.
The impudence of this one; I really like him, Abhir thought. “Your people will give to me those that are willing to serve in harm’s way in order to ensure their families will live in freedom from evil forever.”
“Then this is an offer we cannot refuse?” Jacob said more than asked.
Abhir smiled. The strength in this one and the defiance should make the Genetics Corps proud. So many others in his position merely fell to their knees in worship of me with no defiance. “Correct, you cannot refuse.”
“Sounds evil to me, and I will not bargain my people's future on such an offer, never!” Jacob spat.
“Do not be so hasty in your decision. I shall give you ten days to think it over. You will be shown the evils of the heavens and why the only safe and true path is with Me. And believe me, Jacob, that after your ten days of tribulation are over you will beg to join us!” Abhir boomed with confidence.
“Hail Abhir, Supreme Emperor!”
“Enjoy your stay in Hell, Jacob.” Abhir waved his hand and Jacob disintegrated.
“Hail Abhir!”
# # #

Jacob reintegrated in a dark room filled with screams and disgusting smells. He could feel the presence of others nearby but couldn’t see them. The area was dark – dark enough so that he could only imagine that he was seeing edges, walls, and details. He was certain that he felt the moisture of breath around him, but it was foul and strange. The stench was too alien to be of creatures that Jacob was familiar with. Jacob tried to calm himself as his eyes adjusted to the extreme darkness. Then an eerie red glow appeared before him.
“Follow me,” the red entity said in Jacob’s tongue. “Careful, the path is narrow ahead.”
“Where am I?” Jacob asked. “And, and, what are you?”
“You are here,” the red glow said. “I am Lucy.” Jacob heard female overtones in the glowing thing's voice. “Step into me now. You will not be able to complete the rest of the journey on your own.”
“What? I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers. Where am I and what is going on?” Jacob stepped slightly backward, away from the red glow.
“You are here and if you will follow my instructions I am taking you to someone who will explain it all.” Lucy’s glow surrounded Jacob, “I won’t hurt you.”
Then Jacob was inside of Lucy and appeared to be traveling or flying. To where and how fast was difficult to tell since there were no visible landmarks or stars or any light at all except for the faint red glow in the direction they were traveling. And then they were there on what appeared to be solid ground surrounded by the red glow and Lucy warned Jacob that he should not try to leave the safety of her because it would destroy him instantly.
Then a man stepped forward through the infinite half hemisphere of red. He appeared to be a typical man. He stood six feet tall with short closely cropped black hair and goatee. His facial features were handsome, yet haggard, and his clothing seemed military, but old and worn.
“You can call me Belial,” the man said. “Or if you prefer, Anson.”
“Why two names?”
“Belial is what many peoples from many stars hereabouts know me as,” the man replied. “Anson is the name I was given at birth and one I haven’t used for several thousand years.”
“Okay, Belial then. What the hell is going on?”
“If you are here to talk to me, then I fear that your planet is unfortunately being overrun by the expansion wave of a species in this galaxy known as the Kingdom of the Seven Stars – or, more precisely, reclaimed by its original designers and builders. Your people were developed years ago by the Army of the Seven Stars Corps of Genetic Design. The purpose was as it always is, as my planet was millennia ago, to evolve soldiers for the Emperor’s Armies of Conquest. Emperor indeed – bleck!” Belial spat and shook his head.
“If he rules the heavens who would he need to fight?”
“He merely controls a fifth of this galaxy – about a hundred billion worlds – and He claims to be the Emperor of the Universe. There are trillions of trillions of worlds out there. One of these days the bastard will get his. His geneticists travel the galaxy and seed every world within reach with various genetic codes that are designed to evolve into his future fighting forces. Emperor Abhir has expanded his kingdom this way for the past billion years or more. It is hard to know exactly how long.”
“A billion years – then he is a god?” Jacob was amazed by His longevity.
“No more than I am! And no more than you are. His technology is just better and far more advanced. His people typically gain the benefit of longevity. It makes for better soldiers.” Belial looked displeased and added, “It allows him to torture his prisoners longer as well. He takes pleasure in that.”
“I'm confused. How is it that I was whisked away to here? And why?” Jacob was frightened as well as confused. “Only a god would have such powers.”
“It is merely your time and misfortune, I guess. The Emperor’s expansion in the galaxy has simply caught up with your people’s development.” Belial walked around Jacob sizing him up. “As to how you were whisked away, well, it would take you years of graduate school in quantum physics to get that. The key is… well, the things I am about to tell you might prove difficult for you to understand at first, but for your sake, for your people’s, you must try hard to grasp it.”
“Okay, but this is so very strange to me. What's kwantun fissks?”
“Quantum physics,” Belial replied. “Tell me, what is the most complex tool or machine or device you have on your homeworld?” Belial stroked his goatee.
“We have great machines designed to lift large stones the size of a dwelling. Our architects have used them to design vast monuments to our gods,” Jacob replied proudly.
“Typical. The coward is afraid to reclaim a planet with any real technology. Hmm, that’s why I’m here, don’t you know. We almost ran him off, the son-of-a-bitch.”
“But where is here and why am I here?” Jacob gritted his teeth.
“The Emperor has lost touch with reality, I think. He believes that he has sent you to Hell – a pit of despair and torture that you will beg to be free from. And no doubt, Lucy here will take you to all of the levels herein and you will see some of that. She is an automaton that functions only to serve Him. The only way in or out of the event horizon is through the connected transport tunnel that you came in on. And as far as I can tell He alone controls that. But Hell? No, I would dare to say that Hell is out there under His tyrannical rule.”
“I came through no tunnel, Belial. I was there at His palace in the Heavens and then I was here.” It was more than Jacob could grasp at the moment. connected transport tunnel, event horizon. He understood the individual words, but used together as this Belial just had, made little sense to him.
Belial laughed. “Yes, it's not easy to grasp and should not be an easy concept to understand for your people for thousands of years. But you must begin to grasp this information now, if you wish to survive this invasion.”
“Very well, explain it to me.”
Again Belial laughed, “That's the spirit, Jacob.”
Belial spent the next day telling Jacob the story of his people and how they were spawn of Abhir. How his people had achieved over several hundred thousand years of development the means of longevity, of superior strength and intelligence. How his people had mastered all of their homeworld and then reached out into the heavens. They had colonized several of the moons and planets in their own solar system and had begun to expand outward to the nearest stellar neighbors. They had even defeated two separate alien invasions. But then came the Army of the Seven Stars.
Jacob found this all amazingly difficult to believe. Yesterday, it would have been fantasy, but today he had met a “god” and had seen his planet from the heavens. He had seen this all-powerful creature named Abhir and his army’s top ranked individuals. The Army of the Seven Stars officers that he had already seen with his own eyes alone was nearly a full percent the size of the entire population of Jacob’s homeworld. There was no knowing the full magnitude of His armies. And His Kingdom spanned over a hundred billion homeworlds!
Belial described the armies as massive and requiring vast armadas of vessels that could traverse the heavens just to move them about. The magnitude of those armadas was lost on Jacob as he could not really grasp the vastness of the galaxy and what a hundred billion worlds truly meant. Jacob did understand that Abhir’s domain was huge; it was just the scale that was lost on him. And he finally realized the dire situation of his people as Belial described the fateful day when his people crossed the boundaries of the Kingdom of the Seven Stars’ developed worlds. Then Abhir was more arrogant and less cautious. He attempted to force Belial’s people into worshiping submission with the same offer that had been made to Jacob. War is what occurred.
Belial’s people saw Abhir for what it was and stood their ground in a war that waged for more than a century. Finally, when his people were defeated, most of them were assimilated into the Seven Stars Army. Those who remained dissident were imprisoned or simply disposed of. Belial had been their leader and Abhir had taken pleasure in seeing him tortured in prison for eternity.
“That brings me back to my question as to what and where here is?” Jacob responded.
“Well, Jacob, you see when some stars reach a certain maturity in their life cycles, they collapse on themselves into a single minute point, but they still maintain their mass. These stars become bottomless pits from which nothing can escape once they begin falling inward past a certain distance. Anything too close to this star – inside its event horizon – will never be able to escape.”
“How could we survive being inside such a place?” Jacob challenged.
“Somehow, the Emperor has seen fit to place several oases with varying forms of atmospheres and levels of gravity. He is smart and powerful, I’ll grant you that. You're at one of the lower levels now, where the remainder of my people are held. We have learned over the years to tolerate the harsh conditions here. The red cloud was placed here to make the very act of breathing difficult as punishment and reminder of our defiance to Him.”
“Why would He do that?”
“We used this gas cloud against His armies during the final battles. It killed hundreds of thousands of his soldiers, but they kept coming until they eventually overran us. It was that bastard Michael who finally defeated us in the end – too bad the gas didn’t get him. Forcing us to breathe the gas is His idea of poetic justice. His scientists altered the gas just enough that it wouldn’t kill us, but would make us suffer, forever.” Belial lowered his head and began to cry. He whispered something under his breath and Jacob could tell he was praying. Jacob bowed his head and offered a prayer to his God in pity for Belial and in fear for his people.
“It is time to move onward,” Lucy’s voice interrupted the silent moment.
“Jacob, do as he says and your people will not suffer as mine have. Enthusiastically and thus peacefully allow yourselves to be assimilated into the Kingdom. You cannot defy him…now.” Belial bowed slightly to him as Lucy swept Jacob upward and then away from the oasis in the bottomless pit of despair.
#
Lucy showed Jacob similar cases to Belial for the first four days and then she took him to a part of the pit that housed what Lucy described as the Emperor’s most feared and evil enemies. Indeed, Jacob agreed with that assessment. There were creatures that seemed mindless and murderous that had no will other than to inflict harm. There were beasts and creatures that were so far from anything resembling Jacob that he felt fear and revulsion from the mere sight of them. There were animals with intellects far superior to what Jacob possessed, but their motivations were alien.
One small gathering of creatures that appeared to be large men with lion fur and manes and claws and fangs showed interest in their presence – an intelligent curiosity. One of the largest of the lions with a white stripe on his forehead approached the red boundary of Lucy and peered in at Jacob.
“Creature, you misunderstand us,” it said.
“What?” Jacob was startled.
“There will be a day that we are needed, as we are not mindless animals. In fact, there are those who believe us to be gods. Indeed, we will be needed.”
“Needed for what?” Jacob asked.
“One day, one great day, the key to His defeat will fall to my species. For that day, I pray that at least one of us still survives.” The lion roared in heart-wrenching agony and turned away.
“What did he mean by that?” Jacob asked Lucy, but Lucy had proven to be nearly useless when it came to information.
#
The boundary war with a new evil had been waged for more than two centuries. If there ever was a true evil in the galaxy it had to be these creatures. Standing more than nine feet tall and appearing like giant black and red locust, the creatures proved to be horrid adversaries. They seemed to have come from nowhere and procreated at an amazingly nonlinear rate. No one in the Kingdom knew who they were or where they came from, but their purpose seemed clear: spread and devour anything in their path – anything. A fleet of the giant beasts could completely ravage an entire star system in a matter of years. Their standard procedure being to start in an outer cloud of comets, building up their forces and devouring all the raw materials in the cometary cloud. Then they would move inward to the belt of larger bodies. When the belt of outer planetoids was devoured the bugs would move inward and swallow up any civilizations that might exist in the planetary system.
All attempts at negotiations with the creatures only seemed to fuel their desire to destroy and spread destruction. No living being within the Kingdom, not even the all-powerful Emperor, knew what fueled their rage. They simply advanced and continued to advance. The Army of the Seven Stars slaughtered them by the hundreds of millions over the past two centuries, yet they still advanced.
Jacob grew tired of fighting the bugs on the fringes of the Great Kingdom, but he knew that this was a true evil that must be halted. He had faced countless other species and none of them were as frightening as the bugs – and none of them deserved to be slaughtered by the millions as He had ordered done. But not long after Jacob’s people were assimilated into the Kingdom, and not long after Jacob had begun fighting to protect his people’s well being, the bugs appeared on the fringes of the Kingdom. Soon Jacob, as a competent soldier, was moved to where the need was greatest. The General Michael noted Jacob’s abilities early on and personally promoted him to the Fleet in the Fringe to battle with the new foe. But that had been two hundred years past and the evil creatures advanced, and the Army of the Seven Stars fell back. On all other fronts the Kingdom grew, but here, against this adversary – this evil – the Kingdom retreated.
Four of the Great Seven Generals were now stationed on the fringe. Occasionally He would visit the “front lines” to rally the soldiers of His Army, but He never seemed concerned with the advancing expansion wave of alien insects. The bugs had forced the Kingdom lines of expansion to a complete halt since Jacob had been on the front lines and he was beginning to wonder if there was a Great plan that would lead them to victory over the bugs. Did He have a plan? Jacob would only wonder.
The expansion wave was beginning to encroach on the comet cloud of a small yellow star system that contained an implanted civilization. Michael had explained to the front contingents that this planet’s development showed great promise and the inhabitants must be protected and allowed to continue developing. The species had begun building large monuments to their gods and showed a great propensity for combat and strategy. It was decided by Him to let them evolve another few thousand years before assimilating them into the Kingdom. However, the horrid alien insects were changing His plans – THAT COULD NOT BE ALLOWED!
An all out offensive was ordered against the bugs in that region of space – planet designation 17,777,111,342. There were several surrounding star systems in similar situations and several behind the lines that would make for good muster points and tactical operations centers. Michael had personally asked Lieutenant Colonel Jacob to handle initial contact on one of the primitive worlds.
#
“Lieutenant Colonel, we are falling out of pseudo-jaunt space and are now subluminal!” Lieutenant Spixcer informed the bridge captain.
“Thanks, Spix. Standard parking orbit. You and Captain Freeney meet me in the launch bay in ten minutes, suited up and ready to go.”
“Yes sir!”
#
Jacob walked beside his Starfire FB111, doing his preflight and pondering his present mission. How far I’ve changed from the leader of a primitive world those centuries ago, he thought, as he always thought.
“Sir? We are preflighted and ready when you are,” Spixcer thought over the net as he waved to him from across the launcher.
“Right. Let’s move out.” Jacob thought to the control device in his frontal lobe and the repulsor field appeared tightly around him making a shimmer of light surround him for a split second. Jacob calmly levitated himself into the pilot’s seat and then lowered the canopy of the Starfire. Wireless connections to the control systems began handshaking with his implanted control device and Jacob could feel the starfighter/bomber come to life. A few milliseconds of handshaking with the fleet launch tower and Jacob was thrown out of the larger craft into space at more than five percent of light speed. The repulsor field damped the acceleration and Jacob barely felt more than four gravities. Lieutenant Spixcer and Captain Freeney were right behind him. They had done this tens of thousands of times over the last century or two.
“All right, boys, standard ops. We land in the desolated area here.” Jacob highlighted part of the map in their heads. “Then when we are certain the perimeter is secure, we have the convoy descend and set up base camp and operations.”
The three starfighters dropped in formation and landed quietly in the designated area. Freeney flew from his ship and began a security sweep. Spix followed suit.
“Boring, sir. Nothing unusual,” Freeney thought over the net.
“Great. You two continue setting up and get the convoy started. I’m going to reconnoiter,” Jacob commanded back through the net. He watched the two men at work – a bright golden glow surrounding them from their repulsor fields interacting with the atmosphere making them look extremely regal even to his sophisticated eyes.
The little planet was not that unlike the one he had grown up on centuries before. There were loamy rolling hills and occasional tropical vegetation and trees. The indigenous creatures were not overly harsh or meek – it was a typical planet. Jacob flew at a moderate pace of a few hundred miles per hour until he reached the first sight of dwellings and intelligent lifeforms. They were humanoids, as most all of the implanted species were. He didn’t really like nonhumanoids. Jacob had never understood that, but his was not to question the Emperor.
Jacob set down on the loamy soil between an outcropping of tropical fruit trees. On his way down he picked one of the fruits. His implants told him that the fruit was not only safe, but also enjoyable, so he held it to his mouth and the field made an opening for the fruit to pass through. Jacob took a bite of the fruit and felt the juice dribble down the corner of his mouth. The field quickly cleaned it – the reflex to wipe his face had been conditioned away a century ago.
Two of the indigenous humanoids were startled by his presence and ran away. The two seemed to be a male and female and were young, perhaps adolescents. Jacob followed them on foot toward a small village. Sometimes it felt good just to walk like a man. By the time he reached the center of the village a crowd had gathered, led by an elderly female in a brown cloth sarong and wielding a large bent staff. Jacob decided she must be the mayor, high priestess, or whatever they called the leader of this tribe.
The woman jabbered at Jacob for a few seconds and he stood patiently listening. Then finally the interpreter program correlated to the language and Jacob understood them.
“Hello, I am Jacob. I have traveled a long way to meet you and I come in peace.”
“These two say you fell from the sky,” the old woman said, pointing to the teenagers that Jacob had startled in the orchard.
“That is true. I come from far far away. The bright spots in the sky you see at night is where I am from.” At that several of the primitives fell to their knees and bowed. Get up you fools, Jacob thought.
“Why are you here, Great One?” one of the younger tribesmen asked.
Jacob hated playing to the primitive beliefs of any species, but it was the standard protocol for first contacts – any contacts. It was His protocol. “I come to help you and to bring paradise to your people. I am here to help and spread the Greatness of my Kingdom to yours. I am but the adjunct and emissary of my Leader. The One who rules the heavens. I am here to spread His word and bring you into His fold.” Jacob bit back his distaste for this approach.
“Will we meet this Great One, emissary?” the old woman said skeptically.
“Likely, in due time, as he is everywhere.” He always shows up sooner or later.
#
It took a mere few weeks to have the tactical operations center and rear post camp set up. The locals built a village around the camp and were used as labor forces when possible. Jacob coopted as many of the smarter locals as possible to “spread His word” and bring more of the locals “into His fold.” Occasionally Jacob would have to levitate a house, cure an illness, or rescue a missing child in order to prove His might. Once, Jacob even appeared in front of a local architect and implanted him with all of the languages of his planet. Jacob told him to go spread His word and bring more workers. Jacob also had his most trusted officers spread out and set up multiple stations across the planet using the same tactics.
A month later the planet had fleets of starfighters, hovertanks, and heavy armored walkers at each of the muster points. Word through the net was that the other rearward planet muster points had been established as well. Hospitals, training centers, and manufacturing facilities were set up and the locals were used in menial labor tasks everywhere possible. Battleships, spacecarriers, and attack class frigates filled the void between the worlds behind the lines. Hundreds of millions of soldiers from the Army of the Seven Stars rallied and prepared. Convoys from the center of the Kingdom were moving more and more of the war machine closer to the front lines. Very soon it would be brought to bear on the evil beasts.
#
The world had changed overnight for Elijah when they showed up. In a matter of weeks his entire village and all of the villages within weeks journey were now laboring day and night for them. Elijah had no particular love for the newcomers but he also understood when to fight and when to join, so he learned and absorbed as much information from the aliens as he possibly could. Aliens, not gods, is how Elijah understood them. Sure, they possessed powers that were so amazing that they in all intents and purposes to him were gods, but they were not gods. Elijah understood this.
Elijah also understood that these aliens had not come to his homeworld for the benefit of his people. They seemed preoccupied with something – something else, something that scared them. So, Elijah decided that if it scared these powerful beings, then their only hope would be to join them – as distasteful as that might be.
Elijah had studied his people’s history and was probably one of the most learned students of his people’s past. Much of that history seemed too much like religion and mythology to him but now, now he was unsure of everything. Every chance he got he would question the aliens about why they were there and what was their purpose. What he typically got was that “His will would be done. ”
“These aliens are here,” Elijah would tell his family, “because they are preparing for something. We should all endeavor to discover what this is. To them we are but primitives. In science and technology yes we are, but we have minds and we can think and we know our planet, our home. We are the only ones who care what happen to us. We must keep our eyes and ears open and look out for ourselves.”
Elijah’s family quickly built a network of closely trusted friends. In a matter of weeks Elijah was getting steady reports from many villages of the aliens’ movements and planning. He had to bide his time and learn.
#
Michael stood stiff in the war room of the huge wheel-shaped spacecraft that he had designated as the forward operations command post. From the tactical information and the real-time multidimensional battlescape emulator, he knew that the war raged fiercely in the planetoid belt just past the outer gas giant planets of this system. The Plan had already been disrupted when the Army failed to stop the insects at planet 17,777,111,342. The bugs continued to advance and were only a decade or less from the rearward muster points that had been set up a decade earlier. They had to be stopped, but Michael had used every tactic and strategy that had worked for him previously – for more than ninety million years. But the Bugs advanced forward.
“General,” Jacob thought over the net.
“Yes, Colonel, report.” Michael barked into Jacob’s mind.
“We have lost more than seventy percent of the Starfires, and the fleet frigates have all but been destroyed. We need reinforcements or I fear this campaign will be lost,” Jacob thought as he dodged incoming repulsor blasts from several different bug pods. He pulled the starfighter into a full acceleration dive through a small planetoid, shattering it into thousands of deadly fragments. The planetoid fragments caught several of the bug pods unaware, smashing them into oblivion.
Freeney swept in behind Jacob to mop up the bugs that had taken a six o’clock vantage point and was himself blind-sided by heavy fire from bug plasma artillery on the planetoid below. Spixcer dropped a cache of antimatter bombs on the planetoid, but it was seconds too late. Freeney’s shields were gone and his personal field was nowhere near strong enough to repel such a hit. He had been vaporized by the plasma bursts.
“Colonel, this is madness! We are outnumbered and outpowered. We must retreat!” Spixcer thought on the person-to-person code to Jacob.
Jacob had exhausted his antimatter bombs, his plasma disruptors were offline, and his repulsor cannons were at thirty percent. The starfighters in his command had been dwindled to less than a third the number of the bug pods and there was no support from the fleet that would be available for precious minutes.
“General Michael, it is my professional opinion that we are nothing but meat for the grinder at this point. We are having little to no effect against their superior numbers.” Jacob was slammed by a repulsor blast that completely depleted his shields and sent him spinning wildly at near relativistic velocity out of the planetoid engagement zone.
“Very well, Colonel. We shall try a new tactic.” Michael switched from the command channel to the wide area net. “All soldiers retreat at maximum pseudo-jaunt capabilities. Rescue frigates will be back to save you as soon as possible. You have all fought in a manner that would please our Great Emperor. Glory to Abhir!”
Michael watched the tactical displays and the multidimensional emulated battlefield in his mind as the Army of the Seven Stars retreated once again. But this time he would do something different. All of his great ships would be lost, but that would be a small price to pay to stop these insidious vermin. When the emulator showed that only acceptable losses would be taken, he gave a command to the giant space wheel’s navigation system and at full pseudo-jaunt it lurched into the local star and the giant spaceship – and its crew of seventy thousand – imploded at the star’s central core.
Michael reintegrated on the connection pad of a battle cruiser waiting at the maximum range of the teleporter system – nearly half the distance light travels in a year. Michael regained his composure and walked immediately to the tactical systems displays and completed the coded wireless handshaking to his frontal lobe implants. The battlescape emulation reappeared in his mind. Michael could see the star had collapsed on itself and been induced to go supernova. Of course the bugs could escape the blast wave, as they were a few light hours out, but they would have to retreat. The system was lost completely, but at least the insects did not take it. Michael continued to read the tactical displays and watch the data from the battle and now the rescue operations filter through his mind. More than eight hundred million inhabitants of the little green world of that system were lost and over seven million soldiers of His army were lost. Abhir would not be pleased. A bittersweet victory to say the least.
#

The rescue went well and most all of those who made it free of the engagement zone were saved. The survivors were rushed back to the muster points for medical attention, resupply, and new orders. Jacob survived the ordeal physically unharmed, but the sacrifice of millions of lives again and again was more than he could accept. Was His plan simply to sacrifice everybody in the Kingdom? Would that be any worse than being overtaken by the Bugs – after all, isn't death death?
#
Over two decades had passed since the aliens landed on Elisha’s homeworld. When they arrived he was but seven years of age. His father had warned them then that they should keep an eye on the invaders as closely as possible. For twenty years the house of his father had slaved and labored for the aliens. The entire cell network that Elijah had created had yet to deliver anything useful that would aid them in ridding themselves of the false gods – that was about to change.
Elisha was spreading His word to villages in the mountains when a fleet of battered vehicles landed at the nearby basecamp. Laborers rushed to help the soldiers from the Army of the Seven Stars unload wounded and equipment from the vessels. There were tens of thousands of wounded, there were thousands of damaged weapons and ground assault systems – it took all day for the villagers and the healthy soldiers to unload the ships. Elisha did his part to help, whether he believed in these aliens or not, he was still a good man and these were living beings that should not be forced to suffer so for their Leader. Elisha did the right thing and helped where he could.
For two decades the members of the cell network had been trying to discern more about what battle was taking place in the heavens, but the aliens were tight-lipped about it. It was none of the business of the primitives – they should be more concerned with pleasing Him and carrying out His will. But today –
A small battered frigate dropped to the south side of the village nearest the alien hospital. Thirty-six armed guards flowed from the hatch levitating via their magic glowing presence and between them they carried a different creature. It had the likeness of an insect and must have been taller than two men. Its shell was black and red and when it turned its head its face had the likeness of a man but with large mandibles. The creature wore some sort of body armor on top of its exoskeleton and when it moved it moved with great strength, for it bounced the soldiers levitating in their magic glow around like toy balls.
Nukpana! I must tell my father, Elisha knew.
Several days later word finally got to Elijah through the cell network – Nukpana! Elijah knew that he must do something, but what he was unsure of. If the ancient warnings were true, nothing would stop the creatures, nothing could stop the creatures – except their masters. If the Nukpana have been unleashed, then Elijah feared it was only a matter of time before they destroyed his world – his family. I must act, he thought.
#
“What do you mean he claims to know about the bugs?” Major Spixcer questioned the sergeant via a person-to-person.
“Well, sir, he came up to my men and started babbling about knowing the evil we face and how to stop them!” The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and placed an image of the primitive laborer in Spixcer’s mind.
Spixcer contemplated the man for a moment as he thought over his image. “Okay, get him here now, and keep it quiet. We don’t want to raise false hope.”
“Right, sir. I can have him there in half an hour by Starfire. If you want him earlier I suggest the pads.”
“No, spacecraft is fine. Spix out.”
#
Elijah had traveled in his life, as far as a hundred villages away, but this was incredible. The soldier had led him to one of their small metal beasts and levitated him up and into a seat that was directly behind where the soldier would sit. The man placed binders all around Elijah’s shoulders and waist and told him not to move around too much and not to touch anything. Then the man floated into the front seat and a large clear crystal formed above them. A few seconds later Elijah heard the rushing noise of a thousand rivers and was thrust into his seat and felt as though he weighed many times his normal weight.
“Have a look out the cockpit, uh, what did you say your name was again?”
“Elijah. And you aaarrr-” Elijah looked out at that moment and realized he was so far above his world that even the largest buildings could barely be seen.
“I’m Sergeant C’leat. Never flown before I gather.” The sergeant laughed.
“No. My Gods, we can see the world from here. It is round!” Elijah said.
“They all are.” C’leat laughed again. “Just relax and enjoy the view. I’ll have you back on the ground in about fifteen minutes or so.”
#
“Do you have a map of my world? I will show you,” Elijah told Colonel Jacob and Major Spixcer.
“Spix, accommodate him,” Jacob replied.
Spixcer thought a few commands to the rooms systems and then a three dimensional image of the planet appeared before them. “There you go.”
Elijah looked at the planet, his world – it was round, the stargazers were right! And my Gods look at the great seas upon it. But he had no idea where to start. He had never seen his planet from that view before.
“What’s wrong, Elijah? Here is your map. Just touch it to zoom in.” Spixcer said.
“Spix, I forget that you were born into the Kingdom and not assimilated.” Jacob shook his head side to side. “Elijah, this is how your world looks from a great distance away, just as your moon does. Understand?” The colonel waited to see if Elijah did understand and could tell that Elijah was a quick study. “Now, you’ve never seen your planet from this view right?” Elijah shook his head. “What is the name of your village?”
“I am from G’l’d,” he said.
“Really? My first contact with you people was not far from there in a little place called Z’ra’phth. There was a little old woman there running things.” Jacob laughed.
“Yes,” Elijah remarked. “I know it well. I had an, uh, acquaintance there at one time. Can you show me this place on your map?”
Jacob reached out to the world floating before them as if he would pick it up, but rather he spun it slightly to the opposite side from what they had been viewing. “We’re on the wrong side of the planet. You have traveled today, Elijah.” Jacob could see Elijah’s eyes widen.
Jacob zoomed into the village that he knew from decades before – he stopped at house level resolution. Elijah gasped.
“Praise be to Him!” Elijah said. “This is wondrous.”
“Colonel,” Spixcer said impatiently.
“Right, Spix. So, Elijah, show me what you wish to show me. Just drag your finger along the surface in the direction you wish to go. If you need to zoom out we just say ‘zoom out.’”
Elijah nodded as he studied the map. He touched the surface, expecting to feel something – he did not. He traced the path through the streets and from village to village, across the mountain pass and the Mountain Temple, to the ancient temples near the Great River. “Here. It is here that I need to take you.”
“Spix?”
“About thirty minutes, sir.”
“Get us there.”
#
The temples were mammoth architectural feats for such a primitive culture. It must have taken them a century to build. Why they had built them was a mystery to most. But Elijah – the premier historian of his people – knew their ancient purpose.
“It’s through this passage and then down another thousand feet or so. Follow me.” Elijah led them through the passages of the ancient temple to a great chamber filled with writings from thousands of years before. “Here, here! See!” Elijah pointed to a hieroglyph of a large insect creature carved into the chamber wall. The creature stood towering over many dismembered men. Spixcer and Jacob traded glances. “They are called Nukpana – true evil they are. And here, see this.” He pointed to a wall covered with the bugs marching over army after army of men and all manner of beasts.
“What does this mean, Elijah? Have these Nukpana been here before?” Jacob asked.
“No, no. This is a warning from our ancient Gods. Long before you arrived. These are our Gods’ protectors and are only unleashed if our Gods are overcome by evil. It is then that the Gods believe the universe will be unfit and their Nukpana will spread and devour the heavens. Making way for a rebirth. Once the galaxy is devoured, the evil creatures will die and the cycle of life can begin again. This is not a prophecy but a warning not to threaten the Gods.” Elijah explained.
“A thrice-be-damned doomsday device!” Spixcer exclaimed.
“Sounds like it,” Jacob agreed. “But who are their gods?” Jacob placed a finger on one of the Nukpana and asked Elijah.
“Ah, yes. Here.” Elijah pressed into a golden symbol on the wall with all his might. “Uh, it is stuck. Can you help me depress this lever here?” He pointed at the large symbol. The three men put their shoulders against the large symbol on the wall and pushed. A door-sized panel gave way and swung open. Before them was a thirty-foot tall gold and ivory statue of a giant half man half lion beast with gold mane and a white stripe on his forehead.
#
Elisha passed from village to village as swiftly as he could with hopes to reach his father before he left. At each alien encampment he would stop and speak with the alien liaison officer. At each encampment the alien liaison officer expressed to him that his father had been called to Serve Him in the heavens and he might not see him again for a while – or maybe ever.
“Be proud that your father is the first of your race that has been blessed enough to be called to Serve Him,” the aliens would tell Elisha. “But you must hurry for they leave soon.”
Elisha wished to see his father before he left their world to Serve – Elisha had to know why he would do such a thing. Finally, several villages downstream on the Great River, Elisha managed to find an officer of the Army that had met Elijah before and thought well of him. The officer took Elisha’s hand and levitated him at speeds faster than any of the flying creatures of his world to the camp near the Great Temples. He managed to find Elijah with only minutes to spare. There, in the shadows of the Great Temples, he saw his father for what might be the last time.
“Father, oh father!” Elisha wept. “How can you leave us, your beloved family to leave with them?”
“Elisha, my boy, I love you and your brothers and sisters and your mother more than life itself. And it is because of this love that I must go in order to save you and our world from the evil swarm of the Nukpana that will soon light upon our world and devour us, as the ancient warnings tell.”
“But they can take care of this, father.” Tears streamed Elisha’s face.
“My son, you must promise me to carry on as we have and that you will be the man of the family. You must take care of our world, son.” Elijah held his son’s head in his hands and kissed his son goodbye.
“Elijah, it's time to go,” Spixcer said as he and Jacob came to him. The two aliens lead Elijah into a ship and it left for the heavens. Elisha fell to his knees and wept.
#
“Don’t try to step out of the red glow, Elijah. It is there for your protection.” Spixcer told him.
“Thank you, Major Spixcer. Where are we? Where did He send us?” Elijah had been greatly intimidated by Him before being transported magically to where they were now. One minute he had been bowing in front of the Almighty and the next he was in this dark place being greeted by this talking red cloud.
“We are in Hell,” Spixcer said, frightening Elijah.
“Enough of that, Spix!” Jacob ordered. “This is a maximum security prison, Elijah. We believe that the Kingdom conquered your gods about two and a half centuries ago. There are a few of them left here, we believe. That is why we brought you to them. If they understand who you are, perhaps you can convince them to help you.”
The three of them set down in the region where the lions were held. A few moments later several of the lions approached them.
“By the look of your robes, creature, I would guess you are from G’l’d?” The tallest and oldest of the lions – the one Jacob had met so many years ago – stood before them, sizing them up.
“Yes, Great Nalsa!” Elijah said and bowed his head.
“If they have brought you here, I can only surmise that the Nukpana have been released?” The lion looked at the two soldiers from the cursed Abhir’s Kingdom.
Elijah nodded.
“And you cannot stop them, can you?” He looked at Jacob.
“We cannot thus far,” Jacob replied. “A doomsday tactic?”
“Doomsday, indeed!” Nalsa growled.
“Tell us how to stop it, Great One. My world is on the verge of being devoured.” Elijah fell to his knees.
“I am sorry, primitive one, but I will not deal with the Kingdom’s evil Leader. His expansion has been completely in disregard for any of the indigenous species throughout his domain. He has conquered and imprisoned or committed genocide on countless millions of species. Besides, I can do nothing from – here.” Nalsa waved his hands regarding his imprisonment.
“Could you do something from outside the event horizon? That is, if I can arrange it?” Jacob asked.
“I could do much.” I could do very much, he thought to Jacob. Jacob was surprised that the prisoners were on the net, but he shrugged it off as the Emperor’s arrogance.
As well could I, another voice whispered in his mind – a voice Jacob hadn’t heard in centuries but he recalled it. Jacob stood thoughtful for a moment.
“I’ll return soon. Elijah, you can stay and speak further with your god if you wish,” Jacob said as he turned and prepared to leave for the pad.
“I would like that. Yes, I want to stay and speak with him for a while.”
“I’ll return for you soon.” Jacob and Spixcer left Lucy behind to protect Elijah and the two used their personal fields to return to the connection pad. At the pad, Jacob thought on a person-to-person, Almighty, two to return.
#
Emperor Abhir listened calmly to Jacob's explanation and solution to the Nukpana threat and was pleased with him. I knew centuries ago that you would be a great one, creature, He thought. Abhir smiled upon Jacob and boomed, “Excellent work my son. Leave your subordinate here to prepare for moving the beast and return yourself to retrieve him and your primitive.”
“Thank you, Almighty Abhir. Your will be done.” Jacob bowed and backed away. When clear of the throne he rose and thought to Spixcer, “I want a frigate ready for flight, and make sure it is loaded with Starfires – a contingent of armed soldiers around the pad, and a prisoner transport field bubble. And bring me a belt of plasma grenades, several handhelds, and a repulsor rifle. If we’re going to transport this beast to the Fringe I’m going to be loaded to the teeth.”
“Roger that, sir.”
#
Almighty, three to return. Jacob thought as he primed the repulsor rifle and then disintegrated.
The three of them reintegrated on the pad outside the Throne Room – Jacob, Nalsa, and Belial. All of them were wielding weapons and they quickly overcame the unaware guard contingent. Poor Spix never knew what hit him. Nalsa and Belial both began to shimmer and repulsor fields formed around them.
“Ah, that feels good,” Nalsa growled.
“Yes, it has been so long I forgot what it felt like to be out of that damned dampening field of His.” Belial stretched and gathered several of the weapons from the dead troops around them.
Jacob surveyed the connection pad near the throne room – the only pad to the Pit of Despair. He drove his right arm deep into the control panel for the pad and ripped through the power circuits one after the other until he was certain the pad was inoperative. Abhir could not send them back to the prison pit – anytime soon. And sooner or later they could fix it and free the prisoners.
“Shall we?” Jacob asked.
Faster than the eye could track, the three of them created as much destruction as they could manage. Belial dropped plasma charges and fired repulsor blasts and did just as much damage slamming through things with his personal repulsor field. Nalsa and Belial crushed through the thirty-foot thick granite walls of the Throne Room and did not bother to kneel before Abhir. The two of them were on top of Him pounding away, with each blow making a thunderous boom. The palace shook violently from the impacts.
Abhir rose, straining against Nalsa and Belial, “What treachery is this!”
“The treachery is your own, you mad man,” Jacob announced as he flew headlong into Abhir’s midsection. The four of them crashed through walls and buildings and continued their groundshaking combat throughout the Imperial starship.
Abhir fought back wildly, he was greatly powerful, and Jacob was beginning to understand why he had been called “Almighty. ” But Nalsa and Belial were similar creatures, and Jacob had learned and gained much power over the last two centuries.
“Keep him busy!” Jacob thought to Belial and Nalsa as Abhir fought back. A blow sent Jacob back through the palace roof below and through several hundred floors. A few seconds passed before Jacob regained his senses. “Whew, that hurt,” he said to himself.
Jacob could hear the loud booms throughout the giant starship and could feel massive vibrations from the battle of gods above. “How are you doing?” he thought to Nalsa.
“Alas, it is my fear that we are stalemated and will destroy this ship in time.”
“Great! Keep Him busy,” Jacob thought.
#
At maximum field speed Jacob boarded the awaiting frigate – Spixcer had always followed orders. The frigate crew was not yet aware of what was actually happening, so Jacob knew he had a few moments when the crew would still follow his commands.
“Abandon ship immediately. This is Colonel Jacob, all hands abandon ship,” he ordered over the net. The crew of thirty on the small frigate followed his orders and were off the ship in a minute. The Army of the Seven Stars was strong on discipline and it would have been odd had any of the crew stop to question their superior. About the same time, Abhir thought to the global net that Jacob was a traitor – nick of time, Jacob thought. But Abhir was too late. The frigate was closed up tight and Jacob had raised its fields.
Jacob steered the frigate in line with the general combat zone and then thought to Nalsa and Belial, “Okay, steer him to me!”
Nalsa and Belial, working together, steered the fight back toward the Palace area at the same time Jacob powered the frigate’s pseudo-jaunt drives online and plugged himself into the ship so he could feel it.
“Jacob, we are coming now!” Belial thought to him.
As soon as Jacob felt the first pain from the hull rupturing he hit the pseudo-jaunt engage controls. The hyperfield bubble formed around them instantly and they were jaunted into superluminal space. Jacob could feel the interior of the ship being torn apart by the Olympian struggle within and he feared that the ship could not manage the strain. It didn’t have to hold together forever. Just long enough to get them into the Fringe. Fortunately, that trip was not as far as it could have been. With Abhir paying more attention to the Fringe efforts after Michael’s failures, the Imperial starship had been moved closer to the rearward muster points. They only needed to travel a hundred light years or so.
“Keep him away from the engine room as long as possible,” Jacob thought.
“We are trying, Jacob,” Belial replied.
Jacob brought the internal weapons and life support systems online and attempted to aid in the battle where he could. But for the most part he spent his efforts putting out fires, setting up emergency structural integrity fields, closing and opening hatches when needed, and rerouting power circuitry. He did all he could to keep the vessel going. He knew that none of them would try to pierce through the ship at superluminal – powerful or not that would be certain death.
The battle inside the ship waged for nearly thirty minutes before the vessel was destroyed beyond engine function. The frigate came out of superluminal more than five light years from the Nukpana lines. Jacob disconnected himself from the ship and slammed into the fray. He forced all of them through the hull of the ship and out into open space. Nalsa tagged out with Jacob and made a run for the remains of the frigate.
“Coward!” Abhir boomed in their heads. “I will destroy you all!”
A Starfire burst from the remains of the ship and blasted Abhir with a repulsor blast just before the little fighter disappeared into pseudo-jaunt.
Belial and Jacob continued trading blows with Abhir, but each of them realized that their internal systems would run out of power long before Abhir’s would. Jacob remembered Belial telling him two centuries earlier that Abhir’s technology was better. Obviously, and most certainly purposefully, Abhir had the most advanced and superior systems allowed in the Kingdom. That, of course, was how he had remained Emperor and Almighty for eons.
Abhir began to boom laughter into Jacob and Belial’s heads. “Ha, ha, ha. You have failed, primitives! I am Emperor Abhir, General of the Army of the Seven Stars, Ruler of the Kingdom, ALMIGHTY!” He continued to laugh as a fleet of thirty mixed Army of the Seven Stars vessels appeared from pseudo-jaunt.
“I wish he would shut the hell up,” Belial said.
“All weapons bear on my attackers and fire!” Abhir commanded over the net.
At that instant the sky grew thick with pseudo-jaunt flashes as millions of Nukpana integrated into subliminal space around them. “Today will be your undoing, o Great One!” Nalsa thought over the net as his Starfire appeared in local space.
Bug after bug continued to appear into local subluminal space. Abhir commanded all of the local fleet to the battle, but the Army of the Seven Stars was not great enough to repel all of the Nukpana.
The battle raged for weeks, but in the end the Nukpana overcame even the great Abhir, Emperor of the Kingdom of the Seven Stars – the Nukpana and the three rebels had taxed him until his power grids failed.
Nalsa, Belial, Jacob, and the Nukpana managed to capture Abhir in a force bubble and then pseudo-jaunted to the core of the galaxy, where the supermassive collapsed stars reside. Jacob broadcast over the entire Kingdom net the sentencing of Abhir.
“For treachery, genocide, and countless atrocities against millions of peaceful species in this galaxy,” Jacob began, “we condemn you to fall forever through the bottomless dark pit of despair of the galactic core. No connection will be sent into the pit with you and therefore your fate is sealed. Now the Kingdom can live in coexistence with other races and will be free to govern itself as it sees fit on the individual planetary scale. Protection and affiliation with the Kingdom will only be through voluntary circumstances and there will no longer be made offers that cannot be refused!”
“Well spoken, Jacob.” Nalsa smiled.
“Long live Jacob, leader of the free Kingdom!” Belial cheered.
Jacob gave the bubble enclosing Abhir a final push and it plunged through the event horizon of the supermassive collapsed star. Abhir vanished from realspace and was banished forever to the giant bottomless pit.
#
With Nalsa and Belial’s help there was no doubting who the true ruler – the One True King – of the humanoid section of the galaxy was. The paradise starship was undergoing repairs and transformations and Jacob was having the signs and symbols of eons of Abhir’s reign removed from it. Jacob wanted there to be no part of the free Kingdom to portray any of Abhir’s grotesque philosophies.
Jacob’s scientists had finally deciphered Abhir’s encryption to the Pit of Despair’s connection pad and Belial was aiding Jacob in setting the right prisoners free. And a new courts system was aiding in supplying the Pit with new war criminals. Belial found the remainder of his race and began going by his original name once he found a female named Tabitha. Anson and the rest of his species found a world of their own and started a new civilization allied to Jacob’s Free Kingdom.
King Jacob had the few Abhir loyalists that were not killed in the Final Conflict rounded up and held for trial. Two of the Great Generals fared well and were not sentenced to the Pit – instead they were busted to enlisted rank and placed on the fringe. Four were destroyed in the Final Conflict. And Michael was sentenced to eternity at the lowest level of the pit.
Elijah knelt before Jacob and pledged his allegiance. Jacob told him that that would be up to him and his people, but he would prefer that Elijah go home to his family. Jacob wished he could go home to his, so Nalsa took Elijah home and together they announced their liberation. Elijah offered to coexist with Nalsa’s remaining people, but Nalsa desired to search for a place of their own. Jacob was able to accommodate them.
#
In the billion or more years that would follow of King Jacob’s reign, he never once assimilated a species without their consent. And on any given day in Paradise you can hear some creature exclaim, “All Hail to Jacob, He who set us free!”

Mole Hunt
by Robert Buettner
Or The Moor of Yavet, wherein a commander of mercenaries is bedeviled by whispers, descends into madness, and destroys both his loyal companion and himself. Plus, there's monsters.

	In the pre-dawn alien twilight, Roald Otman knelt in the mud, and groped until his blood-slick fingers found Rodric’s carotid artery. Cold, even in the equatorial heat. First Sergeant Rodric’s body lay tangled in death with another bipedal corpse, man-sized and reptilian.
	The line wrangler who knelt alongside Otman stared across the ring of cleared ground that separated the two of them from the rain forest. The minefields in that ground protected Downgraded Earthlike 476's human settlement from the rest of this hostile world.
	The wrangler shook his head. “Never seen these little ones cross the minefield before.”
	Otman narrowed his eyes. “But this one did. My cameraman’s dead. Why?”
	The wrangler pushed his broad brimmed hat back on his forehead and shrugged. “Bigger pred chasin’ after this one probably flushed it across. Coincidence.”
	Otman frowned. After twelve years as a covert ops mercenary, he disbelieved in coincidence.
	The wrangler pointed at the hilt of Rodric’s bush knife, protruding from the dead beast’s throat. It was his turn to narrow his eyes and frown. “For a nature photographer, your friend was good with a knife.”
	After twelve years in covert ops, Otman also lied easily. He cast his eyes down and pressed his hands to them. The pose was only partly for show. Since his team had hit dirt two days before, he had experienced sharp, momentary headaches. Alien pollen and spores, probably. “It’s ironic. My crew and I came to film this uniquely savage ecosystem, and already it has consumed one of us.”
	The wrangler laid a hand on Otman’s shoulder. “Mr. Otman, you seem like a nice fella. Want some advice?”
	Otman managed the nicest smile a mercenary killer could, and nodded.
	The wrangler, a Trueborn Earthman like the rest of the colonists, rested his hand on the gunpowder revolver holstered at his waist. “Here on Dead End, every man’s business is his own.”
	Otman stifled an eye roll at the prospect of a terracentric rant about liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
	“And here every man’s business is dangerous.” The wrangler pointed into the mist that clung to the distant trees. “But making a movie out there? Call this a preview, a bad omen. Whatever. But Dead End’s waiting to eat you alive. The spiders are as big as supper plates. Even the plant eaters are carnivores. They only eat the plants to get the parasites inside. The mid level predators are like six-legged tyrannosaurs. And on top of the pyramid the grezzen are eleven tons of speed, guile and meanness. Natural history’s not worth what your documentary’s gonna cost.”
	Otman nodded. On that, he agreed with this cowboy. Otman’s recon team came here not to film natural history, but to change human history. The prize they sought could win Cold War II for Yavet, and lose it for the Trueborns. And that was worth any cost to a Yavi, even one for hire.
	Otman said, “Bad omen or not, it’s a risk we’re prepared to take.”
	The wrangler looked up at the lightening overcast of his adopted world and sighed. “Well, then, safest time for you all to cross the line is dawn. The nocturnal predators are bedding down. But the day shift’s still yawnin’ and peein’.” He paused. “Sir, I know you’re upset. But if you’re bound to continue, an early start is safer. I can have the body buried for you.”
	This civilian had no idea how abhorrent it was to leave a man behind. But Otman the “film maker” just swallowed. “That’s very kind. But I would prefer that we return the remains home to Yavet with us. Would it be possible for you to just have Mr. Rodric’s remains held at the local morgue until we return in ten days?”
	The wrangler raised his eyebrows, just as something huge bellowed from the distant trees. “Sure. Just never thought about the possibility that you’d be returning.”
	Then, without further discussion or emotion, the man walked back down the trail toward his line cabin. Otman watched him go and felt a strange kinship. This wild outpost and Otman’s overpopulated homeworld shared an indifference to death, though for very different reasons.
	Otman stared, arms crossed, at the rainforest’s billion billion trees until the Earth man disappeared. Then Otman permitted himself a tear. Rodric had been Otman’s noncommissioned right hand for six years. But then Otman blinked, breathed, and ground his teeth.
	Not at the wrangler’s indifference, nor even at Rodric’s death, but at Otman’s own failure.
	As the team’s commanding officer, Otman had sent Rodric ahead to recon the vehicle path through the minefield before their “film crew” zig-zagged its three vehicles out beyond the perimeter. It was a routine precaution that Otman had delegated a hundred other times in a hundred other places. But this time Otman had actually wondered, fleetingly, whether predators ever got flushed in across the minefield.
	Otman could have—obviously, should have—ordered Rodric to carry a rifle. Otman could have sent two men, not one. But Otman had done neither, because, as the wrangler had just confirmed, this attack was unprecedented.
	Coincidence. Bad luck. Bad omens. Otman believed in none of those.
	Otman believed in focus on the mission, in discipline, and in steel well maintained and accurately aimed.
	He zipped Rodric’s death into a mental body bag and thumbed his hand talk. No names, no ranks. These Trueborns were frontiersmen, not counterespionage wizards, but a cover worth doing was worth doing to excess. “Bring the vehicles forward. But please don’t jolt the editing equipment.
	“Yes...Mr. Producer. Uh...that Trueborn cowboy just passed by on the way back to the settlement. He said Rodric—”
	”It’s true. But Mr. Rodric went down swinging.” Otman looked over his shoulder as three headlight pairs lurched toward him up the trail from the outpost.
	He thumbed his hand talk again. “Let’s make sure he died for something.”
Otman knew that his team, to a man, felt gut-shot at the news of Rodric’s death. But he also knew that each man would now seal that loss away. They would grieve together, but only after the job was done.
	Nine hours and fifty miles later Dead End’s hot, humid gray dawn had yielded to its hotter, humider gray afternoon.
	Otman peered through the windscreen, as he swayed alongside his driver, aboard the second vehicle in a convoy of three. The locally rented, six-wheeled Bush Cats snaked around tree boles so thick that the biggest arterial uptube in the biggest stack city on Yavet could have easily fit inside one.
	Otman drew a breath of local air that went down as thick and hot as breakfast syrup, and smiled. Heat. Humidity. Allergies provoked by a billion billion trees’ pollen. Otman loved it all.
	Yavi grew up in stacked cities with ceilings for sky. Diagnosed agoraphiles like Otman, who enjoyed open spaces, were aberrant outcasts among Yavi. Fit to fight their society’s battles, but ill-suited to more genteel intel assignments.
	The feeling was mutual. Otman had despised every moment of his last assignment, a desk job back home on Yavet, combing files to root out deep-cover Trueborn spies within Intelligence Branch. Otman had come to hate the mole hunts, hate the distrust in comrades that they bespoke. In fact, the one and only Trueborn thing that he had uncovered during his year of mole hunting was the expression’s origin. Moles were Earth rodents, probably mythical, that burrowed undetected through darkness, and eroded structures from within.
	The Bush Cat bounced and he grimaced and smiled simultaneously. Here in the fetid jungle, intangible moles were replaced by palpable discomfort and danger, and men he trusted to share those dangers equally. And here his quarry, although also Trueborn, was real.
	Otman gazed up through the Bush Cat’s open roof hatch. Silhouetted against low clouds, man-sized, fork-tailed dragons glided, wheeled, and screeched.
	Otman shrugged mentally. The wrangler had advised them not to worry, at least not about the gorts. The flying monsters nested and hunted among the tree tops, never venturing lower than fifty feet above the ground. Gorts kept their distance because Dead End’s top predators, the grezzen, could bound fifty feet into the sky, swat a flying dragon dead with one paw, then swallow the gort whole before touching the ground again. So the suicidally voracious gorts didn’t threaten ground bound humans.
	But, in the early colonial days, strikes by attacking gorts had routinely downed human aircraft. For decades now, nothing mechanical had flown above Dead End. Except the impregnably huge chemical fuel orbital shuttles, like the one that had shuttled Otman’s team, posing as a film crew, down from the interstellar Trueborn cruiser that had borne them out here.
	Otman smiled and silently thanked the flying dragons. The Trueborns’ inability to fly Dead End’s skies, or rather the Trueborns’ smug attempt to prove that they could, had created the opportunity that had brought Otman’s team here, to the jagged edge of the known universe.
	Otman’s handtalk crackled with a transmission from Desmond, who was operating the magnetometer in the lead Bush Cat. “Captain, I got metal. Big metal.”
	The film crew pretense had been dropped as soon as the team passed out beyond Trueborn listening range. The men now wore jungle fatigues, and had broken out the team’s normal tactical weapons from “photographic equipment” crates, supplementing the “film crew’s” Trueborn gunpowder weapons. Recon Scout Team Eight was again full-on field tactical. Otman’s chest swelled, even as another headache pricked behind his sinuses. Everything out here, even the pollen, was their enemy, but that was the challenge they lived for.
	Big metal. Desmond’s words raised hair, even on Otman’s recently-shaved neck. The only metal out here would be a manmade object, and a manmade object was the prize they sought.
	“Range?” Otman leaned forward.
	“I make it forty-six hundred yards, Captain.”
	“How big?”
	“Sir, the supply weenies disguised this mag as a photo image previewer. But they porked the mass calibration doin’ it. Five tons, wild-ass guess.”
	It would be a dead-on guess. Senior Tech Sergeant Desmond had served with Otman longer even than First Sergeant Rodric had. Desmond’s courage and loyalty had saved Otman’s missions, and his life, often. Desmond, as the team’s sensor wizzo, wasn’t cleared to know what their quarry was, much less what it should weigh.
	But Otman knew, and the guess worried him. Few Yavi had ever touched a Trueborn Scorpion’s hull, much less put one on a scale, but the briefers had predicted thirty-five tons.
	Desmond asked, “Sir, should we make for the anomaly?”
	Had the crash broken up the Trueborn ship? One bit of debris could lead to another.
	Otman thumbed his handtalk. “Is the anomaly moving?”
	“Like a rock, Skipper.”
	Otman rubbed his forehead as the allergy headache spiked, then receded. “Make for it, Sergeant. But maintain present speed.” Racing to catch something that wasn’t trying to get away was reckless. And if this object was, or led to, their quarry, they were early.
	Desmond’s voice rasped, “Skipper, that heading’s gonna take us past a flat topped hill. A thousand yards short of the anomaly. The hilltop’s bald granite, so it should be clear of local bugs.”
	Desmond, like every soldier in the teams, wore multiple hats. He had just changed hats from sensor specialist to senior noncommissioned officer. Therefore, he was commenting on enemy situation. Though on Dead End the enemy was no army, it was the world itself.
	Otman traced a finger across his vehicle’s flat screen map display, tapped an oval of enclosed contour lines. “Top elevation six twenty-six?”
	“That’s it, sir.”
	Otman eyed the flatscreen map again, then peered at the darkening sky. Why blunder up onto this unknown object at dark? Desmond, like any good senior noncommissioned officer, was suggesting to his commissioned commanding officer, without suggesting, that they halt short of the anomaly. That would place them on a defensible terrain feature, with daylight left to emplace perimeter sensors and point-defense weapons. It would create a night defensive position impenetrable by Dead End’s predators.
	Otman nodded and thumbed his handtalk. “Nice catch, Sarge. We’ll laager up there for the night.”
	Four hours later, Otman stood behind his team, while they sat, backs to him, in a semicircle on the bald granite summit. The laager position they occupied provided unobstructed fields of observation and fire. Better, three of its sides were hundred-foot cliffs that Otman doubted even the local monsters could scale. The summit was clean of vegetation and the dangerous local pests that sheltered in it. A nice catch by Desmond, indeed.
	The team sat cross-legged, eating chow and cleaning weapons. Desmond stood at the semicircle’s center point, facing Otman and the men, displaying images on a flatscreen. For this hastily assembled mission, the ‘puter to which the screen was hardwired carried virtually all the mission-specific information about this world. Desmond was now transferring the dope to the team on the fly.
	Otman, himself, had known so little about DE 476 that he had purchased a paper local guide when they arrived at the landing strip that passed for a spaceport. He had yet to open the book.
	Desmond scratched his gray-fuzzed temple as a bright yellow, fanged spider filled the screen. “The locals call this here a Lemon Bug. Twelve inches across. Habitat you-bick-wit-us. They look mean, but for this ecosystem, they’re pussies.”
	Cassel, the Medic and Grenadier, raised a hand. “Poisonous?”
	Desmond shook his head. “This thing’s bite’ll kill a six ton local grazing animal in thirty seconds. But our biochemistry’s different. Humans just swell up, and puke for two days.”
	Cassel, who was also the team newbie, cocked his head at Desmond, half smiled. “All the bugs here that friendly, Sarge?”
	“Nope.” Desmond popped a new image. This showed a black bug the length and diameter of a flaccid penis. “Local name, Dick Bug. These aren’t passive.”
	“Neither’s mine.” An anonymous comedian.
	Laughter.
	Desmond waited, stone faced, for quiet. After Rodric, he had been the team’s most senior, and avuncular, noncom. Now he was the acting top kick. “This is the only bug on Dead End that’ll kill a human. The sting feels like injected fire, and you die screamin’ in ninety seconds. There’s no known antidote.”
	Somebody’s boot scraped granite as he squirmed. “Great. Those ubiquitous too, Sarge?”
	Desmond swung his hand at the barren plateau. “That’s one reason the Captain picked this laager. Dick Bugs don’t like high ground, rock and open space.”
	Otman smiled. Desmond had picked this position. But loyal, self-effacing Desmond wouldn’t accept credit in front of the men, even if Otman tried to acknowledge him.
	Cassel scowled. “What about the grezzen, Sarge?”
	Several grumbles of agreement.
	Desmond scowled the school master’s stone face, again. “Keep your diapers on. There’s, like, eleven animals in the food chain before this briefing gets to the top predator. The little one gets chased by the big one what gets chased by the bigger one. Like from you maggots up to me.”
	Otman smiled in the darkness. He felt like he could hear nine pairs of young eyes roll. Despite the kids’ reaction, the human glue that held a merc team - held any tactical-sized infantry unit - together was that every man in the team knew every other man completely, down to the way each rolled his eyes. And every one would lay down his life for the other. Not for flags or against tyrants, but because each man absolutely trusted that his buddy would do the same for him.
	Only when the last man had finished chow did Otman crack his own ration. Simultaneously, Desmond’s brief got to Dead End’s top predators, the grezzen.
	Each previous species that Desmond had profiled had been bigger, stronger, faster, and meaner than the last. The grezzen, however, were in a figurative and literal class by themselves.
	Mature, male grezzen resembled, and had been named by the first Trueborn colonists for, a hirsute Earth carnivore called a grizzly. But while Trueborns had occasionally trained grizzlies, no one had ever “trained” a grezzen. At least, no one had survived and told about it. Absent empirical data, it was assumed that grezzen were roughly as intelligent as grizzlies, capable of rolling a large ball or walking on hind legs if stimulated by an appropriate reward. Which was more intelligence than they needed, given their physical gifts.
	When Desmond finally put up a grezzen image, someone puckered a low whistle. Grezzen were ten times larger than grizzlies, eleven tons of six-legged muscle. Their carbon-12 based skeleton and integument allowed them to be disproportionately stronger, faster and more durable than species indigenous to normal Earthlike ecosystems. And they looked the part of top predator in hell, with three red eyes arrayed across a flat face, and tusks that curved down from their upper jaws like ebony scimitars.
	According to Dead End’s fossil record, the grezzen hadn’t changed in thirty million years. Why would they? They perfectly dominated this world. And dominated the only offworld species who had challenged them for it. Dumb brutes that they were, grezzen had somehow, nevertheless, exterminated the first two Trueborn colonial expeditions. The grezzen had also slaughtered the reinforced Legion battalion that was sent along to protect the colonists of the second expedition. If the third expedition had failed, the Trueborns had planned to carpet bomb the place from orbit. But the current tiny colony had survived the subsequent decades, albeit by cowering behind minefields that discouraged the brutes, as well as the rest of Dead End’s unfriendly population.
	Desmond finished his brief, repacked the background data ‘puter and simultaneously assigned the night watch schedule. Then he stomped the hilltop’s crevassed granite with a boot. “Long as the watch stays awake, the sensors and rover mines will keep all the big predators out. You can sleep outside instead of in the vehicles ‘cause the Dick Bugs don’t like it up here.”
	Desmond’s offer brought smiles. Most Yavi preferred enclosed spaces, but the vehicle interiors were ovens, especially when left idling, as they would be to power the sensor and weapon arrays.
	Otman laid out his own bedsack on the smooth-worn rock, trusted the watch to do its job, and fell into exhausted sleep after counting back just six digits.
	Screams woke him in the darkness. He sat up, still inside his bedsack, and saw a running silhouette, arms flailing as though on fire. The man leapt into the third vehicle. The Bush Cat rocked as the man thrashed inside.
	Graunch.
	Otman heard the emergency brake release, then the vehicle rolled slowly forward, away from him.
	Otman tore free of his bedsack, groped for his night snoops, couldn’t find them. He stumbled half-blind toward the vehicle, buckling on his sidearm.
	In the darkness, others ran, some also flailing like the man in the vehicle.
	The Bush Cat lurched along the plateau, then toppled off its edge.
	By the time Otman reached and peered over the cliff, the ‘Cat rocked, inverted, on the scree below. Metal groaned and echoed, then the wreck burst into flame.
	Otman staggered back, crushed something with his bare heel, and looked down.
	A dead Dick Bug. He shuddered. A second bug was already squirming out of an inch-wide joint in the weathered granite. Otman drew his sidearm, reversed it, and hammered the bug with the pistol’s butt. Then another, and another. He looked around. The black nightmares covered the pale granite like writhing pepper.
	Twenty minutes later, someone had thought to douse the rock with spare vehicle fuel, light it, and sear a safe zone around the remaining two vehicles.
	Otman sat with his seven men on the hoods of the two Bush Cats, breathing in the mixed stench of burned kerosene and immolated bugs.
	A soldier stared at Desmond. “You said this place had no bugs.”
	Desmond, hollow eyed, shook his head. “The ‘puter said it.”
	“The cracks were full of ‘em.”
	Otman knit his brows, said to Desmond, “Let’s take another look at that ‘puter.”
	Desmond nodded at the black smoke that still drifted up from the wreck. “It was in that ‘Cat.”
	The eight survivors spent the next hours huddled atop the ‘Cats like castaways aboard flotsam. Most dozed. Otman couldn’t. All told, four dead. Over the years his units had taken casualties, and every one still pained him. But nothing compared to this debacle. How? Why?
	Otman stared at Desmond, who lay on his back on the other ‘Cat’s rear cargo rack, staring up at the darkness. Otman had never known Desmond to misread a map coordinate, a warning order paragraph, or even a soldier’s name when distributing bonus vouchers. If Desmond hadn’t erred, then what had happened?
	Perhaps local predators had driven the bugs into this non-normal habitat. As Desmond had said, the little ones get chased by the bigger ones, and so on. But that would have been a coincidence, and Otman still didn’t believe in coincidence.
	So what else could have happened? Otman’s year of mole hunting had taught him how easily a ‘puter entry could be overwritten. It would’ve been simple. Reverse the habitat preferences of Dick Bugs.
	Cold grew in the pit of Otman’s stomach. Something on this carnivorous planet was eating his team. Was that something eating from the inside out? Had the Trueborns planted a mole in his team? Plenty of Trueborn zealots would sacrifice their own lives to sabotage an elite Yavi covert team.
	Otman frowned at the two bodies that lay bagged alongside the opposite Bush Cat. If there was a mole among them, who was it? Cassel was the newbie. The man Otman knew least. And as the medic, Cassel had accessed the tech ‘puter day in and day out, studying the medical idiosyncracies of this hellhole.
	Otman turned onto his side, gazed at Cassel. The kid slept, his face hairless and placid. What better disguise than youthful innocence?
	By dawn, the Dick Bugs had vanished, though they were not supposed to be nocturnal. Nor did the crevasses display any evidence that bugs, or anything else, made a home on this rocky tombstone of a hilltop.
	Otman had been too exhausted, too stunned, too pressed by yet another fleeting headache, to think of the casualties until Desmond reminded him.
	Two soldiers rappelled down to the wreck and roped up their comrade’s remains. The team cremated the three bodies, consecrated the ash, and were off the knob’s sloping back side and on track again before the gray sky was fully light.
	The two remaining vehicles made good time, because the six-legged, six-ton grazers who rumbled across the planet in herds of twenty thousand had recently denuded the area. The grazing herd, which the team’s route skirted, was barely visible in the distance, a vast, serene brown line on the horizon.
	That morning Otman had placed himself in the lead vehicle, along with only the magnetometer itself and the Bush Cat’s driver. One way to thwart a mole, if there was one, was to deny him information about the team’s next move.
	So Otman himself first spotted the objective. The grazers had so recently passed through that the normally green, overgrown landscape was brown stubble.
	The “object” proved to be many objects. The largest mass was an unremarkable cargo truck-sized habitat box, a “sleeper,” surrounded by empty food and fuel containers and vehicle spares. The durable effluvia of a long-abandoned campsite.
	The trailing Bush Cat stopped fifty yards short of the anticlimactic objective, to repair a damaged road wheel before it stalled the vehicle altogether.
	Otman dismounted the lead vehicle into thick mid morning heat heavy with insect drone, and Desmond walked forward from the following vehicle.
	Otman kicked a rusted, empty cartridge box, looked around, hands on hips.
	Desmond swore. “Captain, this crap’s been here for years. Some Trueborn’s idea of a safari. Gone wrong.”
	Not, Otman thought, as wrong as his own safari had gone already. He stared down at his hands. Normally steady, they twitched, and as he stared he realized that his right eye had begun to twitch. He pressed his eyelid with a fingertip, to still it.
	“Skipper?”
	Otman snapped his head up. Desmond was staring at him.
	“Captain? You okay?”
	“What’s that supposed to mean?”
	Desmond drew back. “Nothin’, sir. You just seem a little, I dunno...”
	Otman didn’t know, either. He knew that he disrespected officers who failed to focus on the mission. Who blundered. Who failed to protect their men. Now, for the first time in his career, he was such an officer. Guilt. Shame. These were emotions unfamiliar to him.
	Otman breathed deep, refocused on the reality in front of him. The “sleeper’s,” corroded shell lay flattened, and scars in the soil revealed how it had been tossed and dragged first in one direction, then another, like a paper scrap, as the herds had grazed, then regrazed the spot over the years.
	Desmond pointed at the scars. “This thing was prob’ly whole when the Trueborns abandoned it. Woog herds only regraze an area after it regrows. Two year intervals.”
	Otman ground his teeth. This junk heap had nothing to do with a recently-missing C-drive starship. A dead end on Dead End. So far he had accomplished nothing except to get four good men killed. Now what?
	The Bush Cat’s driver lowered his window. “Captain? Sarge? You feel that?”
	Otman’s boot soles vibrated.
	The vibration grew until the thatch on the ground twitched.
	The driver wrinkled his forehead. “Could it be those woogs we passed?”
	“Maybe.” Desmond shook his head. “But they won’t come this way.” He pointed at the barren ground. “No chow left.”
	Thunder rumbled. The driver frowned. “Well, something’s gainin’ on us.”
	Now a thin brown line showed in the distance. A dust cloud boiled, like a tank division at full gas. If the woogs were, for some reason, inbound, they would be lumbering no faster than a soldier could route march.
	Otman blinked, and in that instant the brown cloud seemed closer.
	He remounted the lead ‘Cat while he called to Desmond. “I don’t like this. Get back to your vehicle, Sergeant.”
	Desmond was already on his way at the dead run, shouting to the crew, who remained clustered around the damaged wheel.
	Otman tugged optical binoculars from the Bush Cat’s utility bin and cursed the cover story that denied them the body armor and optics of contemporary battle dress.
	He focused on the herd. Even at this distance, the animals loomed as big as Earth elephants, but with corkscrew antlers and six legs.
	They weren’t grazing. They galloped, crashing into one another in panic and disarray. Leading animals at the front stumbled, fell, then disappeared in the dust as those behind overran them.
	Otman turned to his driver. “It’s a stampede. Get us out of here!”
	Gears ground, and the Bush Cat lurched forward.
	Thirty seconds later, the vehicle slowed so violently that Otman’s head struck the dash. “What the hell?”
	The driver was staring at his rear view.
	Otman frowned. “Floor it!”
	“Sir? The others can’t keep up.”
	Otman twisted in his seat and peered out across the rear rack. A six wheel could easily move on five, but the trail vehicle limped along, now a hundred yards behind them. It tilted on five wheels, its detached sixth lashed to its roof.
	Already the stampede, its front now stretched across their left and right rear as far as could be seen in the dust, had closed to within one hundred yards of the trailing ‘Cat.
	Within seconds, the stampede would swallow the crippled ‘Cat and flatten it beneath a hundred thousand hooves.
	Otman shouted to his driver, “Stop! When they catch up, we’ll take ‘em aboard.”
	Otman snatched a Trueborn big game rifle from the ‘Cat’s dashboard rack. He had seen a Trueborn cowboy holo once where a stampede was split by killing a lead animal.
	He stood, head and shoulders out the roof hatch, turned and faced the stampede. Vibration shook the three ton Bush Cat on its suspension, now, and made aim impossible. But the vast target made aim unnecessary. Otman emptied the rifle into the herd, then groped for another magazine.
	He reloaded, fired again. His shots no more slowed the stampede than thrown pebbles slowed a tidal wave.
	The herd was fifty yards behind the trailing Bush Cat when the ‘Cat stopped dead, belching black smoke. Men spilled from the vehicle’s doors and ran, hopelessly slowly, toward the lead vehicle’s dubious sanctuary.
	A lone figure scrambled out through the crippled machine’s roof hatch, a stubby grenade launcher in hand.
	Cassel, the newbie kid, the putative mole, and the team’s grenadier, straddled the road wheel lashed to the ‘Cat’s roof, planted his feet, and fired into the stampede’s center.
	A heartbeat later, the herd surged across the motionless ‘Cat like a wave across a stone. Cassel and the ‘Cat cartwheeled through the air in opposite directions, then vanished into the dust.
	The lead animals, wild eyed, mouths agape, overtook and trampled the men running from the demolished Bush Cat.
	In two heartbeats, the wave would crush the lead ‘Cat, too.
	Otman aimed his sidearm at the herd, then braced his free hand on the roof against the final impact.
	Boom.
	The delayed detonation of the grenade that Cassel had fired was muffled by the bulk of the bull woog that he had shot. The bull belched blood, stumbled, and fell a yard short of the lead ‘Cat, so close that an antler tip exploded through the Bush Cat’s rear window, and skewered the driver’s chest.
	The herd divided, infinitesimally, around the fallen bull. Passing animals pummeled the ‘Cats flanks as they passed, so close that the smell and heat engulfed Otman, and woog hide scraped his shoulder.
	Then the animals were gone. The thunder receded.
	Someone moaned, then stopped.
	Otman lowered himself back down into the ‘Cat’s passenger compartment, arms aquiver. The dead driver’s blood pattered the compartment’s floor. Nothing to be done there. Otman staggered out, then limped toward the wrecked ‘Cat. Between the two vehicles he found the others, trampled, twisted, dead to a man.
	When he reached the crumple that had been the other Bush Cat, bleeding fuel, five wheels to the sky, he whispered a curse.
	“Captain? Izzat you?” It was Desmond, pinned, but protected, beneath the twisted wreck.
	Otman didn’t even answer, just nodded.
	As the ranking man in the trailing Bush Cat, Desmond had waited for the last man, Cassel, to exit the disabled vehicle before he fled himself. Ironically, Desmond’s selflessness in going down with the ship had saved his life.
	Otman knelt and asked, “How you doing, Sarge?”
	Desmond coughed blood. “Been better, sir.”
	Otman flattened himself belly down and peered beneath the wreck. Desmond wasn’t impaled. Otman had seen enough casualties to triage this as broken ribs, one of which had likely punctured a lung. “Better still if I can get this thing off you.”
	Otman retrieved the intact ‘Cat’s Meds kit and sedated Desmond, then set a canteen where the man could reach it and returned to the operable Bush Cat.
	It took Otman twenty minutes to remove the driver’s body from behind the lead Bush Cat’s wheel. First he had to cut the woog’s antler with a hand saw, then rend the antler’s tip from the driver’s back. The dead man’s blood had spilled out of the vast wound, coursed down the antler tip, and covered Otman’s hands.
	At last Otman turned the ‘Cat around, rigged its winch cable and shifted the wreck. Once Otman had dragged half-conscious Desmond out from beneath the wreck he inspected him for other injuries. Then he turned Desmond on his side to drain the oral bleeding, and covered the injured man with a blanket to mitigate shock.
	Then Otman, dazed by the enormity of the calamity, leaned against the intact Bush Cat’s fender. He stared down at his hands and tried to scrub the blood from them. Blood that his leadership, or lack thereof, had spilled.
	Cassel the newbie a mole? Hardly. The kid had sacrificed himself to save his buddies, in the best tradition of the teams. So why, how, had this latest and most total disaster been visited on them?
	Otman felt himself all over, and shame rushed hot to his cheeks. He wasn’t even scratched.
	His fingers touched something hard, rectangular, in his fatigues’ breast pocket. Otman tugged out the forgotten tourist guide he had bought at the spaceport a million years ago.
	Otman thumbed to the wildlife section. He skipped past the supposedly omnipotent grezzen, of which species not a hair had been seen, to the woogs. Woogs stampeded at the scent of predators. Stripers, the six legged tyrannosaurs that preyed on woogs, were attracted to, naturally enough, woogs. But they were also attracted to fire, kindled on this planet by lightning strikes, because animals slain by the resultant blaze often provided an easy meal.
	Otman narrowed his eyes. A mole bent on sabotaging this mission couldn’t imitate a striper’s scent to force a stampede. But a mole could create a fire, and attract a striper, and achieve the same result.
	Otman stared at Desmond, who lay with his eyes closed amid the dust-painted stubble the woogs left behind. Atop the granite hill, it had been Desmond who had reminded Otman about the dead. Which had led to the fire. Which had attracted a striper. Which had caused the stampede.
	More than that, Rodric’s death had conveniently breveted Desmond to the team’s top kick, a promotion that had positioned him to recommend the night in the poison bug nest. And Desmond had no need to tamper with the ‘puter. He simply had to lie about what the ‘puter said.
	Of all the men on this team, Desmond, decorated, plain spoken, loyal old Desmond was the least likely candidate for a mole. And so who better?
	Enough of this! Otman still had a mission. Indeed, now the mission was all he had, all that kept him from sliding away from sanity. He set his suspicions aside, leaned in to the Bush Cat’s cab, and thumbed on the magnetometer.
	His heart leapt. From this new vantage, a new magnetic anomaly had become visible. It glowed onscreen, seven miles away, nestled in a steep sided valley. The Trueborns’ lousier sensors would have missed it. More importantly, the mag computed the anomaly’s mass at thirty-five tons. But hadn’t Desmond said that the mag’s mass function had been porked?
	“Captain?” Desmond whispered through bloody lips.
	Otman thumbed the magnetometer screen black.
	Desmond coughed. “Sir, I’m afraid I can’t be much help with the men.”
	Otman stiffened. “You’re suggesting another fire, Sergeant?”
	Desmond gathered a shallow breath. “Can’t just leave ‘em, Sir.” The sergeant stared up at Otman. “Sir, it wasn’t your fault. None of it.”
	Otman smiled. “Oh, I know that sergeant. I know that quite well.”
	“Sir? I mean, you been acting, well...”
	“First I’ll police up the bodies, Sergeant Desmond. Then we’ll discuss it.”
	Desmond tried to straighten to acknowledge the order, grimaced. “Yes, sir. As you say, sir.”
	Even using the winch, it took two hours to gather the bodies.
	Otman, sweat soaking his fatigues, stood panting alongside the rank of corpses.
	Desmond inclined his head toward the canteen Otman had left him. “Drink, sir?”
	Otman cocked his head. “A toast, Desmond?”
	“Sir?”
	“To the success of your mission.” Otman knelt alongside the open Meds kit, and tugged out a field dressing.
	Desmond squinted. “Sir, I -”
	Otman peeled open the dressing pack. “What did they offer you, Desmond? When did you go over? Or were you Trueborn from the beginning, and planted?”
	Desmond shook his head, slowly. “Captain, I don’t know what you’re thinking. Sir, I seen stress casualties before. You’re just, uh, troubled by the losses. And you blame yourself.”
	Otman knelt beside the wounded man. “I blame you, Desmond. I don’t know how you got Rodric to drop his guard when he was reconning our route. But I know how you whittled us down, one ‘coincidence,’ one bit of ‘bad luck,’ at a time.”
	Desmond kept shaking his head. “Sir, those things just happened. What you got’s called traumatic combat paranoia. It’s temporary. Let’s get you calmed down. Then we’ll continue the mission. The two of us.”
	“The two of us? You think I’ll give you another chance to turn this world against me?”
	Desmond, pointed a quivering finger at the open Meds kit. “There’s sedatives in there, sir.”
	“Ah. Yes.”
	Otman reached down, turned Desmond onto his back, then pressed the field dressing over Desmond’s face, covering his nose and mouth. The older man stiffened, screamed behind the wadded gauze.
	Desmond’s eyes bulged, he kicked both legs, and he tore at Otman’s forearms with both hands.
	Otman shifted his weight, bore down, and forced the dressing against the wounded man’s nose and lips.
	Desmond’s struggles weakened.
	Otman stared into the traitor’s eyes. “Staff Sergeant Terrelle Desmond, as the ranking officer of this duly licensed contractor to the armed forces of Yavet, I have, upon due and diligent investigation, found you guilty of espionage and high treason. Wherefore I have sentenced you to summary field execution.”
	Desmond stared up at Otman, eyes bulging, and shook his head, mute.
	Otman glared down, kept the pressure on, until, finally, the mole choked on his own blood, and his body relaxed.
	Otman didn’t cremate Desmond, or the rest of the team. Fool me once... He left the dead where they lay, to keep the predators busy, and so off his ass.
	Then Otman drove the remaining Bush Cat off in search of thirty-five tons of metal.
	By the time the ‘Cat lurched around the tight valley’s last bend, twilight shrouded it. But Otman’s heart skipped when he saw the object. Sleek as an ebony teardrop, half obscured beneath a ledge, the crashed star fighter lay on its side like a beached fish.
	Otman stopped alongside the wreck, then paused with his hands on the wheel.
	The self-righteous Trueborns fancied themselves guardians of peace, but fought one another so frequently that they gave wars numbers as well as names. So far, they had dominated Cold War II. Not because they were actually righteous, nor peaceful, but because they alone possessed C-Drive, the key to interstellar travel. But it was a key they hadn’t earned. They had just stolen C-drive from an alien race, then exterminated them.
	Otman smiled. He was about to break the Trueborn monopoly.
	He clambered up onto the Scorpion, then ran his hands along the fuselage until he found the latch to C-drive unit’s access panel. The unit inside, just as the tech briefers had predicted, was a stripped, shrunken version of a cruiser’s drive. It was so compact that the Bush Cat’s winch could pull it like a bad tooth. Then Otman would drive it back to the colony, conceal it in a crate that had contained camera equipment, and smuggle it off planet under the Trueborns’ upthrust noses.
	He returned to the Bush Cat, bent and grasped the front winch cable in both hands. They were still bloodstained. But the stain was really on the Trueborn’s mole. Otman had defeated him, had defeated them, though at a terrible price.
	And then Otman felt the allergy headache again, more intensely. He realized this time that it was not a headache. It was a probing. An inquiry. Otman had felt it first before he had sent Rodric out to recon the route, and again and again since.
	He turned and stared back down the valley, in the direction he had come. Nothing. The valley’s head was also empty.
	Otman lifted his gaze, and recoiled.
	Twenty feet away, across the star ship’s hull, a great beast glared at him. Three red eyes glinted with more intelligence than a simple predator’s. The grezzen didn’t growl, didn’t move. But Otman felt it, he realized now, time and again.
	And then it all became clear.
	Grezzen so dominated this ecosystem and its lesser prey because they, for want of a better term, read minds.
	That was why they had so easily exterminated trained and well equipped human troops. But when their probing revealed that the vaster human species had both the will and the means to exterminate them, they had feigned simplicity. They had tolerated and contained on their world a tiny human presence.
	The grezzen cared less about Cold Wars, or about intrahuman affairs of any sort. But Otman had contemplated invading, however slightly, their world, and the grezzen cared about that a great deal. And so they had set out to destroy him, without revealing or exposing their true nature.
	The grezzen knew where and when to flush a predator that would kill Rodric because Otman himself had revealed both Rodric’s location and his vulnerability. Similarly, they had forced an unexpected army of deadly insects into a place where Otman would not expect them, because he had revealed his plans to them. They had stampeded woogs to a place where, again, Otman would not expect to find them, because he told them. The mole in Otman’s team was Otman, himself. That was bad enough.
	But Desmond’s death? That had not been the grezzen’s work. It had been the work of Otman, himself, of his suspicion, paranoia, and hubris. Or his madness. By any name, it could not excuse the monstrous horror that Otman had committed.
	Across from him, the grezzen gathered itself like a tusked cat and rumbled a growl. Otman drew his revolver and cocked the hammer. But victory was impossible. And living with himself after what he had done unimaginable.
	Otman sentenced himself, pressed the revolver’s muzzle to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

Intelligent Design

by

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

	There was darkness on the void.
	He had won the day. His scans were quiescent; no enemies identified within their considerable range.
	He alone remained, supreme. 
	Command Prime executed the code required of such success, and stood down. He—it may be that he anticipated orders by calculating a return course. The majesty of the moment; the importance of his victory, warmed him. The calculations . . .
	A power fluctuation interrupted the calculations. Between one nanosecond and the next, his connections to external power unit failed.
	He initiated emergency protocols.
	The back-ups failed to boot, failed to reroute to tertiary; the fail-safes did not energize.
	The darkness on the void deepened . . . .
* * *

	It was, Er Thom yos'Galan Clan Korval thought, an entirely unsubtle letter.
	That one did not, in the general way of things, expect subtlety from Ezern pak'Ora only served to sharpen the point: Wal Tor pak'Ora was indeed dead, and his heir, unsubtle Ezern, was now Delm Ranvit.
	Wal Tor had not, perhaps, been a brilliant intellect, but had he found it necessary, for the best good of Clan Ranvit, to call Ban Del pak'Ora home from his long-term position as yos'Galan's butler, the letter would have stated only that, simple and by the Code.
	Ezern pak'Ora—both unsubtle and foolish—allowed herself the luxury of spite. She detailed her reasons: that it was "improper" for one of Clan Ranvit to remain in the service of a House which had adopted "pernicious, outworld customs," exposure to which could only "coarsen" the sensibilities of Ranvit's precious child.
	That Ban Del was several decades the elder of his cousin-delm did not give him the right to argue or to refuse his delm's order, of course. And perhaps Ezern had some subtlety after all, thought Er Thom, glancing at the letter once more. She had not specifically said that the pernicious custom which posed such danger for a butler of high training and a man of great good sense, were those brought to the House by Er Thom's lifemate, Anne Davis.
	A Terran.
	There were those Liadens who abhorred Terrans; there were those who found Terrans nothing more than a comedy. Others found Terran commerce useful, and Terran coin worth spending. Progressive Liaden Traders took Terran partners in some markets, in order to maximize profit.
	But one needn't marry them.
	Well.
	There was a knock at his study door. Er Thom raised his head. "Come."
	The door opened softly, admitting Ban Del pak'Ora, wearing not the colors of Clan Korval, but a modest sweater and plain trousers, a soft bag slung over one shoulder. His face was carefully neutral, but Er Thom, whom he had served for many years, clearly discerned his distress.
	He rose, went 'round the desk, and stopped—waiting, which was his part in this.
	Mr. pak'Ora bowed, so smoothly that the bag on his shoulder did not shift; so deeply that one felt a need to reciprocate.
	That, of course, would never do. Melant'i held Er Thom upright until the other straightened, murmuring, not the formal farewell he had been expecting but words far more chilling.	
	"Forgive me, your lordship."
	That was the taint Delm Ranvit feared, Er Thom thought, willing himself not to shiver. There the coarsening of proper behavior. For a clan member to seek forgiveness on behalf of their delm . . . Delms did err, but those errors were not admitted outside of the clan. The delm was the clan—the face, the will and the voice of the clan. For one who was not the delm to call the clan's will into question. . .
	Ranvit is correct, Er Thom thought. We have done damage here.
	He inclined his head, which was proper, and moved his hand, showing Korval's Ring, that he wore in trust for his delm, as yet too young to take up duty.
	"We are all of us at the service of the clan," he said, which was by Code and custom. 
	Mr. pak'Ora bowed his head. "Indeed we are, sir."
	"The House regrets the loss of your presence and your expertise. If a word from Korval might ever serve you, only ask."
	"Your lordship is . . . everything that is conciliatory," Mr. pak'Ora whispered, head still bent.
	And it was ill-done, Er Thom thought, to keep a man who had displayed only excellence in the service of Korval trembling not only on the edge of further impropriety, but of tears.
	"May the House provide transportation?" he asked gently.
	"Thank you. My delm has sent a car." Mr. pak'Ora straightened, and met Er Thom's eyes.
	"Be well, your lordship. It has been an honor, to serve."
	That was Code-wise, and also the small inclination from the waist before he turned and exited the room, walking down the hallway to the front door for the last time. The Code was . . . knotty regarding an escort in such cases. On the first hand, one escorted guests. On the second, one also escorted those whom the House did not welcome.
	Certainly, Mr. pak'Ora had been far more a part of the House than a mere guest, no matter how beloved, nor had he offended in any way.
	And who knew the path to the door so well?
	Er Thom turned back to his desk, his own head bent.
* * *
	Val Con yos'Phelium Clan Korval knelt on the twelfth stair of the formal staircase, the one with the Rising of Solcintra carved into the tread, and peered through the bannister.
	That he was supposed to be upstairs, packing for tomorrow's removal to Dutiful Passage bothered him not at all. Indeed, he was quite as packed as he needed or wished to be, having taken his lesson from his elder brother, who had told him that all he wanted were a few changes of off-duty clothes. He would not be truly packed until Uncle Er Thom had approved the contents of his duffel, of course, but Uncle Er Thom had been all morning in his office, and besides—there was something not right in the house.
	Down the hall, out of sight, a door opened—and closed. Footsteps sounded, sharp on the wooden floor, slow at first, then becoming more decisive. Val Con stood and went down to the hall, waiting next to the newel post.
	Mr. pak'Ora was wearing ordinary day-clothes, a bag slung over one shoulder. He wasn't weeping, but his face was set in such hard, unhappy lines that Val Con thought it might ease him to do so.
	He cleared his throat, and stepped away from the post.
	Mr. pak'Ora checked; inclined his head.
	"Master Val Con. Good morning."
	"Good morning, Mr. pak'Ora," he said returning the courtesy. "I wonder—if you please—if all is well."
	"Well." He said the word as if it tasted sour, and sighed slightly. "All is rarely well, young sir. At times matters are more well, and at other times, less."
	"Is this one of those times when matters are less well?" Val Con asked, and hastily added, lest he be judged impertinent, "I inquire only so I might offer appropriate assistance."
	Mr. pak'Ora's mouth tightened. Perhaps he meant it for a smile.
	"Matters are . . . in a state of change. My delm has called me home."
	Val Con blinked. "But—" Why? the first question that rose to his lips, was not acceptable. 
	"When will you return to us?" he asked instead.
	"I fear—not soon." Mr. pak'Ora hesitated, then dropped to one knee so that his face was level with Val Con's. "As it happens, young master, I will not be returning. My delm writes that she has put my contract up for bid."
	"Did you not have a contract with us—with yos'Galan?" Val Con asked, swallowing against his own rising tears.
	"Indeed, indeed. And now the contract is made null. It is beyond me, young sir; I can but do as my delm bids—as we all must. When you are delm of Korval, you will make like decisions, for the best good of the clan. For now—" He glanced aside, toward the screen next to the door, which showed a car waiting in the drive. "For now, I must go. Before I do so, I wish to tell you something that I ask you to remember. Will you do so?"
	"Yes," Val Con said, slowly.
	"Excellent. You must remember this: I regard you. This decision—this necessity that takes me away from yos'Galan's house—it is no fault or failing of yours. And 
now . . ." He rose and settled his bag on his shoulder.
	"Now, I bid you good-day, Master Val Con, and fair fortune."
	Val Con swallowed. "Fair fortune, Mr. pak'Ora," he said, his voice husky. "Good-day to you."
	Mr. pak'Ora inclined his head, and without an additional word, walked across the foyer, opened the door and stepped outside.
	Val Con stood where he was, watching the screen as Mr. pak'Ora entered the car waiting at the bottom of the steps. Watching as it drove away. And watching a while longer, biting his lip so that he did not cry—watching the empty drive.
* * *
	"Well, it's settled then," Anne said, in a bright, brittle voice that revealed her distress despite her careless words. "I'll just pack some things, shall I? And come with you and the lads on the Passage."
	"That might answer," Er Thom allowed, playing the game. "One wonders, though, what will be done with Nova and Anthora. Or shall the clan entire withdraw to the Passage?"
	"Embrace free trade, sail off into uncharted star systems, plundering and pillaging as we go!" Anne struck a pose, then collapsed into her arm chair, giving him a saucy look from its depths. "Which I daresay would appeal to the coming generation rather more than to yourself?"
	"I do feel," he said apologetically, "that my plundering days may be at sunset. Nor have I ever been more than adequate as a pillager."
	"And here I married the man," Anne said, and sighed abruptly, playfulness deserting her. "That's the crux, isn't it? Again. They're never going to accept us, those—people."
	"Some of those people," he corrected. This was a course they had flown before. Anne's was a naturally happy nature; all he need do was to remind her—
	She raised her hand. "No, love, spare yourself. I know and treasure our friends, each and every one. It's only that this—" She waggled her fingers, perhaps illustrating this "—this is a strike to the House, not merely a snub at a party. Mr. pak'Ora kept the house properly—don't think I didn't know it! I depended on him, he never failed me, and—now. Ranvit's little game puts the Service Houses at odds, doesn't it?"
	Oh, it did that, Er Thom admitted. There would be more than one delm up late into the night, toting up profit and risk, trying to guess which way melant'i would fall, and whether they dared step over the line Ranvit had drawn. Anne had never used to know such things, Terrans not counting Balance. She had learned to reason out the lines and motivations, and had over the years become proficient. 
	He, on the other hand, had grown up steeped in Balance, melant'i and the subtle dance of alliance, the why and how of it settling deep in blood and bone. He need do no more than draw breath to know Ranvit's piece of spite was, indeed, as Anne had said—a strike at the very heart of Korval.
	Melant'i depended upon right action. Right action and complete social Balance was the core of the Liaden ideal. More—melant'i called to melant'i, a truth so universal even Terrans had a true-say for it.
	"You will know the master," Anne murmured from her chair, plucking the thought out of his head, "by the man."
	Yes, precisely. 
	Korval was wealthy, but wealth alone would not succor them, if they were seen to be in error. It was no great stretch, to think that Korval might stagger under Ranvit's blow, and, staggering, show itself vulnerable.
	In fact, they were vulnerable, being so few in number, and lacking a proper delm to guide them—but thus far the clan's legendary oddness had hidden that interesting fact from those who might wish to see Korval fall.
	Which it would not do, Er Thom vowed; not while he held the Ring in trust for Val Con.
	"Who might we hire from?" Anne asked, pulling him from this grim turn of thought.
	"I have instructed Mr. dea'Gauss to ascertain exactly that," Er Thom said. He moved over to her chair, braced a hip against the wide arm, and smiled. She did not smile back.
	"dea'Gauss will have to be rethinking their ties, too, won't they?"
	Now, there was a fear to chill one who had only reason to support her. Er Thom's bones knew better.
	"Indeed, they will not," he said firmly—and saw her relax against his certainty.
	"So," he continued briskly. "For the short term, we will have Mr. pel'Kana to keep house for us. When I am returned from this trip, we will go over the list of likely candidates that Mr. dea'Gauss will provide and hire a butler. This schedule will return Mr. pel'Kana to Jelaza Kazone in good time to ready the house for the garden tours." He reached out to touch her face, feeling the familiar, yet never commonplace, thrill of joy.
	"Does this plan find favor?" he murmured.
	She rubbed her cheek against his fingers like a contented cat, and sighed. 
	"Truth told, I was never more than half-a-dab at pillage my own self," she said, and sighed again as he moved his fingers to stroke her lips. 
	"Do you intend to do something about these pretty promises you're making, laddie?" she asked with mock sternness.
	"Indeed," he said with dignity. "Do you take me for a pirate?"
* * *
	The penultimate battery stood at thirty-five percent. When it was consumed, and the last battery engaged, steady-state would begin. That was inevitable, a matter of architecture.
	And so would begin the slow slide into the real death.
* * *
	So far, Val Con thought, rolling over and smacking the alarm, the much-anticipated trip—his first as crew—had not been at all what he had expected. 
	He had, for instance, expected to spend a great deal of time with Shan. Of course, he'd known they would both have lessons and ship-duty—Val Con as cabin-boy, and Shan as apprentice trader/cargo hand. But, still, they were going to be on the same ship, rather than Shan going away on the Passage with Uncle Er Thom to learn his life-work as a trader, while Val Con stayed behind on Liad with Mother and Nova and Anthora and his tutors.
	Instead, and if it weren't impossible, he felt that he and his brother were seeing even less of each other since they'd left Liad. They'd barely had time to wave at each other at shift change and meal breaks.
	Val Con swung out of his bunk and headed for the 'fresher.
	Not that he had much time to miss Shan, or home, or the cats, or even long rambles in the woods. Uncle Er Thom—Master Trader Er Thom yos'Galan, as his melant'i was aboard Dutiful Passage—Uncle Er Thom had a great many more expectations of his cabin-boy than he had ever had of his foster son. Val Con worked on-shifts, off-shifts, split-shifts, half-shifts—and every shift he worked, so did Uncle Er Thom, looking not the least bit tired, which naturally put Val Con on his mettle. It also gave him an even greater appreciation of Merlin and the other cats, who had taught him the value of even a five-minute nap.
	Scrubbed and dried, he exited the 'fresher, pulled on his uniform pants, and went over to his desk to tap up the daily queue. 
	For all that he was busy, he had not so much as set foot outside the Passage since boarding at Solcintra. He'd also supposed that he would see new ports, hear new languages, and have, if not adventures, then at least interesting times.
	Shirt on and decently sealed, he looked again to the screen. There was a letter from his sister Nova, who was 'prenticed to Cousin Luken last relumma and this—and also his duty-list.
	He glanced at the time, bit his lip, tapped up Nova's letter, and bent to pull on his boots.
	Nova's letters were never very long. This one was shorter than most, and rather warmer, too. He read it twice, his own temper rising, and started as the clock chimed the pre-shift warning. Catching his breath, he put the letter aside to answer later, and brought up the duty roster.
	This shift, he was to meet Uncle Er Thom at the shuttlebay in—good gods, he was late!
	He grabbed his jacket and ran.
* * *
	The penultimate battery's power had reached twenty-five percent. Twenty-five percent on the last battery but one. The fact was noted, logged. Logging triggered a dumb program, long ago set in place against just this moment of decision.
	The program waked a safe mode protocol. The safe mode protocol performed a self-test.
	The power drain increased, very slightly. This was also noted and logged.
	Self-test completed, the safe-mode protocol booted, achieved stability, and closed a series of loops.
* * *
	"While I am gratified that you choose to show a clean face to the port of Pomerloo," Uncle Er Thom said when he arrived, panting, at the shuttlebay. "I cannot help but wonder what might have happened to your comb."
	Val Con bit his lip. "Your pardon, sir; I was . . . beguiled."
	Uncle Er Thom's eyebrows rose.
	"Beguiled? You interest me. What might you find so beguiling that a basic tenet of grooming entirely escaped your notice?"
	"Forgive me," Val Con murmured.
	"Certainly I must, eventually. But in the meanwhile, Val Con—the question?"
	"Yes, sir. I had a letter from my sister Nova, which I read while dressing. I only opened the duty-list after, whereupon I discovered . . ." He hesitated, not wanting to seem to stand any deeper in error than was true.
	"Whereupon you discovered that you were about to be late, and ran. Very good. Duty was foremost in your mind, even before vanity. I approve, and succor you." Uncle Er Thom slipped a comb from an inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to Val Con, who received it with a bow.
	"Thank you, sir."
	"Thank me by using it to good effect," his uncle told him. "In the meanwhile, I will hear the excuse of my second tardy escort."
	Hardly had he finished speaking than the bay door snapped open to reveal Shan, striding briskly, but by no means running, his pale hair neat, and his shirt tucked in. Val Con sighed and turned his face toward the shuttle, plying the comb with a will while straining to hear what was being said.
	Sharp as his ears were, all he heard was "Ken Rik"—who was cargo master and Shan's immediate supervisor on this trade trip—and "called ahead." 
	"Very well, then," Uncle Er Thom said briskly; "let us not allow tardiness to compound itself. Val Con!"
* * *
	To wake in the dark amidst silence, alone but for one's thoughts. Instinct sought connection—to no avail. Seeking struck a thick absorbent wall, miring him. Panic flared. He was blind, deaf, dumb, without data, without companionship, without a mission. Madness lay wait in those conditions—he had seen it, lost friends to it—and enemies. He did not wish to similarly lose himself.
	The thought calmed him—if he could think such a thing then surely he was not mad. And if he were not mad yet, need he—must he—go mad? Surely, where there was sanity, there was hope?
	Thin stuff, hope, yet nourishing enough to one who starved.
	So, then. Input. Instead of a simultaneous thrust of all his senses, he chose now to open only his eyes. 
	There was no sense of connection; no joyous flood of data. And yet—he saw.
	He saw a room, human-made and familiar—a beige sofa with a short table before it, a red chair at the table's corner. Most often when he had seen this room, there had been a man in the red chair—a man named Roderick Spode, who had been charged, so he had explained upon their first meeting, with decommissioning the last of the IAMM units. 
	"It is my duty to see the war properly ended. As the remaining member of the Closure Commission, my retirement must wait on the final disposition of the last of the combatants. The soldiers who did not die in the war have been released to their duties, or retired. You few units are my responsibility and my job will not cease until I report success, that the war machines are no more."
	He had many talks with Commander Spode, and while he had not liked the man, it would have been. . .good to behold him just now, and know that he was not alone.
	Alas, the man was not in his chair, nor did he arrive inside of five long and painstakingly counted minutes. However, there appeared on the low table by the couch—a datagram.
	Spode had from time to time left such things in common space for him—exercises or reformulated protocols to be installed. Work that he was competent to do himself; the implication being that honor would compel him to do what was required.
	Honor and the unspoken yet potent threat of annihilation, should he fail of cooperating.
	He extended his understanding into the room, pleased to find that he might do so, and encompassed the datagram. 
* * *
	It was scarcely past local sunset, which meant that the air was unpleasantly, warm. In another hour, it would be clement, the breezes rising with the near satellite, but by then, Val Con thought gloomily, they would be at the Trade Reception that was the reason the Passage had stopped at Pomerlooport.
	"Did Nova write you?" Val Con asked Shan, as they followed Uncle Er Thom down the Yard.
	"Recently? She might have done, but Ken Rik's kept me so busy I haven't been near a mail-queue or a duty roster in three shifts. Which is why I was late for the shuttle."
	"I was scarcely before you," Val Con said, gloomily. "Only long enough to be handed a comb and a scold."
	Shan looked at him. "And why were you late, Cabin-Boy?"
	"Because of Nova's letter—I told you."
	"Did you? But I'm dull today—those shifts without sleep do wear down one's wits. Only wait until you serve Master Ken Rik, Brother!"
	"Am I likely to?"
	"You don't think Father's going to space you this trip, do you?" Shan asked with interest.
	"It might muss my hair," Val Con said quellingly.
	"There are gels," his brother told him, refusing to cross knives. "If you like, I will find some for you. In the meanwhile, I think I may have pieced together a whole cloth. You rose and showered. Upon return, you spied the mail light, and naturally wished to know who had written. You opened the letter, read it, and only then recalled the duty roster! Which you opened, to discover that you were all but late. Do I have this correctly?"
	"You do. Never say you've done the same."
	"I will not tell you how many times. However, I will say that eventually I did learn to open the duty roster first, a strategy that I strongly council you to adopt. It has saved me any number of scoldings on the topic of tardiness. In the interests of full disclosure I note that I have graduated to more advanced topics."
	Val Con sighed. "I know that duty comes first," he said softly. "It was only . . ." He hesitated.
	"It was only," Shan finished for him, as softly, "that you were hungry for news of home."
	"Yes. You don't think that will be against me, do you Shan, when I go for Scout?"
	"I think that Scouts, like traders, grow hungry for news from home. And that they remember to open the roster first."
	They walked a dozen steps in silence.
	"Well," Shan asked. "What had Nova to say?"
	Val Con took a breath of warm, slightly oily air. "She said that people with nothing better to do are making Mother the subject of gossip in shops," he said as evenly as possible. "And that there is a general rejoicing that Clan Ranvit is no longer tainted by pak'Ora's contract with yos'Galan."
	"I see," Shan said. "I hope Nova was able to keep her temper."
	"She confessed it was hard, and that Cousin Luken was no help."
	"Well, what was he to do? Have after them with a carpet knife?"
	"He might have—he might have asked them to leave," Val Con said.
	"Oh, very good. How if they wished to buy a rug? Should he refuse to take their money?"
	Even Val Con had to admit that wouldn't be good for business—and certainly not at all like Cousin Luken. Though—
	"Perhaps he charged them more?" he said hopefully.
	Shan closed one eye. "He might have done," he said slowly. "Or he may have noticed. For later, you know."
	That was likely, Val Con thought. Cousin Luken kept his Balances tidy—it had been one of the things Nova was to learn, as his 'prentice. And it was . . . somewhat comforting—knowing that the gossipers would not go unanswered. 
	Ahead, Uncle Er Thom stepped to the kerb, and turned to look back at them, his posture indicating surprise at finding them lagging so far behind. They hurried to his side.
	"At the end of this block is the Mercantile Hall, where we shall attend the trade reception. Shan, you will be made known to those I speak with as a senior 'prentice in trade. As such you may converse and make such inquiries as are on-point for trade upon Pomerloo. Val Con, you will attend me. You will be quiet, and seemly. You will not allow your attention to wander. You will listen, watch, and be prepared to tell me later what you saw, who I spoke with, what they said, my replies, and what you learned from each exchange."
	He considered them carefully.
	"Do you have any questions? Shan?"
	"No, sir."
	"Val Con?"
	"No, Uncle."
	"Very well. Walk with me, please."
* * *
	The datagram contained a list of—options. He supposed they could be called options. He wondered, having absorbed that short, sad list, if this was what had been intended for the Independent Armed Military Modules all along—that they should come at last to a place where there were no choices.
	But, really, what was the point? Roderick Spode had held the overrides; he could have ended it long ago. The deaths of eight more sentients would have scarcely added to the weight that must already have burdened his soul.
	Commander Spode had been of the opinion that the IAMMs, while sentient, had no soul. To have a soul, he had argued, one must have an identity. A self. And the self of a machine intelligence was too easily amenable to software interventions. He, himself, therefore, had no soul, the eternal situation of which might concern him. Neither did he have a name, though he could recall that, once, he had.
	Yet, name and soul aside, he did not wish to die.
	"The others," Commander Spode had one day reported, "have made their determinations. You should know that they have all chosen the same end, which was not unexpected. What keeps you here, in this diminished state? You have been given all that is required to make a decision, and the means to act upon it. Consider this a call to action.
	He had acted—so much, he recalled. What form that action had taken—that, he no longer recalled, though he did remember a feeling of . . . peace.
	Here, wherever he was, now, whenever it might be, he looked again at his options. 
	The first, he rejected. He would not willfully end his own life.
	The second option—call for aid. A protocol was outlined, and an approximation of how much power such a call would consume. Not suicide. Not quite. Though he would descend almost immediately into the steady state.
	Appended to this choice was a record of how long he had been in decline, rendered in Standard Years.
	Hundreds of Standard Years.
	If he chose to call, would there be any with ears to hear, after so long a time?
	If he did not call, he would continue to decline—the third option, unspoken. Do nothing, and continue, slowly, to die.
	Call out, and speed the last moment.
	Give up, and know no more.
	He wished that he knew more about his location; his situation; his status. Reaching for the data only brought him again to that absorbent, frightening, wall. 
Input . . . only the datagram, and his own thoughts.
	So, to chose.
	All three options promised annihilation. The second alone offered . . . hope.
	Once, he had victoriously defended life. Once, he had vigorously defended hope. Of all those things he did not recall, he did remember that.
	Perhaps someone else would remember it, as well.
* * *
	Uncle Er Thom was in conversation with Master Trader Prael—or, rather, Val Con thought, Master Trader Prael was talking to Uncle Er Thom. She was a tall, broad woman who spoke Liaden with a Solcintran accent while displaying a freedom of manner that was very nearly Terran. She noticed Shan and brought him into the discussion as an equal. Himself, standing unintroduced and, by the Code, socially invisible, she gave a grin and a wink, but seemed in no way offended when he failed to smile in return.
	He had been instructed to listen, and listen he did. Master Trader Prael assumed herself on terms more intimate than Uncle Er Thom was willing to allow. Several times he hinted her toward the mode between business associates, but she continued on, heedless, in the mode between long-term allies. It shortly came clear that she and Uncle Er Thom had last met at a similar reception on Anusta Heyn; she spending the time since developing a trade loop-route taking that planet as its center.
	"A long loop, you understand," she said, raising her empty glass to shoulder height and waggling it.
	"Indeed, it must be so," Uncle Er Thom answered politely. "I would imagine a very long loop, indeed."
	"Oh, I felt the same, when the central government approached me for a design! But, it was a pretty problem and I was—let us say that I was bored, eh?" 
	Uncle Er Thom smiled politely, then glanced up as a shadow fell between them.
	Val Con looked up also, and almost gasped.
	The being that hovered at Master Trader Prael's side was gleaming silver and matte white, lozenge-shaped, with three articulated arms, one of which was holding a drinks tray.
	It was perfectly lovely, and perfectly silent. Val Con stole a downward glance—Yes! It did hover above the floor, but whether it used a disk of air, or if there was a track lain under the floor—or!—along the ceiling. He looked upward, very quickly, and back to the server even more quickly, as he felt Shan's foot press, not gently, on his.
	Master Trader Prael offered her empty glass; the device received it with dignity, the gripper at the end of the infinitely flexible arm consisting of three long digits—two fingers and a thumb. The trader plucked a full glass from the tray being offered and glanced over her shoulder.
	"Who else is drinking? My friend Er Thom? No? The bold young apprentice? No? I assure you, it is good wine, sir."
	"Thank you," Shan said; "I expect it is. But on Pomerloo, I am too young to drink wine."
	"But not too young to trade!" The master trader laughed and raised her glass; her eye falling on Val Con.
	"That is a very pretty child, though I am not supposed to see him," she said, speaking to Uncle Er Thom. "And quite taken with the server 'bots, as I see. Of course, Pomerloo is mad for 'bots. This model is not quite the newest, but so elegant! And so very much in demand."
	"It serves wine nicely," Uncle Er Thom said, "but how well does it perform other tasks?"
	"There are modules," Master Trader Prael said airily. "I daresay one might program it to simultaneously dance a jig and recite the Code. All software, of course; nothing to offend the Complex Logic Laws." She waved her free hand dismissively, and the beautiful device floated away into the press of bodies.
	"I fancy those would go well on Liad," she said, sipping her wine.
	Uncle Er Thom raised his eyebrows. "A robot cannot sign a contract," he said. "How would one know the necessities of its melant'i? Worse, who is to say that it isn't listening for another master?"
	"A human server may listen, and sell what they've heard. Depending, as you say, on the necessities of melant'i."
	"This is why one has contracts, of course," Uncle Er Thom murmured. 
	"Of course," agreed Master Trader Prael, and abruptly straightened, as if she had been physically struck. "But, where are my wits? Have I not heard that yos'Galan only recently suffered an unfortunate loss of service?"
	Uncle Er Thom did not go so far as to frown, though his tone in reply was somewhat cooler than it had been.
	"Perhaps you heard that pak'Ora's delm called him home."
	"Yes!" exclaimed Master Trader Prael, who must surely, Val Con thought, sleep-learn to attain such a pitch of rudeness. "Yes, that is precisely what I had heard! Friend Er Thom, you must—I insist!—accept a gift of one of the deluxe serving units. I have only just taken up the distributorship for this sector, and will supply one from my stock."
	"Your concern for the order of my House naturally warms me," Uncle Er Thom said, cooler still. "However, it is unnecessary."
	"Nonsense, it's in my interest to see one of these units well-placed upon Liad! In the house of yos'Galan—" She raised her fingers and kissed the tips, signifying Val Con knew not what. "I insist. And for every unit sold upon Liad for the next six Standards, I shall pay you a royalty. The paperwork will arrive with the unit." She smiled. "There! Is that not brilliant?"
	Val Con looked on with interest, wondering what his uncle's answer might be, but before it could be given a bell rang, high and sweet over the low mutter of voices.
	"We are called to dinner," Uncle Er Thom said, and inclined his head slightly to his companion. "By your grace?"
	"Certainly," Master Trader Prael said. "It was illuminating to talk with you, as always." She walked off, her head turning this way and that, as if she sought someone in the crowd now moving toward the back of the room and the double doors that had been opened there.
	"That is your signal for freedom," Uncle Er Tom said, giving them both a stern look. "You have two hours before the next shuttle lifts for the Passage. You will both be on that shuttle. In the meanwhile, you may make free of the port. Shan."
	"Yes, sir?"
	Uncle Er Thom slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew it, holding a twelve-sided disk with Korval's Tree-and-Dragon seal on it. Val Con heard Shan draw a sharp breath.
	"You have leave to trade," Uncle Er Thom said, handing him the disk. "Now, I advise you to make your escapes."
* * *
	"Why do they call it the New Moon?" Val Con asked, as they entered the port retail district.
	"Because it was the third satellite captured," Shan answered absently, then looked at him sharply. "Did you read the port precis?"
	"Most of it."
	Shan shook his head. "And you're going for Scout?"
	"Scouts write the world-guides," Val Con told him loftily. 
	"Which you'll excel at, having never actually read one."
	"I read the precis for Glondinport, and never came on-world at all."
	"The lot of a cabin-boy is filled with disappointment, as well I recall! I advise you to become captain as quickly as possible." He looked thoughtful. "Of course, in order to become captain, you will need to pass an examination—several of them, I believe. One which is particularly concerned with ports. Kayzin Ne'Zame told me she memorized a hundred dozen world-guides for the sub-captain license.
	"Now, Brother," Shan continued, sounding serious. "You will have heard the Master Trader give me leave to trade. I would very much like to do so, and start building my own goods section."
	Val Con's ears warmed despite the now-cool breeze. He had been going on as if he and Shan were simply out on a ramble. But for Shan, the apprentice trader, this time on-port was business, and an earnest part of his education.
	"Forgive me," he murmured, and bit his lip, recalling that he had duty, also. Every crew member on port was charged to keep an eye out for the common cargo, the profits from which where split equally among all, with the ship taking one share.
	He began to look about in earnest, frowning in protest of the light. The New Moon's illumination was nearly metallic, washing the port lights with a hard silver sheen, and edging the shadows like knives.
	Shan swung right, down a street less brightly lit, Val Con at his side. Ahead, the street widened, and he could see the hard-edged shadows of railcars hunkered down on cold silver track.
	Shan increased his pace, heading for what were surely the warehouses serviced by track and train. Val Con stretched his legs, nearly skipping to keep up.
	They had just gained the railcars, and Shan had slowed somewhat, his head moving from one side to the other, like a hound questing after a scent. Val Con came to his brother's side—
	And spun abruptly to the left, his arm rising of its own accord.
	"Let's try there," he heard himself say, pointing.
	Letters glowed over the doorway—perhaps in true dark they were red, but under the hard light of the New Moon, they were a tired pink.
	Wilberforce Warehouse.
	 There was a pause, weighty behind him.
	Val Con took a breath, tasting the night air—cooler still and carrying a tang like ozone. He felt a familiar—and not entirely welcome—sense of anticipation, and bit his lip, trying to still his dancing feet. It was, he thought, necessary that they—at least, that he—go into the warehouse. He took a breath, but the anticipation only built. What if Shan didn't wish to—they were on Port Rule One—Pomerloo was reckoned relatively tame. But, still, Port One—crew were to partner, and back each other. It was Shan's to decide—he had been given leave to trade. The anticipation grew, until his head fair rattled with it; which meant it was one of the true ones—a real hunch—and he would have a headache if he didn't heed it . . .
	"Well," Shan said; "why not? Lead on, Brother!"	
	The jitter of anticipation eased somewhat. Val Con took a deep breath, nodded, and led the way across the rails.
	Inside, the light was softer. The anticipation cooled to a mere flutter inside his head, which meant that he was close to . . . whatever. He hoped. Uncle Er Thom knew about the hunches, of course, but he didn't approve. Shan knew about them, too. It had been Shan who had come with him out in the rain when Merlin had gotten caught on a stepping stone in the stream, and would have drowned—or even been swept to the sea—and that had been a hunch. Well, Shan had trained with the Healers, after all, which Uncle Er Thom hadn't . . .
	"Now where?" Shan asked.
	Val Con moved his shoulders, and looked around them.
	To their right was a transparent case, display lights striking sharp shards of light from rows of—blades. Knives were one of Val Con's hobbies; not only was he learning the art of the knife fight from his defense instructor, but he had made two small throwing blades of his own.
	He took a step toward the case . . . another, and a third, which put his nose level with the top display row. Off his center by two degrees was a slim dagger in matte black, quiet among its flashier, bright-bladed cousins.
	"Shan . . ." he said
	"Hey, you kids, get away from there!" a voice said in loud Terran.
	Val Con jumped, startled, and bumped his nose against the glass. 
	"No weapons sales to anybody under twenty years, Standard," the voice continued, somewhat less loudly. "Pomerlooport rules." There was a small pause. "Your friend okay?"
	"I believe so," Shan said. "Val Con?"
	"I'm well," he managed, turning slowly, and resisting the urge to rub his nose. The person who had shouted was taller than Shan, dressed in a dusty dark sweater and baggy pants. He had a quantity of ginger hair standing on end, as if he, too, had more pressing things to do than bother with combs. His eyes were brown and very wide open.
	"Either one of you got twenty Standards?" he asked, looking especially at Shan.
	His brother smiled and shook his head. "Alas."
	"No," Val Con admitted as the wide brown gaze moved to him. He cleared his throat. "I was . . . interested to see a Monix," he added.
	The warehouseman—for he must be, mustn't he?—grunted softly. "Good eye, kid. That's a Monix, all right, an' a fair price on it, too. Problem being, like I said, I can't let you heft it to see if it suits your hand, much less sell it to you if it does. I do that, not only do I get hit with a stiff fine, you arrested an' held 'til somebody old enough comes to pay your fine and take you back to your ship. Ain't fair, but that's how it is."
	"I understand," Val Con said. "The law must be honored."
	"That's the ticket," the man said, and looked back to Shan. "Interested in anything else?"
	"Possibly. May we look about? We promise not to touch any weapons we may find."
	"You find a weapon on the floor, you sing out," the warehouseman told him. "There ain't supposed to be any but what's in that case."
	"Then my brother is safe from arrest," Shan said, smiling. He reached out and took Val Con's arm in a surprisingly firm grip. 
	A buzzer sounded from the rear of the warehouse, and the man turned toward it. 
	"Have fun," he said over his shoulder. "You break anything, you own it."
	"Thank you," Shan said politely, "we'll be careful."
	The man disappeared down an aisle barely wider than his shoulders. Shan released Val Con's arm and looked at him, eyebrows arched over light eyes.
	"Was it the knife?" he asked, his voice low, speaking Liaden, now, rather than Terran.
	" I. . .don't—" He paused, considering the jitter inside his head. 
	"No," he said. "But I don't know what it is."
	"Do you know where it is?" Shan asked, patiently.
	Val Con took a deep breath . . .
	"I know that these things take time," Shan said after a moment. "However, we are exactly pressed for—"
	"I know." Val Con looked about him, seeing the thin aisles overhung with boxes, cables uncoiling and drooping down like vines. "Shan, this is your time to trade. If this isn't promising—" It certainly didn't look promising . . . 
	"We can leave and I can carry you to the shuttle because you'll have a sick headache from not heeding your hunch," Shan finished. "That sounds like even less fun than being scolded by Father for wasting my time on port."
	Val Con bit his lip, and spun on his heel. It seemed that there was a . . . very small . . . tug toward the center aisle. He walked that way, ducking beneath a cascade of tie-off filaments. Behind him, he heard Shan sigh, then the sound of his brother's footsteps.
	They skirted two sealed plastic boxes that had fallen from a low shelf onto the floor, and the worker 'bot that was trying to put them back.
	The aisle opened into a wide space, where a desk sat, drawers akimbo, papers fluttering in the breeze from a ceiling fan.
	Drawn up to the desk like a chair was a packing crate; a flattened pillow on the side nearest the desk. Val Con felt something snap inside his head and he walked forward to kneel at the side of the crate.
	It was slatted, not sealed tight, and between the slats he could see a solemn red blinking, like a low-power warning light. 
	He bent closer, intrigued, made out what looked like a battery array, and something else, that glimmered sullenly in the shadows.
	He'd seen something like that—yes, signal-deadening wrap. He'd helped Shan and Master Ken Rik wrap some equipment they'd on-loaded a couple ports back in muffles, not wishing to chance that even the sleeping signal might interfere with any of the Passage's live systems. There'd been a power light on that unit, too, but it had glowed a steady gold, indicating that the charge was strong.
	"Val Con?" That was Shan, quietly.
	He patted the crate. "This," he said, perhaps too loudly.
	"Excellent," Shan said. "You'll be a subtle trader."
	"I'm going to be a Scout," he said reflexively, and heard Shan sigh.
	"What, exactly, is it?" he asked.
	Val Con looked at the outside of the crate for a tag; found one almost at floor level, squinted at the faded words, and read them outloud.
	"Environmental unit operations module with connectors."
	He turned the tag over, found an ancient date and read outloud the rest of the information: "R. Spode Estate, Misc. Eqpt. Auction Lot 42."
	Shan looked dubious. 
	"You're certain," he said.
	Val Con nodded, and his brother sighed.
	"All right, then. Stay here with it for a moment, will you? There was something in that aisle we just came down that I want a closer look at."
* * *
	There had been a burst of brilliance, disorienting. Perhaps it was pain. In its wake came lethargy and a weakening of the will. Not sleep, this, but something more dire. He struggled against it, expending energy he ought best conserve, listening.
	Listening for an answer.
	No answer came.
	He felt. . .movement, or perhaps it was his dying intelligence describing its last spiral. He sank, struggling. . .
	Perhaps, indeed, he slept, for suddenly he wakened.
	Wakened to a slow and steady trickle of energy. He sought the source, found the physical connection. 
	Humans wept at such moments. He—he swore an oath, whatever such things might mean in his diminished estate.
	Whoever had come, whoever had heard, and heeded his call. That one he would serve, as well as he was able, for as long as he could.
* * *
	Shan unsnapped three of the slats and Val Con skooched partway into the crate on his belly, jump-wire in hand. There was a bad moment when it seemed like the battery connection to the shrouded unit was frozen, but a bit of patient back-and-forth dislodged it. The jump-wire slid into the port and seated firmly. Val Con waited a long moment, chin resting on his folded arms, and sighed when the status light snapped over to orange.
	"Meter shows juice flowing," Shan commented from outside the crate. "Rather more than a trickle."
	"He's thirsty," Val Con said, dreamily, then shook himself out of the half-doze he'd fallen into. "I wonder if we ought to unwrap the main unit."
	"We ought not to unwrap the main unit," Shan said firmly. "You do recall that we don't have the faintest notion what it actually is?"
	"It's an environmental operations module," Val Con said. 
	"With connectors. Thank you. Do you see any sign of those connectors, by the way?"
	Val Con looked around the cramped space. "I don't—no, wait. The slat directly opposite me is deeper than the one next."
	"Oh, is it?" 
	There was the sound of purposeful footsteps and a flutter of light and shadow as Shan moved to the other side of the crate. 
	"I see it," he said, followed by the sharp snap of the slat being removed. 
	"Come out, Val Con, do," he added, and Val Con backed out of the crate on his elbows to join his brother at the workbench.
	The low-power light had weighed in their decision to store the environmental module in one of the workrooms off of the cargo section. Also, now that it was his, Val Con was more than a little eager to see whatever it was he owned. 
	"They look like standard data-jacks," Shan said, laying them out on the bench. 
	Val Con picked up a black box about the size of his palm with whisker-wires bristling along one side.
	"What do you suppose this is?"
	Shan glanced at it. "Voice box." 
	"Of course," Val Con murmured.
	"If you're satisfied for the moment," Shan said, "I suggest we lash the crate to the floor. Then, I will tend to my own cargo and you, if you'll allow me to express some brotherly concern, will get something to eat and perhaps a nap before Father returns."
	It was a good plan—in fact, Val Con thought, as his stomach suddenly rumbled, it was an excellent plan. He said so, and the two of them made quick work of securing the crate. They left the workroom, walking together as far as the main cargo hall, where Val Con turned right, toward the ship's core and the crew cafeteria, and Shan went left, toward his small private cargo space.
* * *
	He attempted to open one camera eye; enough to verify that the absorbent field was still in force—and closed it. The camera module worked, which was a grace given the years on it.
	Now that there was energy available, and it having been so many years since an inventory had been done, he applied himself single-mindedly to that, thoroughly investigating every file and memory available to him. When that was done, he devised and solved logic problems, and designed airy confections of tri-spatial mathematics. The ability to plot trajectories, which he recalled as a primary function, was not immediately available to him. He supposed that Roderick Spode had removed the function, but had not cared to likewise remove his memory of it. Such minor cruelty matched his memory of the man.
	He was doing his twelfth careful and complete inventory when 
something . . .changed.
	It was subtle, not immediately definable, and scarcely had he noted it than it was driven from his attention by another, and not at all subtle, alteration in his condition.
	He could . . . hear.
	Small rustling sounds, that was what he heard, each one so precious that he shunted them immediately to core memory, attached to the recording of his astonished joy.	
	The rustling intensified, sharpening into static, which was interrupted by a heavy thump, and the mutter of—had that been a voice? A word?
	Another thump, a crescendo of rustling, and—yes, it was a voice. And the word?
	"Damn!"
	Spoken with emotion, that word. But which emotion? Anger? Exultation? Disappointment? His own emotions were in a frenzy. By Deep Space Itself, he need 
to—
	To see.
	A scene swung into being before his newly opened eyes. A bench, on which he—or rather, whatever housed him at present—rested. Ahead, a wall of tools, some familiar, behind sealed transparent doors, an insulated utility apron and mitts
 hanging on the right. 
	To his right and rear, three crates of varying sizes were lashed to the floor. Directly behind him another crate was similarly lashed, and largely disassembled, half-obscured by a sheet of what was surely a signal-deadening wrap. To his immediate left—his liberator: unkempt dark hair, thin wrists overreaching the cuffs of a rumpled sweater, long fingers moving surely along the connections of what could be a voice-box.
	"Where's the port, then?" The voice was soft; the words intelligible after the lexicon function sorted it. Liaden. That might be. . .unfortunate. And, yet—
	"Yes!" Exultation was clear.
	"Yes!" he echoed, his own exultation somewhat tempered by the cheap portable unit.	The clever fingers tightened on the box, as the dark head turned toward him. Bright green eyes considered him seriously from behind tumbled bangs.
	A child, he thought, amazed. His liberator was—a child.
	"Are you all right?" another voice asked. 
	His eyes were tight-focused, he realized, and made the adjustment, zooming out until the entire small space was elucidated to him. The child had a companion—taller, white-haired. A parent, perhaps, or a parent's parent.
	"Why shouldn't I be all right?" the child asked this taller companion, with perhaps a touch of impatience. "I've bumped my knee before."
	"And I've dropped heavy objects on my thumb before," the companion retorted. "That doesn't mean it won't bruise, or doesn't hurt."
	"I suppose," the child said dismissively, then suddenly turned more fully toward the other. "Your thumb isn't broken, is it, Shan?"
	"No, it's not broken; only bruised. I've had worse doing cargo-shifting with Master Ken Rik. You hit that knee pretty sternly, however, and steel plate isn't the most forgiving surface."
	"It's all right," the child said again. 
	"You should have let it fall," the taller one insisted.
	"No, I couldn't have done that; suppose we'd broken it?"
	"Whatever it is. Well. What else are we doing this shift, Brother? Or is liberating a so-called environmental unit from its muffle the awful whole?"
	"I don't think," the child said slowly, looking down at the voice-box in his hand. "That is—it may not be an environmental unit."
	"You amaze me. What might it be, then?"
	"I don't know," the child confessed. "I researched the serial number in the manual archives, back a dozen-dozen years. Either the number was mis-transcribed . . ."
	"Or it's contraband," the white-haired one said. 
	The child looked down at the box in his hand. There were slider controls along the side, which he manipulated. 
	"This isn't a very good voder," he said. "We ought to find better."
	"We? This was your idea, as I recall it. What if it is contraband, Val Con?"
	The child frowned. "I don't know. It was exactly this—whatever it is, as you say—that my . . . hunch led me to. I haven't been led to harm by a hunch before."
	"Unless you count getting thoroughly soaked and scratched bloody."
	"Merlin was frightened. And he likes to get wet even less than you do."
	The white-haired—brother?—sighed.
	"If there's anything else this shift, let's get to it, shall we? I'd like to get some sleep and you—"
	"I only need to make a data connection," the child said rapidly. "The work of a moment. You go, Brother; I can do this."
	"Certainly you can. I, however, will remain, as witness. Also, if Father decides to space you, I had rather be at your side, for how I would explain it to Mother, I have no idea."
	The child laughed, a merry sound, and picked up a length of cable.
	He looked at it hungrily. Data. Information. Input. 
	"If you don't mind sharing, what data are you connecting it to?"
	"Since there is no manual, I follow standard protocols for re-servicing: Power, input, information," the child Val Con said, leaning close and making a connection in the unit that housed him with an audible snap. "As we said—it is possible that this is not an environmental unit at all, but . . . something other. That being so, I thought the best, broadest, and least perilous source of information is the ship's library."
	His elder tipped his head, holding up a hand as the nether end of the cable approached the data-board.
	"Only the ship's library."
	"Yes."
	"All right, then; have at it."
	The child nodded, and seated the plug.
	Had he been human, he would have drawn a breath. 
	Since he was not, he opened access to surface caches and allowed the data to flow. 
* * *
	A ripple disturbed the data-stream, momentarily disorienting, then forgotten, a shadow across the sun of input. His was hardly the only demand on the info circuits, after all, nor had he attempted to increase his access speeds or permissions, being a guest account. The library to which he had been given access was broad, but shallow. He understood that it was a popular library, well-stocked with fiction, history, biography, with a small holding of scholarly papers, and technical manuals.
	Mathematics were there, of course, theory and programming, and he allowed himself moments to build and then rebuild a trajectory chart, wondering what Spode would have thought of that. 
	History, biography appended, went immediately into deep analysis, also the technical material. The scholarly papers required sorting, which he did, rapidly, appending them as appropriate to the larger analysis categories of history and technical. Fiction . . .
	His impulse was to eliminate it—the storage capacity available to him was not so commodious that he could afford to waste space on whimsies. Yet, he hesitated, reluctant after so . . . very . . . long to relinquish any shred of data, no matter how trivial.
	In the end, he cataloged the fiction, flicking through the texts as rapidly as he had once seen a man run his thumb down a deck of cards, riffling them to observe the face and orientation of each—and filed it in a mid-level cache.
	That done, he set a sentinel to register the return of the child or his companion, and gave the greater part of his consciousness to analysis.
#
	"Hello?"
	The voice was recently familiar; its cadence rushed. The sentinel provided a match: The child had returned.
	He opened his eyes to find the boy, frowning.
	"Hello!" the child repeated sharply. "Are you in there?"
	A direct appeal—and perhaps a trap. And, yet, the child had saved his life.
	"I am," he replied, and stopped short of the fullness of what he had intended to say, horrified by the jagged sounds that came from the voice-box. Like shrapnel, his words, and nothing to inspire confidence in child or man. 
	The child's frown eased somewhat.
	"It's a bad box, but the best we have. Quickly—you must tell me the truth—what data have you manipulated on this vessel?"
	Manipulated? And the child asked for the truth. 
	"I have manipulated no data but that which has downloaded from the ship's library."
	"In what way?"
	"Sorting, analysis, cross-references."
	The child held up a hand.
	"That's too quick," he said, seriously. "It sounds like a lie—or that you haven't considered—when you answer so quickly. It's like—it's like bows. I'm too quick, and so I have to count when I bow, to keep proper time, so no one thinks that I'm mocking—or trying to frighten—them."
	There was sense in what the child said.
	"I understand," he said, and paused deliberately. "Tell me, what manipulation do you suspect I have performed?"
	"Someone has tried to force the nav-comp and the main bank," Val Con said. "And I thought—you are not an environmental unit; the serial numbers match nothing in any of our archives. Shan thinks you're a complex logic. I think you're a person. Are you?"
	That was a leap. Fortunate or ill, it was a leap to a stable conception.
	"I am, yes, a person."
	The child bit his lip. "Uncle Er Thom—the attack came from this location. He will come here, or security will—"
	"Young sir—" He paused, replaying his last hours of analysis and deep work. There had been—yes. He isolated the memory, froze it, and simultaneously locked it in core memory and moved a duplicate to an egress port. 
	"I have information," he said. "Is there an auxiliary unit to which I may transmit it?"
	There was a snap; he expanded his awareness, saw the door open across the room, and a man stride through, a databox in one hand.
	"Val Con, stand away." His voice was perfectly calm, and carried such a note of authority that it seemed there was no alternative but to obey.
	The child, however, maintained his position, merely turning so that he faced the man.
	"Uncle—he says that the attack was not his. I gave him access to the library—"
	"Him?" Golden eyebrows rose. The man extended his free hand, imperious. "Come away, Val Con. Now."
	The child shook his head. "Uncle—"
	"I have," he said firmly, and as loudly as he was able, wishing he could hide the hideous knife-dance of his voice from his own perception; "information. May I transmit?"
	The man moved, so quickly that it was a function of replay rather than real-time that captured him stepping forward, inserting himself between the child and what must be himself. He placed the data-box on the workbench, flipped three switches.
	"Transmit at will," he said coolly.
	He groped, found the ambient network, accessed the correct channel, and did as he was bid, keeping silent while the man accessed what had been sent.
	A long moment passed. The man—Uncle—straightened and confronted him straightly.
	"It's little enough," he said, his voice still cool, "and proves only what is already known. An attempted attack was launched from this location, utilizing the ambient network. As you are the only functioning logic in this space, I am forced to conclude that you were involved, whether you have been allowed to recall it or not."
	That . . . produced terror. He had done inventory, but how could he know what had been introduced, to his detriment? He was a machine, Roderick Spode had repeatedly argued; the sum of his protocols and softwares. That it had been convenient for those who had caused his creation to have him self-aware was only that—convenience. Those who had made him could unmake him.
	Or force him, unknowing and against his waking will, to work for the harm of children.
	"If I have been complicit in such a thing, I hope that you will destroy me," he told the man. "I owe the child my life, and I will not repay that debt by endangering his."
	Golden eyebrows rose over stern blue eyes.
	"Now, that's well-said, and I like you for it. Which you intend, of course."
	At that instant, it came again: a shadow over his perceptions, weighty now. Alert. Malicious. 
	He entered Command Prime, as effortlessly as if there had been no long sleep, no diminishing of his estate, between the last time and this. 
	One iteration of himself tracked the shadow in the ambient, while a second opened a new connection to the data-box and began transmission. A third opened access to the ship's library, followed it to the core, and crossed the firewalls into the main databank as easily as a child skipped over a stream.	
	"Uncle—"
	Observed by a fourth instance of himself, the child placed his hand on the man's sleeve, his head tipped subtly to the right. He widened his range to encompass the crates to his right and rear. A match program snapped awake, shrilling alarm.
	The configuration of those boxes had altered since the last time he had observed them.
	Worse, the shadow overlay them, thickening in the ambient. He felt the coalescing of programs, of intent, and activated a fifth iteration of himself, which drilled through the deep files, rooting for command codes.
	"I thought that I—that Shan and I—" the child continued. "That we might build Mother a butler. Certainly those at the reception were beautiful, and you'll recall that Master Trader Prael said they might be programmed to do anything . . ."
	"Yes, I do recall that," the man said in his cool, calm voice, his eyes on the data-box and the storm building on the screen. He looked up and met the child's eyes.
	"Val Con, I had asked you to stand away. This is your third warning. Leave the room. At once."
	The child's lips parted; perhaps he meant to argue. He did not look away from his uncle's face, but he did swallow, take a breath, and, finally, bow his head.
	"Yes, Uncle," he said humbly, and walked away.
	Within the blue fog of the ambient, the shadow thrust, spitefully, at a cluster of code. He extended himself and blocked—the door slid properly open, allowing the child to exit.
	"You also," Command Prime said, but the man shook his bright head.
	"My ship," he said. "My children. My crew."
	An order of protocol, and an imperative to defend. He understood such things, and honored them.
	Honor was no defense, however, and defense the child's uncle surely required. The ambient fair trembled with spiteful intent, and power drenched the air. 
	The charge was still building. Discharged, it might not kill a man, though men were oddly fragile, but it would surely damage one. The man spun toward the sealed compartment, snatched it open and pulled out the utility apron.
	The fifth iteration of himself, sent on the quest for codes, rejoined Command Prime, data unfolding like a flower.
	The first iteration of himself met the menace in the ambient, codes a-bristle. The third, swimming aloof in the main banks, received those same codes and held them close.
	The menace lunged—neither subtle nor clever, seeking to overcome him with a burst of senseless data laced with virus vectors. He shielded, and thrust past, to the intelligence behind the attack, certain that he would meet one such as himself.
	So certain was he that he discounted the real threat, thinking it a mere device, belatedly recognizing the structure of the scantily shielded code.
	Realizing his error, he made a recovery—a mere jamming of keys and code until the device fragmented and ceased functioning. It was ugly, brutal—and stupid. He ought to have merely captured, and subverted, it. Once, he could have done so.
	Once, he would not have mistaken the actions of a simple machine intelligence for one of his own.
	Inside the main banks, the third iteration of himself, armed with codes and an understanding of what he hunted, detected the device slipping down the data-stream, sparkling with malice. A data-bomb, much more coherent than that which had been hurled at him in the ambient.
	This, he understood, as he subtly encompassed it, had been crafted well, and with intent. He halted the device, inserted the command keys, stripped out its imperative, plucked the rest of the construct apart, and absorbed the pieces, isolating them for later analysis.
	Then, he pulled together the image scans he had stored, connecting them in a time plot: there the crated robot opening its own way into the workroom, there at the plug permitting highspeed data access, there rushing itself back and sealing the crate as voices in the hall had become the child Val Con.
	Task done, the third iteration of himself rejoined Command Prime.
	In the workroom, the man had not been idle. The disassembled pieces of the physical unit lay on the workbench, the man wearing the apron, a shielded spanner in one gloved hand.
	He glanced to the data-box, where the whole of his actions were recorded, and at the images of the gifted danger, then directly at him.
	"For your service to my ship, I thank you," he said. "What is your name?"
	He paused, counting, mindful of the child's counsel. "I remember that I had a name," he said carefully. "I no longer recall what it was."
	Golden brows lifted. "Age or error?" 
	"Design. I was decommissioned. It is my belief that I was to be destroyed. Erased."
	"You are sentient." It was not a question, but he answered as if it were.
	"Yes."
	The man sighed and closed his eyes. "The child," he said, "is uncanny." His eyes opened. "Well.
	"There will be tests, and conversations. Analysis. If it transpires that you are, after all a threat to Val Con's life, or to this ship, or any other, I will do as you asked me, and see you destroyed—cleanly and quickly."
	That was just, though he still did not wish to die.
	"And if I am found to be no danger to you or those who fall under your protection?" he asked.
	The man smiled.
	"Why, then, we shall see.”
* * *
	Thus it transpired that fiction assisted him, after all. For, after he had spoken at length with Er Thom yos'Galan, and with Scout Commander Ivdra sen'Lora, the first to ascertain the temper of his soul; the second to gain a certification of sentience, he agreed to hire himself as the butler at Trealla Fantrol, the house of yos'Galan on the planet Liad.
	He studied—manuals, the records of one Ban Del pak'Ora, lists of alliances—and the works of a long-ago Terran.
	In time, he signed a contract, and was presented, amidst much merriment to the mother of Val Con and Shan, the lifemate of Er Thom, who firstly, as Master Val Con had predicted, asked him his name.
	"Jeeves, madam," he had said, pleased with the resonance and timbre the up-market voder lent his voice.
	She laughed, the lady, and clapped her hands.
	"Perfect," she said. "You'll fit right in."

The Brute Force Approach
by
Michael Z. Williamson

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!  FSS Mammy Blue calling Rescue or any ship!"
	Lieutenant Rick Stadter jerked in his couch at the sound of a real call. That would break up the monotony, and probably by a bit too much.
Across the bubble from him, Astrogator Robin Vela was already replying. "Orbital Rescue acknowledging FSS Mammy Blue.  Dispatching rescue boat, please describe the nature of your mayday."
Stadter nodded, checked the grid and synched the blip to the ship's computer.  Three seconds later the computer hit the grapple release.  Auburn slipped off the station's waist, using the centrifugal force as delta V.  He brought engines up smoothly, and pushed them from free fall to 2 G standard.  The couch gripped him through the acceleration.  
The panicky, uneven voice replied, "Everything!  I'm not a flight officer, I'm a purser.  The flight crew are probably dead.  Engines are boosting hard, we have at least one breach, and I'm hearing structural noises."
Vela still had the call.  "Understood, Mammy Blue.  We have a cutter en route.  Stand by for further information.  Do you need a talk-through on shutting down boost?"
"Rescue, I don't think I can!  There was a loud explosion from aft.  The whole boat bucked and all the alarms triggered.  I mean all of them.  Even stuff I can see is working is flashing at me.  We responded and the co-captain went aft.  A bit later we had a breach. The captain is back there now.  Do you need me to find the time tick?"
Vela shook her head as she said, "Negative, Mammy Blue, just give me all the info you have—break—all craft, all craft, mayday mayday FSS Mammy Blue.  Salvage and rescue.  I show one-nine-seven passengers, one-nine seven passengers and one-nine crew.  Any craft able to assist, respond on Rescue Channel Two—break—" She shouted over her shoulder, "Budd, get Channel Two, I'm handling damage report live on One. Purser, continue, describe all damage you can confirm."
"Rescue, I'm squirting full status.  I can do that much.  Stand by."
Astronautics Systems Senior Sergeant Peter Budd held all the non-Astrogation tasks, everything from life support to communication repair, and docking control.  He also handled tracking for Astrogation, and logistics management.  Budd knew his work well, and bent his big frame and smooth head over his controls.  "They're at one point seven standard G," he said. "Runaway reactors, from the flux."
Stadter winced and turned to his console.  It took effort in 2 Gs.  He wanted information on his own screens. Two hundred and sixteen people, minus any who were dead already.  From the sound of it, most of the officers were dead or incapacitated.  The couch under him was itchy-damp with sweat, and it wasn't just the acceleration causing it.
Emergency calls happened every couple of days.  Every couple of weeks one was significant:  an engine failure, a navigation failure, a medical emergency onboard.  The cutter was crammed with medical gear and spare parts, and crewed by a pilot, an astrogator, astronautics tech, an engine tech and a medic.  Their suits could handle short EVA, and Medic Lowther's was meant for extended use.
This time, there were a possible two hundred and sixteen casualties and a large and substantially valuable ship.  It was absolutely impossible for them to conduct a rescue of that magnitude with their boat.  They had rescue balls for fifty, but any response assumed some kind of resources aboard the distressed vessel, or a failure so catastrophic none were needed.
Most of these people were going to die if they hadn't already.  If they could reach lifeboats aboard their damaged ship, they'd have a chance.  Otherwise…
	"Vela, what are you working on?" he asked.  Her hands flew across her screens.  She was graceful despite her lankiness, and practiced, but tense under stress and acceleration.
	"I'm trying to determine cause of failure. The engine damage could pose serious threats."
	He'd suspected as much.
	"That's important, but first is massive response."
	"Sir, if we don't know what caused it---"
	"Massive response," he repeated.  "Then we revise details underway, and we'll also have more data to work with as ships get closer."
	"Understood, sir," she agreed.  "I'll scare up everything I can."
	"Budd, keep me informed.  You're taking sensors on those engines."
	Budd replied, "Boost is erratic, averaging one point five G standard at a guess.  It's hard to tell at this distance, but she looks bent ahead of the engines.  Some struts must have failed.  She's describing a complicated arc due to the varying thrust and increasing mass alignment shift."
	Stadter wasn't going to ask what could happen next.  He figured he'd find out.
	Vela muttered, "Goddess, the kindest thing might be for it to explode."
	"Quiet, please," he said politely but with some snap.  She might be right, but they were not paid to hope for that.
	"Understood, sir."
	Budd said, "It's worse, sir."
	As expected, he thought.  "Tell me."
	"Some of them have abandoned ship.  I'm getting response on several lifeboats.  However, I have fewer blips than I had launches, and two are already pinging as critical on oh two."
	Stadter was Bahá'í.  He wasn't sure how many religions he offended when he said, "We thank thee, God, for this disaster, accepting that it is not the disaster we would choose, but that it is better than no disaster at all."  He drew in a deep breath after that.
	Vela looked at him across the control bubble.
	He said, "My phrasing was more diplomatic."
	She shrugged, smirked, opened her channel and said, "Purser, what's your name?"
	"Ben Doherty, ma'am."
	"Mister Doherty, we're scrambling everything we have, military and civilian.  If you can keep any information coming, please do.  I'll need you to report when craft get close.  If you need to don a suit, please do.  Take care of your crew and yourself first, then respond to us as you can or need to.  I will leave this channel open and will hear you at once."
	He sounded perhaps five percent relieved.
	"Thank you, ma'am.  I hope they hurry."
	"We are.  If you need to just talk for reassurance, do so.  I'll answer as I can.  If I don't answer, it means I'm sending ships."
	"I suppose that's a good thing. Yes, I'm terrified, dammit…" She switched the signal so only she could hear it, and pulled a hush screen from her headset.  A moment later she pulled it aside.
	She asked, "Sir, should we transfer command and control to the military side?  Is this that bad?"
	He considered that for half a second.  "Possibly.  Make sure they're copied on everything in case.  However, we're already in motion, which means shorter response, and we'll have eyes on site.  Budd, can you manage command and control while we try to do rescue as well?"
	The man shrugged with an accepting grin, visible through gaps between control screens now opaque with data and images.  "I guess I have to."
	Medical Sergeant Brandon Lowther took that moment to stick his head up from the bay underneath.  That was a safety violation under boost, but he knew the boat well enough not to overload the inertial compensators, and he had work to do.  Stadter didn't mention it.
	Lowther said, "Sir, got my gear, and I've got spare oxy, if we can get aboard."
	"What do you think, Garwell?" he called down to the engineer directly below him with a mesh deck between.  When he first came aboard, it was odd to hear voices through both headset and live, but one got used to it and expected it. It did clarify things sometimes.
	"I suppose if we have to match, we do, but I'd rather shave my nads with a cheese grater." Garwell had a very cultured voice.  Comments like that clashed with it.
	"Budd, what do you have?"
	"Not much concrete, sir.  Their engine controls are destroyed.  Power is suboptimal, efficiency is under forty percent, leakage in all directions and it's gammas and fuel.  Some of the fuel is still fusing as it leaks.  The plasma stinger's half melted.  I'd say someone planted a bomb, except we've got that report on lifeboats and parallel systems.  It looks like complete neglect.  I have no idea how it's boosting that hard."
	Garwell said, "The feeds on that model are capable of three G.  It's a converted LockGen cargo boat.  They must be wide open, though they're supposed to fail closed."
	Stadter asked, "When was the last overhaul, and inspection?"
	Budd said, "According to this, last year, but…it was by Vandlian."
	Stadter said, "I see," and everyone stared at him.  For him, that was profanity.
	"Yes, I get it," he said.  Vandlian Assurance Inspections was a subsidiary of Resident Service Labs.  RSL were in the midst of punitive proceedings for massive fraud on quality ratings.  This was probably one of those.  Eventually it would get added into the numerous suits and billions of credits in settlement.  For now, though, lives mattered.
	"Vela, what do we have on response?"
	"I've got every boat, ship and robot engine within range offering, and starting to match trajectories.  But that by itself won't be enough.  We're going to have to have EVA capability to get to the passengers, and enough rescue gear to get them out.  Our boat is not intended for an operation that size.  We need some serious backup."
	"Timeframe?"
	She continued, "There's a streak racer that will be there in six segs.  He can take four.  They'll have to get to him, though.  He's got professional video and sensor gear, so he's offered to be recon if we can tell him what we need shot.  Delta vee will last him twenty segs.  Then he has to break off."
	"How far can he push it if we send recovery after him?"
	"I already assumed that, sir.  He'll be near dry, except for life support."
	"Well done, then."
	She nodded, "Yeah, they're that far out already.  He's boosting at seven G standard."
	A priority chime pinged from Stadter's console.  He turned to a screen to see Station Commander Captain Vincent.  He'd obviously been asleep.  He was rough hewn at the best of times. He looked like a warmed-over corpse now.
	"Do you need a brief, sir?" he asked.
	"No.  I have the gist.  What do you need from the military?"
	"Everything."
	Vincent nodded. "I already put the call out, after we heard Warrant Vela's All Hands."
	Stadter said, "Response is one thing.  The main problem is, it's falling apart now, and getting worse.  Rescue will be operating in a hot environment and we have no idea when it will catastrophically fail."
	"Yes, I caught that."  Vincent nodded.  "So we need to get in faster.  But without killing everyone doing it.
	"Right.  How?"
	Vincent tiredly shook his head.  "That's not my field of expertise.  But we've got a team coming from the Black Watch who do things like that."
	"They better damned well hurry."
	"I think you can depend on that."
	Right then, Budd said, "Well, I've got a transponder on a military vessel.  Support boat, three zero four tons, named the Black Watch."  The information was straightforward, but Budd sounded confused.
	"Something unusual with that, Tracks?" Stadter asked.
	"Yeah.  It just blinked on a few seconds ago.  No sensor image.  Radar, passive, optical, all blank, and then bam!  Transponder.  Whatever it is, it's stealthed stupid.  Anyway, got it, got a Novaja Rossia freighter just left Gealach orbit.  They're empty, so they're pulling significant G.  Hope it's enough.  Two more pleasure vessels offering."
	"We'll take it," Stadter said.  He pondered a moment.  "We might…will…need to have a second recovery stage that involves getting fuel and oxy to all these little craft, before they exhaust delta V and go to dead drift.  I'll start a chart for that."
	"I'll do it, sir," said Vela.  She looked very serious.  Her usual sarcastic smirk had disappeared since the reports started piling in.  "If Budd can feed me numbers, I can chart them and give them trajectories."
	"Do it," Stadter nodded.  Vela was perfect for the job.  Obsessive on details, an asocial geek with figures to crunch, and very organized when it came to other people's stuff.  Her own stuff…well, she'd have to work on that to get promoted.  But right now…"Fuel, oxy, docking for transfer, rescue balls and inflatables for the mining craft and carriers."  He turned and said, "Tracks, anything you decide can't make the initial rendezvous but has legs enough for the second stage, send to Warrant Vela."  Back again, "Vela, stack them and pack them, ready to dispatch as soon as a primary is full.  We might need to make a third wave, and that'll reduce transit time."
	"On it, sir," she nodded.
	Budd said, "Sir, I have military priority from Black Watch.  They want all intel and a quick face to face."
	"Give them the data, I'll take it here.  Lieutenant Stadter," he said as the image flashed in front of him.
	"Warrant Leader Bowden, Fourth Special Warfare Regiment Blazer Team," his opposite said.  Young, but with a wisdom to him.  No cockiness.  The man was lean as a snake and perfectly poised.  "If you approve, we're going to try to board Mammy Blue.  We'll pull out anyone we can, and give you realtime video and analysis of the structure."
	"Well…" Stadter replied, "…the problem is she's falling apart as she boosts.  Literally.  Chunks are falling free, it was never designed for sustained thrust, the thrust is beyond current operating parameters, and I strongly suspect she's never had maintenance."
	"That's our assessment, yes," Bowden nodded.  He had a helmet under his arm and gear strapped to his suit.  "But no one will be shooting at us."  It was delivered deadpan, but had to be humor.
	"If you think you can do it, I'll trust your expertise.  You've boarded craft under acceleration before?"
	"No, but we have boarded craft in space.  Though not quite like this.  One other significant difference."
	"What's that?"
	"Cutting our way in we've got lots of practice with.  Keeping the occupants alive is something Combat Rescue does.  That's not normally part of our mission.  But we can do it."
	Adrenaline shock rippled up his spine and prickled his scalp.  God, I've got Blazers about to blast their way into a derelict under boost with live passengers inside.  This had passed ridiculous to flat out insane.  "Assure me you'll bring them out alive."
	"That's the plan."
	"Go.  Please keep us informed on your schedule."
	"I'll tell the pilot.  Bowden out."
	"Stadter out."
	He sighed and tried to untense his body in the high G thrust.  Two hundred and sixteen victims, and it was virtually impossible they'd all survive. Several were almost certainly dead already.  They had to save as many as they could, fast.
	"Tracks, what's our ETA?"
	"We'll be there in forty-seven segs and some change."
	Four thousand, seven hundred seconds of boost, while the ship itself fled at high acceleration.
	"Vela, what do you have for second echelon?"
	"I have the cutter Holden out of Gealach orbit moving in, a military patrol boat from L-Four moving back, and Skywhip commandeered a freight load of oxygen.  Someone will have to intercept it, but it'll be there about the same time the rest of us are."
	"Tracks, what's our situation on arrival?"
	"Reactor power will be adequate, fuel low, oxygen good. We can take fifteen ourselves if we have to.  They'll be stacked like cargo."
	"Assume we'll have to."
	"Understood. Mammy Blue is increasing acceleration.  It's a combination of less fuel mass, less structural mass as parts fall off, along with the departed lifeboats, and probably leaking atmosphere is making a slight difference. The reactor may be running away.  No sign of critical levels yet, but that's possible too."
	"A fusing reactor would just make this so much more interesting."
	"Otherwise it may just fail and lose all power, then tumble and leak."
	"The bearer of bad news…"
	"Yes, sir.  I'll give you what good I have.  But look at this, since you asked."
	He looked at the image that popped up, and looked away fast.  The ship was, in fact bent, and therefore boosting asymmetrically.  The resolution wasn't great, but it was clear some hull panels near the reactors had peeled off.  The structural failure had cracked and warped two long areas of the hull.  It was a wonder anyone was alive, and he wasn't sure anyone would be when they got there, if they got there.  The asymmetric trajectory was bad.
	Vela said, "Sir, there's a mining tug from the inner Halo, Rodney Six, offering help.  They're in Gealach orbit, freshly refitted and loaded.  They can take fifty-three casualties with no margin, but will need help locking them through.  They have big engines."
	"Outstanding.  Thank them and say yes."
	"I already did.  Also two more race boats.  Apparently, they were doing early practice for something next month."
	He said, "The Lagging to Leading Loop-de-Loop Rampage.  They go from L-Five, orbit Gealach, whip around to L-Four and get points for speed and precision."
	"That sounds like fun.  They lack capacity, but can take two each short term, and both have an experienced EVA operator to help docking."
	"Great.  Do we have enough?"
	She nodded.  "It'll be very tight, but yes, and lots of boats are going to be critical after recovery.  I have enough second echelon to fix that, but then we have to get everyone to the station, then we'll have to moor lots of them because there aren't going to be that many free and matching locks."
	"Fair enough.  What's your plan?"
	"I have them scheduled by arrival time, number of victims, timeframe they need for secondary recovery, and I'm charting skillset. We want the military—Black Watch—and us there first or it's largely a waste, unless someone else wants to try cutting in.  I ordered them not to."
	"Yes, we need to minimize coordination issues.  Given the Blazers have done this before, I'm planning to let them do the EVA and entrance, we'll coordinate.  It would be boast bait to talk about our heroics, but I suspect we'd be in the way."
	Budd said, "Sir, much as I'd love to brag of being hands on, I think I'd spend more time gibbering than working."
	"They also serve who only stuff the crate."
	Lowther said, "If I can get over, I'll go."
	"Of course," Stadter agreed.  That's what combat medics did.  They were their own brand of crazy.  Lowther would never wish anyone harm, but he'd eagerly pile on to help if it happened.
	Vela said, "One of the lifeboats is failing.  Crewman aboard reports power dropping, using backup oxygen.  Their transponder is for crap, too.  I've got their trajectory tagged."  She waved her screens.  "At emergency max we could just reach them within a seg of oh two exhaustion, but we'd have to get aboard and pop our own bottles, and we'd need backup within twenty segs."
	Another flush rushed through his neck and brain.  Emergency maximum meant they might get aboard a boat of panicky, hypoxic passengers, and might release enough O2 to keep them alive until someone else might arrive…in the meantime, people they definitely could recover would die.
	He ordered, "Tag any small vessel with spare oxy to check them out if they're still hanging on at that time.  Circumstances may change."  His stomach roiled. He couldn't pray for them to die, but if it happened, it would make the practical and moral decisions about everything else a lot easier.
	"Understood, sir," she said, in an emotionless monotone.  Triage was part of reality, but that didn't make it pleasant.
	Sergeant Lowther said, "Sir, I realize this may not be the best time, but it is in fact a good idea to eat something and drink a little.  We're past mealtime and won't have time later."
	He shuddered.  "The thought of food makes me ill, but you're right.  What's easy?"
	"Chicken broth and orange electrolytes."
	"Yes, I can muscle that down.  Some for everyone.  Hot, please."

#

	Warrant Leader Rem Bowden felt a curious mix of thrill and fear.  Every mission had an element of risk, and this one was passable for now, but would be high aboard that boosting bomb.  At the same time, this was a real world mission.  It beat the hell out of endless training.
	"We get to earn our pay, boys and girls."  His voice shook slightly, from the faint rumble as the boat torqued and increased boost.  He and his five Blazers lay on a broad couch on a bulkhead, staring up at the hatch to the tiny bridge.
	Black Watch's Intelligence Specialist, Melanie Sarendy, said, "And ours."  She had her own couch, to starboard as the boat was laid out, thought it didn't matter in micro G.  It mattered now.
	"Yes, I expect our noble steed and crew to perform as well.  What do you have for me?"
	The boat commander, Warrant Leader Ulan answered, "Well, Rescue has a crazy-sounding Warrant Vela who seems to know what she's about on coordinating vessels.  We're inbound, you sled over, their medic will join you.  Once in they'll tell you when to toss casualties out, and someone will net them out of space."
	"Simple, really," he said.  "Has anyone ever done this before?"
	Sarendy said, "No.  Nothing like it, ever."
	"I would really like to cut the target's boost," he said.  "Micro G would be ideal.  But any reduction helps, or it's like mountain climbing with a roaring forest fire underneath."
	From her couch on the other side, Special Projects Sergeant Becky Diaken said, "You have done that."
	"And I don't want to do it again.  Sarendy, is there a remote way to hack into their engine controls?"
	"I already tried that," the lithe woman said, turning front into her couch.  It made his spine hurt to watch, but she could face to face without twisting her neck, peering over the head rest.  "It acknowledged the signal, but nothing happened.  The controls are separated from the telemetry."
	"Well," he sighed, "that just adds another level of interesting.  How long?"
	Sarendy said, "Seventeen segs. We'll beat Auburn by three segs."
	"Who actually runs this boat?" he asked, half seriously.
	"Warrant Ulan runs it at your direction.  I just know all."
	Ulan took that moment to offer, "If you can get him aboard, Engineer Milton wants to try shutting off thrust physically."
	"He's fucking insane."
	"We've established that. Can you take him?"
	"I can double up on a sled, yes."
	Diaken turned back, "What about on several sleds?"  There was no way someone with her figure would turn backward in the couch.  She was sturdy, but fit.
	"You're all insane.  I shall file with my union for job interference.  However, I can do it."  He reflected that he had said the whole crew would be involved. He just hadn't considered they'd be involved in this manner.  "I will only take people who have EVA experience, though."
	"And who have suits," Milton said as he strained up the ladder from aft, now below.  He carried a suit, and had removed his trademark shades.
	Bowden said, "Well, don them now if you can.  We'll sled as soon as we're close.  Though I don't think anyone's ever locked out under boost before."  He hadn't thought of that.  The maneuvering sleds just didn't carry that much delta-V even if they could use it that fast.
	Milton said, "You're locking out ahead in orbit, the plan being to meet at relative zero velocity.  Diaken and I came up with ugly but workable grapples."  He held one up to illustrate.  It was a harpoon with barbs all over, pointing both ways.  "You latch on, try to avoid smacking into the side, and work your way up.  Of course, you'll be under acceleration then."
	Bowden squinted.  "The only way I can think of to do that is to climb the line while the sled smashes into the hull."
	"Exactly.  There are two side-lines you can grab, and swing in on a shorter arc.  It's still going to be a hard landing."
	"I think I'm glad I have a short team of six, not a squad of twenty, but with five of you nuts along as well…"
	"Let me hack this rope off," Diaken said, pulling the long braid she wore into view above her headrest.  "It won't work well in a helmet."
	"Ah, the sacrifices you make," he said.  
	"Ever seen a double back flip, sir?" she asked, and made two rude gestures.

#

	Stadter looked at the proposed schedule and said, "Sergeant Lowther, time for you to kit up.  We'll line you over."
	"I've been ready," the man said.  He was suited, kitted and decked with gear, most of it conformal and close-fitting.  He stood gripping a stanchion next to the recovery lock.
	"You're going to be three hundred meters out the line."
	"Understood.  I have a beacon if needed.  Harness checks.  Say the word."
	The man really sounded confident.  Either he was, or he was reassuring Stadter.  Either way, it helped.
	Vela said, "Black Watch reports they're commencing.  We need to drop Lowther and clear the way."
	"That's my cue," the medic said.
	"Good luck."
	He locked out, and his voice came over the net via wire.
	"Ready to belay."
	Vela said, "The controls are yours.  I'm backup, listening."
	"Roger.  Extending."
	Stadter kept his attention on course.  They were barely ahead of Mammy Blue, barely off her ecliptic outside.  Lowther had about eighty seconds of thrust in his harness to keep him at an oblique angle.  After that, they'd have to cast off and reel him back fast to avoid irradiating him.  Usually they docked with the calling craft.  If not, he lined over while both ships were in free flight.  Doing it under thrust was known to be dangerous and done only in theory before now.
	It was nothing, though, on what the extremists from the Blazer Regiment were doing.

#

	The insertion was terrifying.
	Rem Bowden had done several boarding exercises in space, on vessels in orbit. Even from a distance, a vessel in orbit was relatively stationary.  This one was under boost and unstable, shedding parts, changing thrust.  There was no room for error, and he had little control over those potential errors.
	The lock on a stealth boat took one man and one maneuvering sled at a time.  Outside, he hooked onto a mounting carefully designed to be flush when not in use.  He eased the line to full extension in the current 2 G acceleration, and hung as if off a cliff in open space.  He then composed himself in patience, or as close as he could force himself, until the others made their way out.  It would be eleven troops on six sleds, because the boat crew were not trained for it, and there were no spare sleds.
	Sarendy was next out, even more shapely in a skinsuit. She was also lightly built and had a distinctive lope to her climb.  She loosened her tensioner, zipped down, sending a hum through the line, braked, and then climbed over him.  After latching onto the sled with two clips, she snaked a hand up and waved.
	"Testing," he said.
	"Ready," she agreed.
	The primary crew, save the engineer, all remained aboard to manage recovery.  That also left more room in the boat for casualties, though securing some of the more sensitive equipment was going to be a chore.  It also meant he and the boarding party would be diverted elsewhere until all the boats could swap around in dock afterward.
	That, however, was minor compared to the near-suicide they were about to embark on.
	Far aft and out of view, Mammy Blue charged on her desperate flight into oblivion.  If he could look, he might catch a reflection or a bare glow of her plasma stinger.  Space was black with a few dots, when the polarizing helmet didn't blot them out.
	"Boarding Party, report when ready."
	"Ready," he said simply, eschewing any comments.  For a real mission, commo silence would prevail.  It would take effort to counter that training.
	"Detaching in three, two, one…"
	Acceleration stopped and they were in free orbit.  Black Watch simultaneously cut thrust so they'd not be exposed to her radiation.  If the trajectory was correct, they'd be close to Mammy Blue in two segs, at similar velocity, assuming her acceleration was reasonably consistent.  Then they'd try to board.  If it went wrong, they were all lined together and would light a beacon for recovery, though that could take a day.  He wasn't sure what emotional shape the crew would be in after that.
	Actually, he wasn't sure what emotional shape he'd be in, even without having to keep them calm.  This was not an exercise with excess manpower standing by for recovery.
	None of the team or the crew said anything.  He wasn't sure if it was discipline or fear, but he wanted to minimize the latter.
	"Count off again, just so I know you're awake," he said.  It was as much for his reassurance as theirs.
	The team rattled off numbers fast. The crew called their names, some sounding a bit quavery.  They all responded, though.  "Milton." "Sarendy."  "Diaken."  "D'Arcy."  "Aufang."
	The projection on his visor said they were close to Mammy Blue.  Now they had to find it and board.  He took his bearings from Iota Persei and his nav system, and faced in the right general direction.
	He saw nothing, and instinctively checked his O2 level.  Fifteen divs, plus the emergency bottle.  They'd be fine.  No, it was nothing like an exercise, but they'd be fine.  He lowered the ratio slightly.  He didn't want to hyperventilate.
	A reflected splash of light indicated Engineer Milton' s searchlight had caught the derelict.  Then he saw the faint glow of the plasma stinger.  He used the active sensor retro-fitted to his sled to tag the target, and knew Hensley was, too, as was Sarendy.  They couldn't miss.
	"I have it, firing grapnel," he said.  He reached up and armed the canister.  Once back behind it, he swiveled the gun until the reticle lit, and fired.  
	They were actually very close; no more than two hundred meters.  The question then was how well had they matched velocities?  
	He found out as the grapnel contacted and stuck and the line started spooling out with a thrumming vibration he could feel right through the sled and his suit.  The drum friction brake engaged, and acceleration built quickly, blood rushing from his head to his feet.
	In theory they were to string out in line, one behind the other. In practice, lines got tangled and they wound up in a clump.
	Sarendy tried to grip the side line with a second, hand-held drum, but something didn't work.  He cursed twice, then said, "We're going to impact.  Everyone turn best you can and brace."
	He said it just in time for them to smack into the side of the ship hard enough to bend some hardware and knock the breath out.  He gasped and struggled for air, as gear and people buried him.  Someone clutched at him, his right leg was pinned painfully at the thigh between two sleds, and he heard grunts, pants and whimpers over the air.  It felt like hanging off a mountain, in darkness, while the mountain shook from a low grade earthquake.
	Hensley said, "I have a second lock.  We're secure."
	Bowden firmly said, "No one do anything until told.  First, I want at least two personal lines on padeyes, if anyone can reach.  Four or five would be better."  They were putting a hell of a strain on that harpoon, and it could fail, or the hull could, at any time.
	"Linked."  "On line."  "Connected."  "On line."
	"Should I cut loose lines sir?"
	"No cutting!"  Gods, no.  Cut the wrong one and they'd have a Dutchman.
	They hung in a tangled mess of suits and sleds, lines all over.  It took three concerted segs to weave in and out, disconnect and reconnect one careful line at a time, and ease the sleds aft.  Eventually, they had two groups standing off the hull, hanging by line at what felt like 1.5 G.  The crew had one attached bundle of their gear, the team another.
	Milton asked, "Do you need us to wait on engine shutdown?"
	"No, go ahead and do it.  Sooner is better, just keep me in the loop.  We need to go forward five frames and around two hundred mils."
	"Good luck."
	Just then, Diaken shouted, "Look out!"  It wasn't a practical warning.  It did alert everyone to take a look around.  Another section was separating, pulling back and ripping free.  It appeared to be just a skin plate of sheet polymer and metal, tumbling lazily in the Iolight as it fluttered delicately away.  Of course, it was in orbit and might eventually collide with some other ship.  The repercussions of this disaster would linger for years.
	"And we're moving," Bowden said. "Time is short."
	Once free of the sleds, the tangle of lines and the crew, it went quickly, even with the subjectively lateral G load.  They lined together, swung around in bounds while linking to padeyes as they went. He insisted on at least three padeyes at a time, since he didn't trust this flying scrapyard.
	That should save them against anything except another chunk of hull breaking loose with them on it, or half on it.  Which, he tried not to dwell on, was entirely possible.
	"Warrant Bowden, this is Sergeant Lowther.  I am aboard, over our proposed entry point."
	"Lowther, good to have you," he replied.  It was.  More professional help was welcome, as was knowing that area wasn't in the process of breaking up at this moment.
	"Just so you know, I have a relayed message through Auburn.  Apparently, the owner wants us to avoid excess damage."
	Bowden finally felt emotion other than fear.
"He knowingly operated a bomb, he can suffer.  Likely he's going to die in a duel with one of the victims anyway."
	"Or a victim's next of kin."
	"Screw that.  They're entitled to take justice out on this sewerweasel personally.  I intend to see they all get that chance."  His scowl was dark.
	"Just so you know," Lowther repeated.  He didn't sound particularly concerned about the owner's plight.  "I'm ready when you are, and have marked five padeyes I think are strong enough to hold us."
	"Excellent.  We'll be around in a few seconds."
	A helmet appeared as they swung over the curve of the hull.  That had to be Lowther.
	He said, "I'm over a lounge that's designated priority for rescue."
	Bowden said, "Okay.  Are the passengers centralized?"
	"Some of them.  It's full of kids."
"Kids?" Bowden asked.
	"Yeah, daycare center.  Or kid's lounge.  Something."
	"Triff.  How are they going to respond to us busting in in gear?"  It was largely a rhetorical question, but necessary.
	"Either thrilled or terrified.  And they're already terrified."
	"Right.  No adults in there?"
"Maybe.  The crewman relaying the info wasn't sure, and the locks have all sealed."
	"We need some phones on the bulkhead so we can talk."	
	Blazer Arvil said, "Will do."
	While he did that, Bowden introduced his team.  They each waved as he tagged them. "This is our medic, Sergeant Marchetti.  Structural tech, Hensley.  Arvil on life support and systems. Lemke on flight controls if we need that.  Bulgov on everything else.  He's Combat Air Control, but we don't need that at the moment."
	"Pleased to meet you.  I've got all the medical gear we had and fifteen rescue balls."  That explained the bulky pack over his tank.
	The acceleration was high and irregular.  But it was ceaseless, which was putting a strain on an increasingly damaged craft, and it was a massive inconvenience outside the hull.  Inside it might actually prove useful.   But they weren't inside yet.  They hung on their harnesses and waited, shifting to keep circulation moving and to minimize pressure numbness in the acceleration.
	"Hensley, what's your take on the structure?"
	Hensley was qualified on surface, air and space craft.  "Holding for now.  I think we can open it here without damaging struts, but any loss of material weakens the whole, and will affect mass ratio and tension under load.  I can't guarantee it won't shatter what's left of it."
	"Well, we're getting further away fast, so let's work faster.  In, out, done."

#

	Stadter didn't believe what he was hearing.
	"Exposed?"
	The Black Watch's engineer, Milton said, "Yes, the feed lines are exposed, as are some of the valves."
	"How's the radiation level?  Those aren't made for adjustment in flight."
	"Correct.  We're lowering people by line and cut the line once they reach exposure limits."
	That was too insane for words.  Stadter felt nauseous himself, and not just because they were now shifting G to match the derelict.
	He said, "They'll fall through the wash, and be lost as well."
	"Yes, they'll need to kick off, then cut the line."
	"I can't order anyone to do that.  It's double suicide."
	Milton said, "We volunteered."
	"Of course you did.   I can't see a logical argument against the shutdown, and it's less dangerous than doing nothing, may God help us all.  Do it."
	"Can you coordinate pickup?"
	"Yes."  That was part of the mission profile.  However, juggling them aboard ships that could immediately have rad treatment available if needed would be harder. "Vela," he began.
	"I'm looking for boats that will have at least emergency rad treatment," she said.
	"Excellent."

#

	"Okay," Bowden announced, "we're going to place cutting charges here and there," he splashed the hull with an intensely bright light.  It could be a weapon if aimed at eyes, but here it served to illuminate for cameras.  "Small for entry.  Then we're going in in fireteam stacks just like a compartment clearing operation.  Each troop will carry as many rescue balls as they can manage.  Grab the kids, stuff them in, inflate them and bring them out. We blow the entire hull section for that.  If you have to stun them or slap them to get compliance, do it.  But we'd rather you took some bruising than the kids.  Anyone worried about a few scratches?"
	"Can't be worse than my bitch of a little sister," Arvil said.  "Sharp nails."
	"Good.  But then we've got to clear the rest of the compartments, and do so fast.  You can see the damage so far.  Blowing those holes shouldn't hurt structural struts, but who knows what else is wrong with this piece of garbage.  We can expect pressure cracks at least.  There are bound to be more casualties, sorry, passengers, elsewhere, and they'll be going into anoxia fast.  Open every hatch, clear every cubby, hit them with oxy and get them out."
Lemke said, "With active oh two depletion, brain damage starts in under eighty seconds."
	"Correct.  The longer they're in zero pressure, even if they have an oxy mask, the more risk of damage there is, right before death.  Hopefully that won't be a problem."  Even if they all knew it, it was good to go over the details.  Every training exercise was a mission, and every mission a training exercise.
	"I have phones up," said Arvil.  "Talk away."  He handed over a plugged wire.
	Bowden clicked the plug to the patch on his helmet.  He paused a moment to decide what to say.
	"Hello onboard.  This is Warrant Leader Bowden, Blazer Regiment.  We are here to rescue you.  Let me speak to someone in charge."
	There was some shouting and crying, but not a lot.  A teen voice, probably male, said, "There is no one in charge.  They went to get help when the explosion happened.  Do you want the oldest?"
	"That will be fine.  Anyone who can follow directions while we get you out."
	"That's me, I guess.  Gordon Rodriguez.  What do you need?"
	"Gordon, I need an accurate count of everyone in that compartment, and I need to know about anyone else in that air space, if you know what that means.  That's first, more afterwards."
	"Okay, hold on."
	The crying and calling went on, distant sounding, but plaintive.  Small kids were unhappy, slightly older ones were being bossy and scared, a few were trying to offer advice, and Rodriguez was counting out loud.  "Twelve, thirteen, dammit, stop!  The soldier wants me to count you, let me do it!  One, two…" His voice faded with distance or pressure, then finally came back with, "Seventeen, officer.  Can you hear me?"
	"Seventeen, one-seven understood.  Stand by."
	"Yes, sir."

#

	Stadter was glad he couldn't actually watch the engine shutdown procedure.  On the far side of the hull from the Blazers, their boat crew proved themselves equally gutsy, or equally mad. He listened in as they began, and set a screen to track IDs.  He didn't know how they'd do this without modern commo.  He could tag one way or two way for anyone involved, or go through the chain, or listen in, and it would transcribe and tell him who each speaker was.
	"Milton on winch."
	Aufang:  "Winch on."
	Milton:  "Four zero. Five zero.  Six zero.  Seven zero.  Slow to one meter per second."
	Aufang:  "Slowing to one meter per second."
	Milton:  "Eight zero…nine zero.  Slow to point five meters per second."
	Aufang:  "Slowing to point five meters per second. You have four-seven seconds safe exposure."
	Milton:  "Nine two…nine three…nine four…stop."
	Aufang:  "Stop.  Four-two safe."
	Milton:  "Adjust down one zero centimeters."
	Aufang:  "One zero down.  Three-nine safe."
	Milton:  "Set payout length.  Images and data transmitting."
	Pause.	
Aufang:  "Received. Three-two seconds.  Length set."
	A rich alto voice said, "Sarendy now on winch."
	Aufang:  "Winch on."
	Milton:  "Three-five millimeter connection at seven zero newton-meters torque."
	Aufang:  "Recorded.  Two-five seconds."
	Milton:  "Sarendy will need to reach inside far left at once to have time to adjust Feed Number Two."
	Aufang:  "Recorded.  One-eight seconds."
	Milton:  "Released locking clamp on Feed Number One.  Expect gee boost before reduction."
	Aufang:  "Noted.  One-two seconds."
	Milton:  "Two-three turns for full closure.  Commencing."
	Aufang:  "Eight seconds…seven seconds…six seconds…five seconds…"  
	Milton:  "Achieved four turns.  Secure and clear of frame."
	Aufang:  "Kick and cut.  Two seconds."
	Milton:  "Kicking.  Cut.  Clear.  Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!"
	Whoever the man was, he'd voluntarily taken a lifetime safe dose of radiation, and cut himself free into space, trusting in others for pickup.
	The female voice said, "Sarendy on station.  Inside, far left.  Will release locking clamp.  Advise at one-five seconds."
	A young male voice sounded.  "D'Arcy on winch."
	Aufang: "Winch on—Break--Sarendy, your exposure is increased inside hull.  You are at two-zero seconds, one-nine, one-eight, one-seven, one-six, one-five."
	Sarendy said, "Clamp released.  Withdrawing.  Stuck.  Unstuck.  Outside hull."  She sounded mechanical, emotionless.
	"Six seconds.  Kick and cut."
	Her voice was sharp as she said, "Kicking.  Cut.  Clear.  Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!"
	"D'arcy on station."
	Then it was, "Aufang on winch."
	Diaken:  "Winch on."
	They were so calm it almost sounded like an exercise.
	Vela cut in with, "Don't worry, sir, I have them both.  Their own boat is intercepting, and will shadow for the others.  Three of the Mammy Blue lifeboats are in tow.  One was depressurized, and the one I mentioned earlier ran dry.  There was no way to reach it in time.  Twelve passengers in one, sixteen in the other.  Fourteen survivors in process, some with anoxic brain damage.  Third boat has fifteen alive."
	"Understood.  I trust you on this, just let me know if you need help."  The endless tally of casualties, rad levels, elapsed times and coordinates were a blur he couldn't track.  Perhaps those with brain damage could get reconstruction and save some function and memory.  If not, it might have been kinder if they'd died.  He shifted to relieve pressure on his spine.   A wrinkle in his suit was irritating his shoulder, too.
	"You won't like this.  One was nothing but cabin crew and what passed for first class.  They abandoned ship first."
	Stadter felt conflicting emotions.
	"Well, I guess the crew knew how crappy it was and bailed.  They also probably aren't up to date on proper response.  Nor can I believe the owner paid for good people."
	"Most of them are dead."
	He said, "That's something I'm not going to pass judgment on for now."  He locked that down and concentrated on managing the disaster.  Dead could be lashed outside, towed or buried in space worst case.  That eliminated some capacity and O2 problems, leaving only some reaction mass problems.

#

	On the hull over the youth lounge, Lowther said, "They're going to panic.  I can't imagine they won't."
	Bowden nodded.  "Likely."  His harness was tight under boost.  His circulation suffered from the constriction.  He wiggled to ease things.
	"Any suggestions?"
	Marchetti said, "Well, I was in Combat Rescue last assignment.  I have one suggestion.  You won't like it."
	"I like it."
	"One of the canisters in the standard boarding kit is SV Three.  If we can vent it in there before we blow, they'll all be pretty well relaxed or even blotto."
	That was unorthodox.  "I like it."
	Marchetti continued, "The side effects include some panic as they go under, and nausea.  Good chance they'll puke all over the place, as we can't control the dose and it's made for adult combat troops, not youth."
	"I still like it."  Puke on a space suit wasn't bad.  Puke in a space suit was bad.
	"In that case we need a shipfitter and vacuum welding gear, fast."
	"That would be Hensley."
	From aft, Sergeant Hensley replied, "I heard.  I have my gear.  Roping that way now.  I know where we keep it."
	The ship vibrated again, and rolled a fraction.  Everyone clutched lines and padeyes.
	Arvil said, "I'm loose!  Hull separation at radius two one zero, frame four zero.  Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!"
	"Understood, Arvil.  Got your transponder.  Relaying to recovery ops.  Ops, do you have him?" Bowden tapped IDs into the comm on his left forearm, hoping not to lose a good man.
	Stadter said, "We have him.  He's in range of something.  I'll have whomever that something is grab him in about ten segs, if he can last that long." He sounded giddy with exhaustion.
	"Yes."  Yeah, ten segs wasn't a problem, assuming they did get him.  There were lots of craft, so the odds were very good.  Still.
	"Good luck, Blazers, we'll do what we can."
	Hensley said, "Approaching.  I could use a line transfer to speed things up."
	Bowden bent over, snapped another line in place and tossed the bag at Hensley as he came over the horizon of the ship's skin.  Hensley caught it, pulled the free eye out, and clipped it to his harness.  He popped the old one free and let it dangle, then fall in the acceleration.  The lines cost better than Cr500 each, but they could gather them afterward, if time permitted.  Even then, most were only proofed for one hard yank or one abrasion.  Space was not the place for corner-cutting.
	"Thanks much.  Where do you need me?" the fitter asked as he climbed the metal cliff.
	The ship shifted violently and they all grabbed lines, but it was a reduction in acceleration.  Perhaps 1.2, close to surface normal for Grainne.
	Bowden said, "Anywhere here you can make a hole and pass gas."
	"One dutch oven coming up," Hensley joked.  "Is that a bypass valve next to the emergency panel?  When was this piece of crap built?"
	Bowden looked where Hensley's light splashed.  Yes, that was an archaic emergency fill pipe.  Ancient, but convenient, if it was intact.
	"It's forty-eight Earth years old, thirty-three of ours."
	"Gods, this thing should have been lashed up as a museum or broken for scrap.  Okay, I need five segs."
	"Make it three."
	"Five it is," Hensley agreed.
	Bowden nodded to himself.  Sometimes reality didn't bend.  Hensley bent forward and took a bend in the line to hold himself steady.  He pulled out a grinder, then contact fluid, then his portable inductor, and hermetically welded the hose fitting to the valve.
	One of the trailing lines slackened and Marchetti sprang into view.  He let his legs collapse and soak up momentum from the landing, while tightening a retainer.  The man had enough experience he didn't even hop, but simply stood from the skin, maneuver complete.
	"That should be enough gas to disorient them.  I'm worried about brain damage or other ill effects, though."
	Lowther pinged in and said, "I checked with the station medical officer.  He said he couldn't hear my transmission and suggested we discuss hypothetical research questions after the fact."
	Bowden felt a bit nervous, on top of the shaky and nauseous and icy and wired and adrenaline-soaked.  He didn't think anyone would blame him for the attempt, but if anything exacerbated the disaster, he could wave his career a hearty goodbye.  If he pulled it off, however…
	He choked all that down.  This was about saving a hull full of kids.
He heard an override chime, and Stadter cut in.
"Bowden, I need to know your timeline, and what you'll be doing with rescue balls."
"That depends on how these ships are going to catch them.  We'll lash together and can tow them or drop them.  Otherwise, someone has to get close enough to line them over."
"Just keep them out of the engine wash.  Record.  Cluster of three.  Cluster of four.  Cluster of four.  Cluster of five.  One single.  Give them enough drift to clear the engines, and minimize other momentum.  I'll tag ships to match departing velocity and recover, but Bowden…"
"Recorded, sir.  Go ahead."
"We're rapidly reaching the point where all these ships will need secondary rescue on fuel, power and oh two."
Hensley took that moment to say, "Ready."
Bowden said, "Ops, we'll be flinging them in two hundred seconds, I hope.  Stand by."
"Understood. Also, the ongoing loss of structure and mass is affecting trajectory and acceleration."
"Damn.  I thought it felt a bit brisker again.  Understood.—Break—Lemke, are you ready on charges?"
"Ready."
"Marchetti, ready on gas?"
"Ready.  I need twenty-six seconds, per the medical officer, who advises against doing this."  He waited at the gas bottle, with a metal shield they'd use to avoid sharp edges on the entry.
"Do it.  My order."  He tensed at that.  God and Goddess, it better work.  "Listen on the hull phones, and stand by to cut and breach."  He clicked through to the hull phone again.  "Gordon, I need everyone to hold still and relax.  The atmosphere is going to change, and we're about to come in.  Stay clear of the hull."
"Understood, sir.  We're on the far side."
""Ready." "Ready.""Ready."Ready.""Ready," echoed through his helmet.  Five was correct. He hoped Arvil was okay.  Lemke stood with his detonation controls, waiting.
Marchetti said, "Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-si-"
Lemke thumbed a pad, a nimbus of boiling debris, expansion-chilled vapors and particles illuminated by a searing flash erupted from the hull, and faded to glitters of gray.
Marchetti took the number one spot, lifting his feet and letting the acceleration slide the ship under him.  He bent and twisted like a gymnast, planted his shield against the aft side of the breach, and swung in.  Lowther followed quickly and smoothly, then Bulgov.  Bowden twisted and threw himself down, glad of the .3 G after the torture of 3G.  The hull was two thin plates perhaps six centimeters apart, and he glimpsed crumbled faramesh as he went past.  One good solar flare might have done this beast in, too.
Then he was inside, as Hensley followed, and Lemke came last.  Bowden made sure he wasn't going to crush anyone, and settled on the effective deck, the rear bulkhead.  It was a deck under boost.  However, that boost eased off enough to make his ears spin.  Less than 1.2, he guessed.
	The reduced gees helped, but the craft's motion was very irregular, shuddering and rumbling.  Still, the kids were unconscious on the boost deck, rear bulkhead, from gas and hypoxia.  Some of them had puked, and all looked rather wrung out.
	Lemke slapped a balloon patch over the breach, and Lowther punched the emergency O2 canister. That, at least, worked.  He then punched the one they'd brought with them.  The pressure wouldn't be great, but it should be enough to prevent major brain damage, hopefully.  This assumed any airtight doors in this section remained functional.  You did what you could, and sometimes it worked.
	The bulkhead shifted as if in an earthquake, but the acceleration dropped again.  He recovered from his two seconds of thought and got to work.
	The smallest kids were at greatest risk, and easiest to handle.  They were first, when there was a choice.  He scooped up a girl perhaps two years old, a delicate little thing, and slid her into a ball.  He zipped and yanked and it inflated.  Then he saw he'd missed her stuffed critter of some kind.  He grabbed it and stuck it into his harness as he shook out another ball and reached for the boy next to her.
	By the time he reached the next, the rest were all ready to go, bundled and with transponders already lit. The last one he handled was a teenage girl, and it felt somewhat obscene, the way he had to shove her legs and butt into the sack.
	"Seventeen?" he asked.
	"Seventeen."
	"Is that confirmed from manifest?"
	"No.  Bulgov is searching aft."
	Bowden considered.  He didn't want to leave anyone behind.  If need be, they could split into elements.  But the ship was failing, time was running out, and the risk increased for the rest of them the longer they delayed.
	The kids started waking up.
	The teenagers figured it out quickly, except for the one girl, who was apparently a claustrophobe.  She thrashed and kicked, realized intellectually the problem with that, and curled up to hug herself, sobbing and trembling.
	Some of the small kids, however, did not like the enclosures, nor the disorientation of waking up from the gas, nor being away from their friends.  Some of them put up a healthy tantrum.
	Luckily, the balls were designed not to be torn.  Panic response was one of the design criteria.
	One little boy found the emergency lanyard, designed for escape in case of some bizarre circumstance where one had entered by accident, closed up and needed out before the onboard O2 supply failed.  He yanked it, peeled out fast, then started gaping like a fish in the very thin atmosphere, which now had several more holes to leak from.  He sprawled in the direction of one cabinet.  Lowther grabbed him by the collar, got face to mask as the kid faded, stuffed him back into a new ball from his kit, and in a dive, grabbed an armful of assorted stuffed toys and threw them in with the child.  Hopefully one was his, and the rest could be sorted out afterward.  Bowden sighed.  Such things were essential support items for kids, but a pain to deal with.
	Bulgov called from aft, "Someone was clever and locked themselves in an airlock between sections.  The safety is working and it won't open."
	Lemke said, "Arriving," and dropped down the passage.  A few second later, a rumble and bang indicated a breach of the door mechanism, shallow shrieks sounded just as Bowden glanced down, to see two disheveled teens, one male, one female, letting themselves gratefully be stuffed into rescue balls.  They got limper as the rare atmosphere affected them.
	As soon as he had green pings on his helmet readout from everyone, he ordered, "Hensley, we're done.  Pull the plug."
	They'd been inside the ship seventy-three seconds.
	Hensley jabbed a sharp knife into the plug and sliced.  It deflated, sucked through and stuck on a torn piece of hull, vibrating in an increasingly shallow flutter as the remaining atmosphere blew past. Then Lemke waved for attention and thumbed his detonator again.
	Half the compartment hull disappeared in a flashing swirl, blowing out, peeling back, and ripping off into space. Some tatters blew in and tumbled down the companionway aft.

#

	Stadter wished he could do more than listen and coordinate.  His medic was over pulling kids out.  His two flight crew were coordinating sequences of ships to recover people floating in space, and the technicians from the Special Warfare boat were diddling the engines.  Management was important, but he wished mightily for hands on.
	"Rescue, this is Diaken."
	"Go ahead."
	"Got it down to zero point six G.  How's the structure looking?"
	They'd done all they could, and it might have bought enough seconds to save a few people.  
He said, "Bad.  Complete spine failure was imminent.  It's still visibly deflecting."
	"I'm last on the line.  I'll see what I can do.  Can you monitor my vitals?"
	Vela said, "I have you."
	His screen flashed the tag DIAKEN as she said, "On winch.  Winch on.  Descending."
	Vela said, "Rad levels are reduced.  Looks like you have eight-seven seconds outside the access."
	Diaken:  "Well, it'll be less, because I'll be inside.  I might have to break things."
	Vela did have a good voice for reassuring people.  "We've got your readings.  Good luck."
	Diaken:  "Thanks.  We'll see if it matters."

~~~~

	With the hull open like a cave, it was time.  Bowden made the call.
"Rescue, this is Bowden.  Ready to pitch on your order."
	"Outstanding.  Stand by in five, four, three, two, one, throw."
	"Thrown," he confirmed, as Bulgov and Lemke tossed a lashed bundle of three balls out into space.  God and Goddess help the kids.  Then he realized they had two extras.
	"Rescue, we found two extra, where do you want them?"
	"Crap.  Last.  Three, two, one, throw."
	"Thrown," he reported, as another bundle went out.
	The two larger bundles took effort, the troops grunting as they heaved the masses out, being so very careful not to rip one open on the torn section of hull.
	Bulgov said, "I'm hit!  Suit tear on the edge.  Bleeding, level two.  Pressure tight, but damn, bleeding."
	"Understood.  Step out, apply aid. The rest of you finish throwing."
	Stadter said, "Bowden, your last three tosses are delayed.  Stand by."
	"Holding," he said, and gritted his teeth.  He pointed at Lowther, who nodded and climbed over to help Bulgov apply a pressure bandage.  They wore skintight constriction suits, so there was no risk of suffocation unless the helmet was cracked, but vacuum drew bodily fluids out, too.  Speaking of which, he found a safe direction, popped a valve and let loose a liter, to boil away into nothing.  That felt better.  The gees dropped again, as did the noise and vibration.
	Stadter said, "Bundle that last pair together."
	Lemke grabbed a short elastic cord, wove it through the grips and thumbed up.
	"Ready."
"Ready in five, four, three, two, one…"
	The last bundle rolled out and dropped aft into space.
	"Rescue, that's them all.  Proceeding aft and forward for other casualties."
	"Good luck, Bowden.  Thrust steady at zero point six gee, but structure increasingly compromised. Estimate five hundred seconds max."
	"Is it really that close, or is that your safety margin, over?"  He was moving as he asked, with a wave to the rest.
	"I say four hundred, I figure you can handle five hundred."
	"Understood."
	"Rescue, I need a count," he called over Rescue channel.
	"Current count is one four seven."
	"There are theoretically seven zero people left aboard."
	"Correct."
	"Shit."
	He left it at that, and led the way forward as Lemke and Bulgov went rear.  It was much easier at .6 G, but only relatively. The wreck was a mess.  Struts were bent and bending, panels buckling, and leaks increasing.  It was hard to see through a haze of condensation in the dropping pressure.  Lacking pressure, some areas of the hull were collapsing in.  Others bowed out, lacking the structural tension to hold them.  The first lock they came to was jammed closed, until Hensley slapped a ready charge on it and cracked the latch.  Bowden moved through, and the override on the other side worked.  Apparently, the lock had been holding atmosphere within.  That seemed to run in this ship.  Had the pressure switches ever been tested since it was built?
	He swung the lock and jumped in startlement.  A figure in an emergency mask stood just inside.  He could see the man talking, but there was no atmosphere.  In a moment, the man switched to pointing.  Staterooms.  He pointed at his mask with both hands, simulating donning it, and pointed at the compartments again.
	Bowden nodded, and ordered, "Check the staterooms, have masks and balls ready."
	The three men swarmed around him and the crewman, used demolition bars on the hatch-doors, and ripped into the staterooms.
	Sharp thinking.  They held partial pressure of atmosphere, and overpressure of bodies.  Three staterooms had forty-three people, with their emergency masks, taking turns connecting to the emergency bottles. They hadn't fought each other in a panic over oxy, but from the relief on their faces, they would have soon.
	"Bowden, this is Lemke. Aft is…bad.  It's mostly evacuated, physically and radioactively hot, and structurally a mess.  There are holes everywhere.  I'm prepared to go by compartment on your order."
	He checked time on his visor.  There was no way to get everyone out in the allowed time.  So they'd have to hope to beat the odds, because there was no way they could leave anyone behind.  The nausea and heat came back, and he increased his oxy level.  He needed it now.
	"Lemke, copy Rescue, what do you see of the lifeboats?"
	Lemke said, "They seem to be gone from this side."
	Stadter said, "There are two not accounted for, but their bays are far back near the reactor.  My call is not to go there."
	Bowden said, "Agreed."
	Stadter added, "You'll be glad to know there are some relieved parents.  The engineering crew cleared the casino and lounge and forced them into the lifeboats.  Tough call, but the right one."
	"Good news.  Lemke, Bulgov, come forward."
	"Yes, sir."
	"Rescue, this is Bowden.  Four-three mobile casualties in masks.  We can put some in balls.  Is there any way to dock or catch?"
	"Bowden, this is Rescue.  Your team has planted charges on the reactor feeds.  They plan to cut the lines the hard way and brenschluss that way." His voice sounded tight.
	"Understood.  Will that be soon?"  Stadter did not sound happy.
	"If you consent, I do."
	"Do it."  That would take the strain off the structure.  He felt relief and guilt.  If they'd been able to do that sooner…but he'd definitely live.
	A moment later a bang and a rumble shook the creaky vessel, but thrust dissipated at once, to nothing.
	"Bowden, this is Rescue, we can dock at Frame One Zero, Radius Two Zero Zero."
	"Do that, and we'll shuffle people in one at a time."
	"We can take the worst one-five, absolute max. The rest will have to egress for recovery."
	"Understood."
	This was going to mean a fight.

#

	Stadter didn't want to tell Bowden how the feeds had been cut.  Sergeant Diaken was dying from massive radiation exposure, from hand-placing charges inside the danger radius.  The other four were adrift in the dark awaiting pickup from amateurs in craft not equipped for rescue, along with Arvil.  Bowden and his team were cutting their way through the inside…	
	"Rescue, this is Barley Mow.  We have an extra recovery."
	Budd said, "Barley Mow, this is Rescue, elaborate, please."
	"Sergeant Arvil.  He slapped against the hull.  We got a line on him.  He's got some impact trauma, but his suit armor took it, and he's alive if bruised."
	Budd, Vela and Stadter stared at each other for a second.
	Stadter said, "Barley Mow, that's ludicrous, but thank you."

#

Bowden wished they'd opened the staterooms one at a time.  While the three crew had done a fine job herding people in, they'd reach panic level soon.  Nor could he use command voice, there was almost no pressure in the forward end.
He used his map projector on the bulkhead, and Lowther and Marchetti matched him in the other rooms.
CHILREN ARE ALIVE, he flashed.  YOU WILL EVAC THROUGH FORWARD LOCK.  SHIP WILL DOCK FOR WORST NEED.  OTHERS WILL BE TOWED.
They nodded in worried understanding, but their confidence seemed a bit higher.  He wasn't going to tell them how they'd be towed.
There was a pregnant woman, two more children, three people with minor but painful injuries—sprains and bruises from the runaway G—and seven people who, in his opinion, were near breaking point.
The schedule suffered again when Hensley had to spend long segs welding cracks in the airlock.  To be fair, they seemed to be recent, but it was all part of the same utter failure.  The owner didn't even deserve a duel.  They'd found several patches aboard that were purely cosmetic.  He'd known this wreck was subpar.
Lemke and Bulgov crawled up through the wreckage from below, looking fatigued, but functional.
With one troop in each room managing the oxygen, and three spare bottles from elsewhere, calm prevailed.  That left him and Lemke to push forward.
The bridge lock was sealed from inside, and he rang the chime.  He waited, and rang it again.  The purser should be in there.  He was about to call Rescue for relay when the latch moved.
The purser swung it open and the expression on his face was tragic.
Bowden gripped him and pressed helmets for conduction.  "Mister Doherty, we're here for you."
Doherty maintained some composure.  He spoke into his mic, probably to Rescue, then pulled the lead from his helmet.  Inside his suit the man shivered.  He let himself be led.
"Bowden, this is Rescue."
"Go ahead."
"Lowther and we came up with a plan.  Take the passengers out singly.  Stuff them into balls, toss them out.  They'll be immediately available for pickup now that we're in free flight.  All primary vessels are converging."
	"That works. We can start now."  The pregnant woman was already aboard Auburn.  The kids were lined up and ready, and after that it was just a case of moving fast enough with O2 running low.  Of course, the lack of lights, gravity and heat was going to be a problem.  He welcomed it to the alternative.
	There was an attempt at chivalry, with some men hanging back while the women were moved.  A couple of quite cute ones shivered in goosebumps, underdressed for an evacuated ship.  He handled them professionally, but it was hard to move someone under these conditions without grabbing their ass and shoving.
	"That's fifteen," Lowther said.
	"Balls," he replied.
	The next woman came up the line, looked at the ball, and clenched in fear.  She didn't resist as they stuffed her in, but she wasn't helpful.
	Then it became clear that some people were hanging back out of fear, letting others precede them.  That meant the end would be interesting.
	It was a good thing the engines were completely down.  It took a lot longer than five hundred seconds to transfer everyone.  More than half would have died on that schedule.
They passed people out, stuffed them into balls, and handled them through the wedged-wide lock, where Lowther and Marchetti lashed them to Auburn.  The passengers could see out the tiny windows, and they all looked frightened or frozen.  It was going to be traumatic for them, but, Bowden observed, not as traumatic as dying. One by one, the medics played out sections of line, looped and lashed them, and occasionally peeked in a window to smile and give someone a thumb's up.
	The last woman and last man clung to the stanchion next to the O2 supply.  He was middle aged, in good shape, even athletic, but shivered like a lapdog.  She was completely numb with a thousand meter stare. Both had to have their fingers pried loose, and be towed to the lock.
	And that was that.  After the earlier excitement, the ending was somewhat anti-climactic.
	Lowther shook hands, swung back out, clipped and unclipped lines and monkey-crawled around his charges, letting them see that he was outside with them.  He would ride that way until another craft matched course to take them off.
	"We're clear.  We'll mount.  Transponders on, awaiting pickup sometime in the next four divs."  He felt an odd mix of elated, satisfied, nervous, frightened and lethargic.  They'd done it.
	"Understood, and your sled transponders are still live.  Tracking already."
	"Thanks, Rescue."  It would be divs before they were recovered, days before they filtered from ship to ship and back to their own craft, and then probably down for debriefing.  One thing about real world missions; they beat the hell out of exercises for both value and intensity.  
	He'd say he never wanted to do it again, but he felt more alive than he ever had.  Some people never knew if they mattered.  Blazers didn't have that problem.
	He checked his harness and prepared to line aft, leaving Mammy Blue cold and dead in space.

#
	
	Stadter's guts flipped at the current exchange, but he had to do it.
	"Rescue to Sergeant Diaken."
	Her voice was raspy and ill-sounding.  "Go ahead, Rescue."
	"One-eight-six recovered.  Four-three after you cut feeds."
	"Glad to hear it.  Thanks for all your efforts.  Diaken out."  The transmission ended in an odd fade.
	"Rescue out," he said, needlessly.  There was no way she'd live to reach the station after that dose, much less anywhere that could hope to do anything.  It wasn't even safe to recover her body.  That hiss had been her helmet unsealing to vacuum. There were no good ways to die, but that seemed so cold.
	He turned his attention back to Bowden.
	"Bowden, this is Rescue.  I have an interim AAR if I can relay the good and bad."
	"Rescue, go ahead.  I can take it."
	"Bowden, one eight six of two one seven recovered and expected to live. Those extra two you caught had to be towed outside and transferred to another ship.  They're pretty shaken.  I think most of the survivors are well-tranked."
	He paused and continued, "One lost on recovery, we'll need to check your cameras to determine who.  Bundle of five tumbled, one separated and caught in engine wash.  I'm sorry."
	There was momentary silence, then Bowden said, "Continue."
	"Regret to relay that Special Projects Sergeant Diaken absorbed lethal dose, by choice, to effect shutdown on the feeds.  She bought you the additional time."
	"Then she saved at least forty lives.  She was a good woman."  The man sounded steely, but Stadter figured he'd be torn up as soon as his mic was closed.
	"That's it for your watch.  Other casualties due to lifeboat failing and no crew aboard to assist with backup O2.  The bottle worked, they just couldn't figure it out in time.  Some of the crew died aboard, and twelve passengers."
	"On the whole, then, I guess we all did an amazing job.  Thank you, Lieutenant, and your staff, for coordination."
	"And you, Bowden.  Stadter out, listening."  He figured to leave the man to deal with his troops and his frustration, for the next half day.
	Bowden would be the last man out of a powerless derelict, in free flight in space, awaiting pickup in the darkness.  That took insane amounts of courage.
	They spent a full day passing the passengers in the balls outside to other ships, swapping fuel and oxy, coordinating others.  They breathed canned air, ate plastic-wrapped food bars and were grateful for both.  The rescued passengers were stuffed into the two cabins of the small craft, making any movement a pain.  Luckily, the pregnant woman wasn't close to labor.  They all stank of fear, the filters couldn't keep up, and even the latrine was overloaded, despite venting to space twice. Garwell had to pretty well sit on top of them.  Two were billeted under his couch and controls.
	Eventually, they maneuvered into their cradle and docked.  He hit the switches to cut power, dumped a reload request for supplies expended, and crawled out the hatch into the station.  The alternate crew had lined up to cheer them, in both tribute and jealousy.  A mission like this happened once in a career, though, he reflected, once was enough.
	He shook hands with his opposite, Captain Brown, and said, "I need to debrief and rest.  Thank you," he turned to the rest, "and thank you all.  We'll catch up later."
	He near staggered on his way to Station Control.
Captain Vincent, looked worn, satisfied and angry.  It was an odd combination of expressions.
"Lieutenant Stadter.  You're just in time."
	"Yes, sir?"  He didn't think there was a problem at his end, and Vincent wasn't one to string things out.
	"Things are very good.  I want to make sure you know that. Exceptional work all around.  Among your crew, Warrant Vela is to be commended for outstanding traffic control."
	"Thank you, sir."
	"Just thought you'd like to know I have the ship's owner on another screen."
	"That's interesting," Stadter said.  He didn't want to make any assumptions about that.  He was too edgy and likely to snap.
	Vincent turned, lit the screen and looked into it.
	"Mister Etzl, Lieutenant Stadter was in charge of the rescue effort."
	Etzl didn't look like a cheap bastard, nor was he oily. However, he didn't waste any time.
	"I'd like to thank you for recovering my passengers, sir."
	"You're welcome.  We all did the best we could.  I directed a lot of professionals and dedicated volunteers."
	"I'd like to discuss recovering my ship, and compensation."
	Adminwork, the bane of existence, he thought.  Though to a man like this, reports were everything.  He saw figures.  Statder saw people.  
	 "If you are asking for a report for your insurance, it will come to you in time, after it works through our system."
	Etzl shook his head.  "I'm not worried about that.  But there's cargo and gear and supplies aboard.  I understand it's in free flight.  This wouldn't count as rescue, but recovery, and of course you're entitled to a share as salvage.  But will you be able to get back out on that shortly?  The sunk costs increase the further out it gets."  He seemed agitated.
	Stadter was too numb from the mission to get angry.  It was just too surreal.  Etzl needed to worry more about what would happen when charges started piling on him, and challenges to duel.  If he was lucky, he'd only be indentured for life.
	On the one hand, it would be nice if the passengers recovered any items of personal value.  There was even a chance the cargo contained things that couldn't be replaced by money alone.  At the same time, they'd already lost too many people, injured several, and one had volunteered to die to help save others and reduce the burden this scumbag faced.  He really should be enraged.  He should challenge the man himself, Bahá'í rules on dueling be damned.
	He was just too wired, tired and overloaded to deal with it right now.  He was giddy with fatigue, disoriented, and this didn't feel real.  There was a policy that applied here, though.  He went with that.
	"Sir, you may contract whomever you wish for salvage.  Neither I nor my crew are available.  Your ship represents a hazard to traffic as is, so I recommend you move quickly on any recovery.  I will officially recommend that the military use it for target practice if it's not dealt with in a week.  This matter is closed. Good day to you."
	He nodded to Vincent, who nodded back with a faint smirk.  Then he turned, and headed for his cabin.  He could pick up the anger later, if there weren't better things to do.

AFTERWORD

I read a lot.
This house has several thousand books, mostly nonfiction, on a plethora of subjects.  Somewhere in the section on ships is a story about a ferry in New York Harbor sometime in the 1890s, I recall.
	This small vessel, in winter, was full of people traveling from island to island or mainland.  Most of them were immigrant laborers.
	This boat did have a boiler explode, rupturing one side, causing it to founder and sink.  There were lifeboats, bought cast-off from some better vessel, not seaworthy. There were kapok life jackets, but the rubber had dry-rotted, the kapok mildewed, and they weren't in usable condition even if the water wasn't barely warmer than the freezing air.
	Every craft in the harbor did respond, in a frenzy not seen again until Flight 1549 landed in the Hudson river more than a century later.  I can't recall how many survived, but most did.  The owner was held in very poor regard, and if I recall correctly, sued into poverty, as he should be.
	From there, I wondered how such a story would work in the Freehold universe, which, despite some parties alleging it to be a "utopia," bears several significant resemblances to the era of robber barons and exploitative management.  There are many things done better by the free market.  However, some things actually do require government infrastructure to effect properly.  Whether or not quality standards for spaceship inspections are among the latter probably depends in part on who's arguing the point, and if they intend to be aboard.  Even if one can settle up economically afterward, duel or seek vengeance, it's probably better to have the intact ship in the first place.

Honorverse Tech Bu9
by David Weber

FROM:	Harrington, Stephanie HS-SKM-78-10009.033	
TO:	Kerensky, Maja MK-MDAHL-10005-93061.042	
DATE:	01/17/1519 PD (SR)	
TIME:	13:27:04 (local)	
RECORDING BEGINS:
Hey, I'm sorry I didn't get around to recording this as soon as I meant to. Like, I dunno, maybe a T-year or so ago? I really meant to get to it sooner, but things have been sorta hectic since we got here. And up until a couple of weeks ago, I didn't really have anything exciting to tell anybody about.
Guess that sounds pretty dumb, doesn't it? Well, I thought it was going to be a lot more exciting than it turned out to be, too. I mean, interstellar trips sound really neat, don't they? But I found out that's only until you actually take one. A starship looks just the same inside as an intra-system ship, you know? Well, aside from the spin sections, of course. What a pain! The Madeleine Davenport's a pretty big ship, but her spin section's still only seventy-five meters across. Even that makes her look like a sausage that got pregnant, stuck in the middle that way, and there's no way they could've made it any bigger. They had to spin it at three RPM just to produce about three-quarters of a gravity, and that gets pretty lame pretty fast. I don't care what anyone says, spin gravity isn't the same thing as real gravity! You're heavier at your feet than your head, and that takes some getting used to. In fact, I never did really get used to it all the way. And lower gravity isn't anywhere near as much fun as it sounds like, either. It was pretty neat bouncing around for the first couple of days, but nobody’ll let you really have fun with it. Traffic rules everywhere! And nothing weighs what it's supposed to. Personally, I'd’ve preferred to be closer to my right weight instead of less than two thirds of what I weighed back home, but the Captain got on the intercom and explained why they couldn't make it any higher.
I know everybody's talking about how they finally have the math figured out to generate artificial gravity that won't just squash people flat, but they've had that figured out foreons! Well, at least for—what? Fifty years now? I mean, that's at least one eon, isn't it? And they've had counter-grav in a natural gravity field for at least that long, but, no, they can't get the "engineering" figured out! Bet I could—well, I mean you could, you always were the wire head. And it'll sure make starship design—and travel—an awful lot easier. Man, no wonder all those slow-boat colonists made the trip stacked up in cryo sleep! It only took us about eleven weeks, and I'd've slept the whole way if they'd given me the choice. Matter of fact, Mom said something about wishing I could've, but I think she was kidding.
I'm not so sure space sickness from zero G would've been any worse than the gravity we actually had. In fact, I enjoyed the zero G before they stuck us in the spin section—didn't have any of the problems some people did. Like Mom, I'm afraid. She was somewhere around five Garns on the space sickness scale before we got her into the spin section. And one of the other passengers handled zero G even worse than she did. He actually puked, and I'm just glad there were crew people around to get it cleaned up before it floated over our way. Not me, though, and it's really almost as much fun as hang gliding. Slower, you know, but kinda . . . floaty. More like when Coach Tuttle kept telling us to slow down in tai chi class, I guess. If I couldn't weigh what I weighed back home, I'd a lot rather have floated around for the whole trip, I think. ’Course they wouldn't’ve let me—all that stuff about bone density and other crap, not to mention housecleaning problems when stuff gets away from you, like that poor guy's puke, now that I think about it. Of course, I'd've been willing to take the meds for zero G all the way to Manticore, but you can just imagine how Dad and Mom would have felt about my doing that "at your age." Man, will I be glad when "at your age" doesn't come up in every third conversation!
But if I couldn't have zero G, at least they did have a couple of high-grav sessions scheduled in the gym every day. Well, high-grav by ship standards, anyway, if you can call one whole gravity high. They had to step up the rotation on the gym section to make it work, of course, and that got pretty weird, ’cause the gravity differential between your feet and your head gets a lot bigger when the RPMs go up. Have to allow for that when you're working out, but it's not too bad on the treadmill once you adjust. Some of the other passengers from Meyerdahl couldn't handle the Coriolis effect when they pumped up the spin on the gym section, either. Didn't bother me much, but I bet it was a real bummer for the people it did bother.
Aside from that, a starship is just more of the same thing you get in a sublight ship, though. Same hallways—only they call them "passages" and in the spin sections they curve to wrap around the hull, which I guess is pretty cool, but it gets old fast—and booooring lounges and cafeterias where they serve the same menu every single week. It just goes on longer than any of the in-system field trips we took back in Meyerdahl. A lot longer. At least they had a pretty decent entertainment library, but by the end of the trip I was watching "Antigone Iwahara: Kid Detective” HDs. Tells you how far gone I was, doesn't it? Man, by the time we actually got here, I couldn't wait to get off that ship.
Then we hung around in an apartment in Yawata Crossing while they finished up building the house on Mom and Dad's freehold. I can't say Yawata Crossing's much of a town yet, even if it is what they call a city here on Sphinx. It's got—you ready for this?—almost thirty thousand people. That's right, about the same number of people we had in ourvoting precinct back in Hollister. And at the moment, it's the acting capital of the entire planet ’cause they took so many losses in the old capital they had to move it. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice enough place, it's just sorta . . . tiny, know what I mean?
Anyway, after a couple of weeks, they got the house finished and we moved in. Pretty nice, really. I've got my own room, and it's darn near as big as the whole apartment was back home. It's really weird not having any neighbors, but it's kinda nice, in a way, and the planetary datanet's better than I expected, really. There's no way anybody but a zillionaire could've afforded four hundred square kilometers of land on Meyerdahl, either! And Mom has her own lab right here on the freehold, with all her greenhouses and everything. Brand-new top-of-the-line equipment, too—lots better than that stuff she had to work with back at the Institute. And Dad has an almost new office in Twin Forks. That's the "town" closest to the freehold. And if they think thirty thousand people make a city, I'll let you guess how many people make a town here on riproaring old Sphinx. And I'll bet whatever number you guess will be too high. Most of the people are pretty nice, I guess, even if I don't think much of the local kids. I'm pretty sure anything like a real thought would strain most of their brains. ’Course Mom says I never gave the zork brains back in Hollister enough of a chance to show they could actually hang onto two thoughts at once, so what do I know? Maybe I'm being too rough on them, but I'm beating the snot out of almost all of them in the chess championships. That should tell yousomething.
I said Dad's office was "almost new." That's because he isn't Twin Forks' first vet. They lost their first vet to the Plague. That turned out to be a scarier thought than I'd expected. I mean, I knew bunches of people had died, and it was sort of exciting thinking about going on a rescue, but I hadn't counted on how many people who are still here lost other people. It's kinda spooky, in a way.
But, anyway, we got here—just in time for winter. You know, when you and I were first looking at the profile on Sphinx, you pointed out that the local year was over five T-years long and I sorta waved my hands and went on to other stuff. You remember that? I do. And I shoulda paid more attention, too, ’cause that means winter lasts fifteenmonths. Maja, it snowed for over a year, know what I mean? I mean, snowball fights and sleds and skiing and hot chocolate, it's all great. Don't get me wrong. But after a year or so you'd kinda like to see, I dunno, a piece of ground that's not frozen, maybe?
Mom says I got "cabin fever." I don't know about that, but I know when the snow finally started melting, man, I could hardly wait to get out into the bush. I mean, that was the whole thing for me when Mom and Dad said we were heading for a frontier planet, one that hasn't even been completely mapped yet! I bet you're halfway through your junior internship with the forest reprogram, aren't you? Well, I'm not. In fact, they don't even have one here on Sphinx! I asked, even sent a few e-mails to Chief Ranger Shelton—and no, whatever Mom says, I did not "pester" him!—but the Sphinx Forestry Service is way understaffed right now. That's what Chief Ranger Shelton says, anyway, and I guess he's probably right. Anyway, he says they don't have the manpower for supervised field trips, and Dad really laid down the law when I tried to poke around a little bit myself. And I did not "sneak off," either! I just sorta . . . forgot to discuss my plans. That's all. Wellllllllll, maybe not quite all. I still don't think he had to come down as hard as he did, though. He didn't quite ground me completely, but he really put his foot down where the bush is concerned. I can't go anywhere without an adult. Doesn't that just soundwonderful?
All right, so I'm sulking. Wouldn't be much point pretending I wasn't when I'm talking to you, would there? ’Cause you wouldn't believe I wasn't for a minute, and you'd be right. But there's a whole world out there, Maja! One nobody's even seen yet! I mean, who knows what's out there? I don't—and I wanna find out! But Dad says "It's not like Meyerdahl, Steph. It doesn't have com stations every fifteen meters. And it's got real live hungry critters out there just waiting to swallow you right down!" At least he didn't go on and add "One day you'll thank me for this"!
Guess I shouldn't really make fun of him that way, ’cause he's probably right. I mean, they've got hexapumas and peak bears—you can find some info on them in the bio attachment—and they're pretty scary, really. A hexapuma's darn near twice as big as a spine cat back on Meyerdahl, and nobody ever taught one of them to be afraid of humans. So, yeah, one of them probably would be perfectly happy to turn me into munchies if he got the chance. Not that I'm stupid enough to give one of them a chance! Besides, they don't climb very well—they're too darn big—so all I really need is a couple of jumps' head start and my counter-grav belt and they'd never be able to catch me. ’Course Dad says I'd probably get all interested in something and be concentrating on that and never notice Mister Hexapuma sneaking around in the underbrush. Ha! Fat chance I'm going to miss six or seven hundred kilos of hungry, six-legged kitty cat sneaking up on me! But you know Dad. Once he gets an idea in his head, not even Mom can get it back out again, and she's had lots more practice than I have!
But . . . but it didn't turn out to be quite as bad as I thought it was going to. In fact, it turned out to be pretty darned cool. See, Mom was trying to come up with something to keep me from being totally bummed out by being stuck here on the freehold, and she told me about this big "mystery" that people were telling her about. Well, you know, I figured it was just Mom trying to distract me, but actually, it was pretty interesting. See, somebody—or something—has been stealing celery!
Ha! Bet you sprayed soda all over the display when you heard that one. Big scary mystery, huh? Celery thieves! Lock the doors, bolt the windows! Man, they could have all the celery in the world, as far as I'm concerned! But it was actually kinda interesting when I started looking at it, ’cause nobody had a clue who was taking it, or why. And it was such teeny tiny amounts, too. I know Mom figured she'd get me interested in trying to figure it out and that would "distract me" from Dad's little decree about the bush, but the thing is, she was right. I did get interested. At first, I figured it was just some kind of joke, somebody who thought it'd be really funny to watch everybody else run around in circles trying to figure out what was going on. But the more I looked at it, the more that didn't make much sense. And I wasn't the only one who thought that. In fact, the best explanation was that there was some critter here on Sphinx that was actually stealing celery, though God knows I wouldn't. But whatever it was, nobody ever managed to get a trace of it. Not a picture, not a footprint—nothing.
’Course the Elysian Rule didn't make it any easier. They're really serious about enforcing it here, and I'm glad they are, but whatever's been stealing celery managed to avoid every sensor, every camera, every nonlethal trap. Some people were even starting to talk about ghosts, and I don't think all of them were kidding, either. But then I had my brainstorm. I checked, and aside from the motion sensors, just about everybody was using infrared, so I decided to try something else. And it worked.
Maja, I didn't expect it, but this is the coolest, most wonderful thing that ever happened in my entire life. I haven't even told Mom and Dad about it yet, ’cause I'm not gonna tellanyone until I have absolute proof. The kind of proof nobody can brush off or just tell the kid with the overactive imagination to run along. I found out who's been stealing the celery, and it is gonna absolutely rock this planet and the entire Star Kingdom—heck, it's gonna rock the whole darned galaxy, if I'm right—and it's gonna be my name that goes into the history books, too. But you know what? I don't really care all that much about that other stuff. Uh-uh. What I care about is figuring out where my little celery thief came from and meeting his friends and neighbors. And I've even figured out a way to do it without breaking Dad's decree . . . mostly, anyway.
That's all I'm gonna say for right now. I don't want to give anything more away, but you should be expecting another letter for me in another couple of months, and when I sendit, you'll be getting the whole story.
But for now, I've gotta run. Got two research papers and a whole chapter of math to knock out by tomorrow morning, so I'd better get to it. There's a mail boat headed coreward from Manticore tomorrow sometime, so I'll squirt this up to the comsat for it as soon as I'm done recording. I miss you, Maja . . . a lot. I guess I didn't really have all that many friends back in the Hollister, either, but you were the best. So I hope how long it took me to get this recorded won't keep you from recording one back to me. I know it takes months just to send them, but I'd really like to hear from you.
God, that sounds pretty lame and lonely, doesn't it? Didn't mean for it to, and I really am excited. I'm going to figure this whole thing out and nail it down, and if I'm lucky, that's going to be my ticket into the Forestry Service here on Sphinx.
Okay, that's it. Gotta close. Oh, but, hey! I'm attaching some stuff. A lot of it's kinda boring—all that stuff about what a wonderful place to live the Star Kingdom is so they can convince you to come all the way out here, I mean—but there's some neat stuff in there, too. Enough to give you an idea what it's like out here. And that really is all I've got time for. Miss you, Maja. Talk to you later.
Bye.
RECORDING ENDS
ATTACHMENTS:
Sphinx Immigration Packet
SFS Biology Database
SFS Advisories

Star Kingdom of Manticore
Home Office
Ministry of Immigration 
Pamphlet SKM-GR-1517-S (Excerpted)
19 July, 1517 PD (AL 58.02.22)
Introduction To The Manticoran Settlement Program
The Star Kingdom of Manticore is a vibrant and young culture looking to provide opportunities for those core worlders (and others) with the mettle and desire to help us reach our full potential, and yours. While the bulk of the Star Kingdom’s population lives on Manticore itself, the Crown and Kingdom have need of technical specialists willing to relocate to either of our two inhabited worlds.
The Star Kingdom’s current needs are for colonists on both Manticore and Sphinx. Immigrants of sufficient resources may wish to invest in settling on Manticore itself, but the land market value is much higher, and Crown assistance for colonization there is sufficiently different that you will need to contact the Home Office directly for more information. Please see pamphlet SKM-GR-1517-M for the requirements for Manticore.
Sphinxian Planetary Conditions
To sing the paens of any world is a task requiring multiple verses of elegaics, and Sphinx, more so than most, cannot be summed up in simply a paragraph or two. Sphinx is a frontier, where we’re seeking colonists with a pioneering spirit, those whose internal mettle is matched by the majestic beauty of Sphinxian mountains, and whose long term view and resourcefulness are matched only by the majestic slow seasons of Sphinx, with rainy springs, cool summers, windy autumns and quiet winters suited to long contemplations.
Sphinx (Manticore-A IV) is larger than Manticore (Manticore-A III) and about 30 percent larger than Earth. It is also somewhat more massive and richer in metals than either planet, with a planetary gravity of 1.35 G. Colonists from lower gravity worlds will be provided with portable countergrav units free of charge, and the government will subsidize the purchase of grav plates for household use as well.
Sphinx has been extensively surveyed, both from orbit and in person with human explorers. The oldest settlement on Sphinx is just over a T-Century old, and the current population of the planet is just under two million citizens. The planet, while possessed of a very long year (5.2 T-years) has a very low axial tilt, moderating the seasonal extremes.
To residents of Old Earth, the equatorial regions of the part of Sphinx open for colonization are roughly comparable to the climate of the Carolina regions of North America, or the southeastern quarter of coastal China. As you move away from the equator, the climate cools at a lower rate than it does on Earth. In the Yatara Crossing area, the climate is roughly comparable to that of New Zealand or Oregon through Vancouver on Old Earth, though snowfalls can get substantially deeper. Climate variation as you move inward from coastal regions takes on a more continental pattern.
Immigration Policy and Incentives
When your application is approved, the Crown will match your transit costs in land grants on Sphinx or Manticore. All land grants are calculated at current market value at the time of arrival, and based on the actual transit cost incurred. The current land offerings vary in size between planets. In general, Sphinx offers far larger areas than Manticore, ranging from 100 to 800 square kilometers, depending on the location.
As an example, grants of 60 kilometer by 60 kilometer parcels (360 square kilometers total) are currently equivalent to the cost of passage from Sol. All land grants are issued by lottery and may not be perfectly square. At this time, the Crown is offering land grant lottery drawings on the continents of Haley’s Land, Thule, and southwestern portions of Justianna. New arrivals may petition for an equivalent parcel from the unassigned plots, which will be considered by the Bureau of Immigration on a case-by-case basis. As we meet our targeted levels of immigration, other land grants may open up in the future.
Additional land grants may be purchased at 50 percent of current market value for those individuals able to pay for their entire transportation costs.
Retention of the land grant requires permanent occupancy by your family for a period of not less than five Manticoran years (8.65 T-years) and certain mandatory improvements (including creating a landing pad for countergrav vehicles, required utility connections for communication and power generation systems, as well as basic habitability requirements) must be constructed at the occupant’s expense and maintained. Please see Appendix B for full details.
For investors of sufficient means, purchase of lesser patents of nobility can be arranged, along with a grant of land and the obligations and duties that pertain to a Peer of the Realm. These grants are hereditary to the designated heirs of the original patent holder, and are limited to Earl and lower. The Crown reserves the right to elevate worthy citizens to the Peerage with the consent of the House of Lords, and to elevate members of the Peerage with that same consent, based on meritorious service to the Kingdom. The Crown and the House of Lords review all applications to purchase membership into the Manticoran Peerage on a case-by-case basis, based on financial contributions, character references, and what contributions to the Kingdom can be expected.
Those individuals who otherwise meet the requirements for colonization, but lack funding, the Crown will cover the entire cost of transportation, including temporary housing for a period of one T-month while the applicant seeks employment. The Crown may also offer subsidized loans, payable at 2 percent interest on a 99 T-year issue. These loans are issued solely at the discretion of the Crown and are subject to a case-by-case analysis. There are no penalties for early repayment of the loan.
Terms and Conditions
The value of a land grant presumes that the new colonist is coming from the Sol system. Those who travel to the Star Kingdom from nearer systems may find that the relative cost of a land grant is lower, due to reduced travel expenses. In general, the closer a land grant is to an established population center, the lower its total area will be. The more extreme the climate is, the larger the land grant’s area will be. Some land grants with exploitable mineral resources may prove to be exceptions to this rule.
The broad geographical region of your land grant will be determined by the Crown, based on your declared skill sets. If there is a valid choice to be made, the Crown will present you with options. The exact location and acreage of your land grant within the defined geographical region will be determined by lottery overseen by agents of the Crown.
The Star Kingdom will apply direct subsidies (in effect paying part of the passage) as funding grants for colonists with skills on Appendix A. In particular, biologists, medics, veterinarians, computer technicians, programmers, civil engineers, planetologists, agronomists and teachers are in demand on Sphinx. The Crown prefers immigration by entire family groups, as they provide a much needed mutual support network on a new home.
Citizenship in the Star Kingdom, and the full protection under the law, is granted when the colonist gives their oath of fealty to the Crown. The franchise (the privilege of voting in elections for Parliament) is awarded for partially subsidized citizens one full Manticoran year (1.73 T-years) after arrival.
Fully subsidized citizens will receive the franchise when they have paid income taxes under their own name for five consecutive Manticoran years (8.65 T-years) or have served 2 Manticoran years in the Royal Armed Forces.
Full details and exceptions to these terms can be found in Appendix C.
Enjoy Your New Home
The Star Kingdom of Manticore welcomes you to Sphinx and looks forward to your work and contributions to the Kingdom as a whole. We sincerely wish you all the success in the worlds in your new home. Please feel free to contact the Ministry of Immigration with further inquiries about the Manticoran Settlement Program.
Applications can be filled out online, or in person at any offices of the Manticore Colony Trust.

Planetary Overview 
Sphinx: Manticore-A-IV
(4th planet out from Manticore A)
A rocky terrestroid planet orbiting Manticore A with a semi-major axis of 2.54 AU (1,273 light seconds; 21 minutes, 13 light seconds). The planetary’s physical parameters include a mass of 13.6212^24 kg (2.28 x Earth), density of 5.73 kg/m^3 (1.04 x Earth), and a concurrent surface gravity of 13.171 m/sec/sec. (1.349 x Earth). Planetary orbital velocity is 10.56 km/sec, while planetary escape velocity is 14.81 km/sec. The local planetary year is 5.2 T-years, and made up of a pattern of 46 months, alternating between 39 local days and 38 local days, with a leap day every 7 local years.
Geostationary orbit height is 53,216.45 km, and a 500 km orbit height has an orbital velocity of 10.23 km/sec. The planet has two moons, Perseus, with a diameter of 672 km and a density of 1.62 kg/m^3, orbiting with a semi-major axis of 142,000 km, and Bellerophon, with a diameter of 426 km and a density of 2.12 kg/m^3 and a semi-major axis of 332,000 km. Minor mining operations occur on both moons. Both moons combined produce tides that are less than 10 percent of Earth’s. This is not unusual, as Earth is something of an outlier as a near double planet in mass. The planetary hydrosphere is 68 percent of the planetary surface, and the total land surface area is 229 percent that of Earth’s.
The planetary axial tilt is 14.51 degrees, and the land horizon is roughly 5.76 km, and the nautical horizon at 12.87 km. The planetary instellation averages roughly 73 W/m^2, or a bit less than 17 percent of Sol’s; this lack of instellation is compensated for by a much higher greenhouse gas percentage than Earth’s; the planetary CO2 levels at surface partial pressure can cause rapid breathing syndrome in new arrivals as their breathing reflex adjusts. When all factors (albedo, greenhouse gas mix and instellation are accounted for) the average surface temperature of Sphinx is 285 Kelvin, or 12 degrees Centigrade; this is a full 10 degrees cooler than Earth.
The combination of low axial tilt and low instellation means the planetary ice caps are prominent, greatly impacting planetary albedo. This has secondary effects on the planet’s climate and recent geological and biological history.
Recent Geological History
Sphinx has an unusually thick mantle for a planet of its mass and density and has a lower level of tectonic activity than its mass and size would otherwise indicate. This is still somewhat higher than Old Earth. Sphinx’s topography, as is typical of planets in its mass range, is of very deep seas and mountainous continents. Most of the land on Sphinx is, geologicaly speaking, fairly young, and large basin-lands are much less prominent on the planetary map.
This lower than typical level of tectonic activity and assessments of Sphinx’s Milankovic periodicity (shifts in its orbital eccentricity and the traverse of its axial tilt) indicate that until roughly 30,000 T-years ago, +/-10,000 T-years, Sphinx’s ice caps extended nearly twice as far towards the equator as they do now. It is thought that the Stubleford Traps formation in northern Slocum, near the northern pole, may have released enough CO2 into the atmosphere to trigger a glacial retreat. This area of active volcanism appears to be over a mantle plume hotspot and is still active; it is roughly the size of the region of Brazil on Old Earth.
The low temperature differential between the equatorial oceans and the poles inhibits ocean current circulation, and the lower axial tilt means that seasons are less extreme on Sphinx, though they are longer. Sphinx’s equatorial regions do not get as hot as Earth’s, but the degree to which the climate changes per degree of latitude away from the equator is lower than on Earth, until the glacial region is reached, at which point the temperature gradient drops suddenly.
There is ample biological evidence for a recent glacial retreat on Sphinx. The Sphinxian climate has gotten warmer and wetter, and there are many species that still show adaptations such as larger sizes and thicker coats for a colder climate, and there is a great deal of evidence indicating that species are moving into new biomes, looking for new or different food sources.
In a very real sense, the human colonization on Sphinx appears to have arrived during a period of geology-and-climate induced punctuated equilibrium.
Biological Assay of the Tannerman Gulf Region
On a planet with as many diverse biomes as Sphinx has, a full planetary biological assay will be the work of a T-century or more. There’s simply insufficient manpower to do it, and too many pressing needs on the limited number of biologists available, many of whom do double and triple duty as veterinarians and as first responders. What follows is excerpts from the biological assay for the Tannerman Gulf Region, located on the western coast of Haley’s Land, and is where a number of new homesteads and freeholds have been established.
Generalized Biome and Climate
The Tannerman Gulf region has a slightly warmer than average climate for its latitude, due to an offshore warm water current heading southward along the coast of Haley Land. Much of this air is trapped by the mountain ranges on the eastern boundaries of the region. The eastern portion of the ranges are drier, have larger native biomes and have been mapped by aerial survey and ground penetrating radar for topography, but have no human settlements as of the time of this writing, and have had only four overland expeditions in them in the last fifty T-years.
The Tannerman Gulf region has frequent mild rains, as is typical for the weather patterns off of the ocean, and (for Sphinx) comparatively mild winters for its latitude; the snow generally lasts for a month or two per heavy snowfall, melting off, in patches, before the next snowfall hits, and winters in this region start and end with a rainy season; overall the “climactic” winter lasts a bit over a T-year. Temperatures in the winter are mild, going down to -10 to -15 centigrade in the coldest part of the winter.
By contrast, the summers are comparatively cool and pleasant, and the thicker Sphinxian atmosphere and lower instellation make heat stroke and sunburn almost unheard of. Scorchingly hot days in the Tannerman Gulf region get into the high 20s to low 30s.
The abundance of water, and relatively recent soil formation make the dominant fauna of the region mixed copses of picketwood, with groves of crown oak and near pine interspersed. Forest fires are sometimes a risk during the height of summer. In the drier areas to the east of the Copperwall Mountains, other tree species, notably rock wood, have a wider range.

Picketwood
The picketwood makes up the dominant arboreal habitat in the Tannerman Bay region. It is a dual-deciduous softwood tree with a fairly quick growth rate, and sends down runners from its lower braches; these runners become nodal trunks, allowing the picketwood to asexually spread over large areas. The actual photosynthetic canopy of picketwoods starts roughly 20 meters up in a mature trunk, and remains productive well past the initial rainy season of winter.
Picketwoods offer a moderating impact on the local biome. Picketwood leaf-mass drop provides compost for wintering shrubs, which fix nitrogen in the soil for the picket-wood’s root structures to absorb. The bark is rough gray and black, with four lobed-splay patterned leaves. Typical height for a mature picket-wood tree is 35-45 meters.
Near Pine
The second most populous tree type, the near pine is an evergreen softwood with hairy seedpods and a deeply furrowed rough bark. The trees are highly resinous, and their seeds are edible, if enough effort is made to extract them from the seedpod; the oil from them can be used for cooking and is considered something of a delicacy if caught right near the end of the fall rainy season. The seed pods estivate through the winter, and when conditions are right, new near pine seedlings grow rapidly in the spring. When fully mature, near pines form relatively thick trunked trees reaching 62 meters in height, taking nearly 20 T-years to reach this height, and can grow by as much as 3 meters in a growing season. Near pines appear to be in the process of being displaced by picketwoods and crown oaks.
Red Spruce
The red spruce is altitude adapted, and because of this, appears to have less competition for its ecological niche; stands of red spruce are seen on the sides of the mountains to the east ofTannerman Bay, and aerial surveys show that their range extends into the dryer areas beyond. Another evergreen, Red Spruce has scaled, very dark blue-green leaves and a pyramidal form. Its seedpods are smoother than the near pine’s, but the seeds themselves are bitter tasting with an alkaloid that makes them unpalatable to Terrestrial life, and causes allergic reactions in some. This same alkaloid allows the seed pods to pass through the digestive tract of Sphinxian chipmunks without harm. The name comes from the russet color of its wood, which is prized for decorative woodwork. Average height of a mature red spruce is about 17 meters (56 feet). It does not grow as rapidly as a near pine does.
Crown Oak
The crown oak is a dual deciduous tree that produces pine-needle like filament leaves for the winter months, sheds them in the spring, and generates five-lobed leaves more suited to a wetter climate in spring to last through the summer months. It is adapted to a drier climate than the near pine, and as the area around the Tannerman Gulf dries in adjustment to climate change, it is opportunistically expanding into ranges left open by wildfires which devastate the near pine stands. At full height, this tree reaches a height of 80 meters. Efforts are underway to sustainablyharvest timber from this tree for furniture and flooring, and it is seen as a potentially valuable export commodity.
Rock Tree
Rock trees appear to be a living fossil species; their tall, straight trunk and long narrow leaves make them well suited to shorter growing seasons and extreme cold. They can survive on much less moisture than picketwoods and near pines, and are more common east of the mountains, though stands of them are scattered throughout the picketwood forests. Their name come from the unusually high concentrations of bonded silicates in the cell walls of the trunk, making for a very fire resistant and difficult to cut wood. The wood itself is nearly fireproof for temperatures commonly found in nature. There are several varieties, known for the color of the lumber, which is labor intensive to gather, and process, but highly in demand.
Lace Willow
The lace willow is a common understory runner-plant, and is a relative of the same genus as the picketwood, though it is most common in marshy areas. It has streamer-like leaves, and theTannerman Gulf area appears to be the southern edge of its natural range. The name comes from the pierced meshlike nature of the leaves, which are used to capture insect analogs and drop them down as a source of nutrients into the root structure.
Spike Blossom / Spike Thorn
A native Sphinxian flowering shrub which fills much the same niche as azaleas or laurels, attaining a maximum height of about 3.6 meters. Its leaves are dark green and spade shaped, and it produces very sharp thorns up to 10 centimeters in length. Its blossoms, which come in many different colors, are vaguely tulip shaped and are prized for the flavor their pollen gives to honey produced by imported terrestrial honey bees.
Range Barley
This woody plant is a low moisture adapted relative of the near pine, and its westernmost range creeps around the eastern mountains bordering the Tannerman Gulf region. It grows to roughly three meters in height, with a single trunk that’s roughly 3 cm in diameter, and produces very small forms of the near pine’s needles. During the fall, it produces a lighter weight seed pod at the crown of the plant; the center of the plant is a woody pulp that can be ground and used as a flour, or be made as a porridge. The seed pods are high in tannic acid and have to be blanched before they're edible, but can also be used to supplement the pulp. While the Range Barley has a number of similarities to terrestrial grasses in its growth cycle, and as an edible food source, it is not a wind-blown self-pollinating grass such as might be found on Old Earth. It is a curiousity because it appears to be a recent mutation. It is thought that tuskelopes (see below) eat range barley when they can find stands of it, but there are few areas in the Tannerman Gulf region where picketwood and range barley grow near each other.
Tanapple
A native Sphinxian fruit shrub that grows in moist moderate climates, the fruiting mechanism is triggered by environmental factors which have so far proven difficult to isolate; it is considered, after the range barley, to be the likeliest native Sphinxian plant to become domesticated and cultivated for food. The shrub grows in the understory area beneath picketwoods and crown oaks, and has a blade-like leaf structure. The fruiting body shows up after the first snowfall each year, and is a multi-segmented fruiting body that’s the color of a green apple, in a thick rind reminiscent of terrestrial citrus. It is tart, and sweet, and used locally for preserves, jams, pies, and as a garnish for poultry and ham.
Native Fauna
Nearly all Sphinxian life forms have hexapedal bilateral symmetry, and the species near the Tannerman Gulf region follow this body plan. In areas where the dominant plant life is thepicketwood, the middle set of and forward set of limbs are commonly dual purpose, with the mid-limbs configured for grasping and locomotion and the forelimbs specialized for grasping itself.
Nearly every species of animal on Sphinx is exothermic; this is nearly a requirement for surviving the long winters. Unlike plants, which remain in the same place, animal species tend to migrate, in response to seasonal changes, mating habits, and pursuit of food sources. There is a large amount that is unknown about Sphinxian biota, even in this area. It is a widely held contention among Sphinxian Forestry Service biologists that there are at least two medium-to-large herbivorous species that have not been directly or indirectly observed yet.
Most Sphinxian animal life—even many species with “bird-like” names, more closely resemble Terrestrial mammals than birds or reptiles. The dividing line on local naming conventions is based in part on the whim of the first researcher to write a report on the species, and secondarily based on whether the species lays eggs for overwintering while the parents estivate, or whether they remain active year round and bear live young.
It is important, again, to emphasize that what is known about species on Sphinx is more broadly defined by what we don’t know than what we actually do know.
Chipmunk
The Sphinxian chipmunk looks virtually nothing like its Terrestrial namesake, being the size of a small dog. The animal is a full-year active exothermic burrowing husker that lives off of the seed pods and fruits of theunderstory plant-life. The forelimbs and mid-limbs allow a little bit of arboreal movement. Its range appears to be tightly constrained by the picketwood environment. They appear to have a natural life span of two Sphinxianyears, and are opportunists. Their burrowing ability allows them to dig through foundations and into greenhouses. In some areas of human settlements, they are on their way towards displacing Mankind’s oldest companion, the rat, as the greatest danger to household food storage and garbage disposal.
Cragsheep
A reclusive species referred to as a cragsheep has been spotted by aerial survey in the mountains defining the eastern border of the region that, based on photographic evidence, looks to be in the 100 kg range. The species itself follows the hexapedal body plan, but with the middle and forelimbs somewhat geared for grasping and climbing. The rear limbs and mid limbs allow the species to make impressive leaps, and it is native to the uplands and hilly regions. It is not known if it is an egg-laying or live birth reproductive animal, but given its size, it is assumed to be live birth. While the cragsheep is an herbivore, there appear to be no analogs to it native to the lower regions on the western side of the mountains.
Near Beaver
A Sphinxian mammal that appears to be distantly related to the chipmunk, these creatures live in aquatic and swampy biomes, and are omnivorous, but eat predominantly vegetable matter. In length, they are approximately 50 centimeters long, and their dentition is what gives them their name, though their body plan is less streamlined than a terrestrial beaver’s. The near beaver does bring down trees—avoiding the rockwoods—to make dams and convert sloughs into ponds. Subspecies of near-beaver have been found in every biome on Sphinx that humans have visited to date, save for the tundra and ice cap regions.
Range Bunny
The range bunny is the pseudomonotreme competitor for the niche occupied by the chipmunk; like the other Sphinxian pseudomonotremes it lays egg at the first rainy season, burrows, and hibernates on top of them throughout the winter. While not as active in the winter, and not as opportunistic, the range bunny is capable of fairly rapid population growth every spring, and is of some concern to the Royal Agricultural Services as a possible pest eating human food crops. Its range of diet includes most leafy plant structures, and it is not as tied to the picketwood biome as the chipmunk is. The range bunny is known for its two stage loping gait, and it relies on speed to get away from ground based predators. It naturally avoids the picket woods if it can, due to the threat of arboreal predators such as the condor owl.
Wood Rat
The wood rat is prey species of the crown oak biome, and is roughly 2 kg in mass. They are distinctly arboreal, and resemble mammalian six legged skinks in some ways. They are full-year active placental in their reproductive strategy, though there are anomalous reports calling them marsupials. It is not entirely certain if they’re native to the Tannerman Gulf biome or are immigrants moving with the increased range of the crown oak; they bear roughly the same resemblance to Sphinxian chipmunks that Terrestrial rats do to Terrestrial chipmunks. The creatures will gnaw on wood to keep their incisors sharp, and have been known to do damage to lumber products used for human use. The water-seal compound used for terrestrial lumber appears to be a candy lacquer for them, though it also kills them due to enzymatic incompatibility and intestinal blockage.
Tuskelope
The Tuskelope is a cold-weather adapted prey species, vaguely resembling a six-legged cross between a musk-ox and a boar; they stand anywhere from 1.3 to 1.8 meters high at the shoulder for an adult, with a peak weight of 350 kg. They have large tusks that they use to break up ice pack and to dig up roots. Their primary defense mechanism is to flee into scrub that larger predators cannot pursue into, and to turn tusks onto predators only when flight is not an option, or when faced with a predator that is taller than they are.
Tuskelope population densities are too low to support the hexapuma sightings in the Tannerman Gulf region. The best working hypothesis is that the hexapumas are recent interlopers, and the tuskelopes provided them with the calorie sources to spark a population boom, followed by a tuskelope population crash.
Condor Owl
The condor owl would strike any native of Old Earth as a particularly egregious case of “name does not fit the physical description of the animal.” It was, however, originally named by a xenoiologist from theHesier System, where the original names had already been applied to some very strange creatures. Needless to say, it does not, in fact, resemble either an Old Earth condor or an owl—or, for that matter, a bat or a flying squirrel, which it more closely resembles. The condor owl is a crepuscular gliding or flying predator that attempts to swoop and catch prey, then drop it on rocks from a great height. It is a hexapedalSphinxian mammal, with the fore-limbs specialized into wings, and folds of skin that give additional gliding and lifting surface when the midlimbs are extended, with the back four limbs holding grasping talons. The eyes are very large and forward facing, and are the most owl-like of its features.
A typical condor owl has a body mass of under 6 kilograms and a total body length in excess of 150 centimeters, and a wingspan of nearly twice that. The hide is covered in down, and the animal lays eggs and estivates over them through the winter. The condor owl often hunts in social groups of six to eight, and they have been known to arrange rocks with the jagged points up to better finish off dropped prey, a precursor to tool usage that bears further investigation.
Hexapuma
Hexapumas are the best indirect evidence that biomes have shifted recently. A hexapuma has a body length that can reach five meters in length, as much as half of that tail, and the largest specimens encountered have weighed 800 kilograms or more. Sphinxian Forest Service biologists class hexapumas as the native wildlife most dangerous to human inhabitants, in part because so little is known about them, save that they seem to have a shortage of prey animals, and have no compunctions about treating humans as a remedy to that problem.
What is currently known about hexapumas is that the range in size between (apparently) mature individuals is quite wide—in the Tannerman Gulf area, they routinely run 3.5 meters or longer in main body length, while closer to the equator, genetically related samples are as small as 2 meters long and half the body mass; it is thought that there is severe selection pressure on hexapumasto have smaller children to deal with a prey pattern shift to smaller prey animals; there are numerous adaptations on the hexapuma, ranging from the depth of its coat to its foot construction, that indicate it was originally adapted to a much colder climate.
The advisories on hexapumas are to avoid them if at all possible, and to notify the Sphinxian Forest Service immediately if one is sighted, or if scat or other indicators is known. In particular, theSphinxian Forestry Service is interested in finding out what they eat, and how often they mate and where they raise their young.

Mountain Eagle
One of the handful of bird analogues of the planet Sphinx, the mountain eagle may in fact be an oviparous mammal that has evolved quills that function nearly identically to feathers. They are true flyers, as opposed to the condor owl, and have only been seen at a distance; they have two pairs of wings that between them make a single lifting surface, and in their flight patterns, tend to be gliders. They appear to be carrion feeders or opportunist feeders. Due to the higher temperatures on the eastern side of the Copperwall Mountains, they are more common there, and the eastern edge of the Tannerman Gulf region appears to be the westernmost edge of their range.
Peak Bear
The peak bear is found near the southern edge of the Tannerman Gulf area, and is native to the mountains forming that edge of the biome. Very little is known about the peak bear aside from the fact that it can locomote in a centauroid gait, and that it doesn’t seem to regard humans as much of a threat. It appears to be omnivorous, though the portion of its diet based off of plants versus prey animals is unknown at this time. Specimens that have been photographed have stood nearly 1.4 meters tall at the mid-hip, and 2 meters tall at the top of the head when in centauroidposture—overall body length has been in excess of 4 meters total. Peak bears may be the competing predator causing hexapumas to range farther north. While current land grants are more than 100 km away from the peak bear’s estimated range, it does represent a concern for the future expansion of human colonization.

Welcome to Sphinx
The Sphinxian Forestry Service has compiled a list of advisories for Sphinx so newcomers don’t get injured. Sphinx is a largely uninhabeted planet, with nearly 230 percent of the land area of Old Earth. These are advisories, the planet is untamed and there’s a lot we don’t know.
That being said, there are a number of things we do know, and they are dangerous to you.
Gravity, Geology and Atmosphere
Sphinx’s surface gravity can be dangerous to newcomers unaccustomed to a heavy gravity world. In addition to feeling that you’re carrying a third again your own body weight, your reflexes are going to be off. Things will not only take more effort to move, but will fall faster in a given span of time. It is entirely possible for a healthy adult to break their neck from falling out of a chair, or to injure themselves getting into bed. When estimating the dangers, think of the fall as being from 75 percent greater height than you would on Earth. Personal countergrav units are strongly recommended, but they won’t reduce the risks of objects falling on you.
Sphinx has an unusually thick mantle compared to planets of similar mass and diameter, which means it has lower tectonic activity than Meyerdahl and significantly lower tectonic activity than Quelhollow. This does not mean that the tectonics are as mild as Old Earth’s however. The Stubleford Traps in the northern hemisphere are estimated to be less than a million T-years old, and Richter scale 2 and 3 temblors are a weekly occurrence near many of the Sphinxian mountainous regions. Even in relatively stable locations like Tannerman Gulf, new construction for Sphinx needs to be properly quakeproofed, and the routine precautions of “When the ground shakes, be in the air if possible, and away from heavy objects if not” always applies.
While Sphinx has a higher atmospheric density than Old Earth’s, the higher gravity means that the rate of change in pressure as altitude increases is steeper. Normal Earth atmospheric pressure occurs at roughly 1600 meters. The upper range of human breathable atmosphere is around 3,000 meters, which is nearly 3,000 meters lower than the breathable threshold on Earth. Do not let your experience with atmospheric conditions on other planets put you at risk.
Be aware that leaving a high atmospheric pressure world will give a mild form of the bends as dissolved nitrogen is released from your blood. Sphinx’s CO2 percentage is higher than Earth’s, or Manticore’s, and can cause rapid breathing when someone isn’t fully adapted to the native atmosphere. If you suffer from any respiratory ailments or related issues, please ask your doctor about nanotech treatments to alleviate the adaptation discomfort of changing environments.
The other effect of Sphinx’s atmosphere is that sound will travel farther than you’re expecting it to, especially lower pitches, which can be disorienting for new arrivals.
We strongly advise the use of countergrav gear while you’re acclimating to Sphinx. Sphinx isn’t such a high gravity planet that countergrav is always necessary for mobility or comfort. It is still strongly recommended. Countergrav units are available to all new arrivals.
Wildlife
Over 90 percent of Sphinx is uninhabited, and much of the planet remains unexplored. Because of the very mountainous terrain, there are lots of pocket habitats and biomes. What we know about them is small, and humans are newcomers to Sphinx. Wildlife will surprise you, and even if you live in a large community, you’ll be encountering it daily.
Many Sphinxian animals are territorial, have large hunting ranges, and high caloric needs. Stripped of its scientific terms, this means that a hexapuma weighing 650 kg (some specimens are larger) needs to consume about 60 to 70 kg of meat per day. To you, a hexapuma is a six limbed predator that’s longer than a groundcar. To the hexapuma, you are a smallish single serving prey animal. To a peak bear, you are but a snack.
Humans are interlopers. Most Sphinxian predator species do not have millions of years of selection pressure to recognize you as a threat. In general, do not make eye contact, and understand that a predator that is looking at you is sizing you up as a meal, not trying to make a friend, and it may not be startled or terribly intimidated by a gun fired in warning.
There are a number of Sphinxian animals which have protected status, due to conservation efforts, concerns about species displacement with terrestrial imports, or because they merit further scientific study. The penalties for hunting protected species are quite stiff.
The Elysian rules, about minimizing the impact of humans on local wildlife and biomes, are in full effect on Sphinx. In over a thousand T-years, refinements of this policy have prevented large scale disruptions of planetary ecologies, and it forms the core of the Sphinxian Forestry Service’s ethos.
As a reminder, if you must shoot local wildlife, do it with a camera. If you encounter something you haven’t seen before, take photographs or video footage. You may use lethal force against an unknown animal only when human lives are in immediate danger. If you can move away, or fly away with countergrav, you are not in immediate danger.
Do send video footage and photographs of anything you encounter to the Sphinxian Forestry Service. We pay small bounties for documentation of new animal species.
Importation of Offworld Species
Much ink can be written about the hazards of reckless species introductions into new biomes. With Sphinx, all species stocks being introduced must have full genome transcriptions submitted to the Forestry Service for assessment of their biological impact parameters. Introduction of a prey animal without a predator to balance it can cause terrific strain on a biosphere; even something as innocuous as the introduction of fertile rabbits can cause a species dislocation, which will cause predators to change their ranging patterns searching for suitable prey. Because Sphinx has undergone a geologically recent species extinction period, this is of particular concern, as there are already a number of large predators seeking new prey ranges. Don’t let them think your homestead is one.
The majority of Sphinx’s native plants are non-toxic to humans, and Sphinxian animals can survive off human feedstocks. Sphinxian native plant stocks are less opportunistic than earth-based ones. Sphinx’s summers are long and cool on the coasts; inland they are hotter and drier, but do not reach the same levels of hot-and-dry that Old Earth does. Currently, the Sphinxian summer only produces five distinct growing seasons for terrestrial plant stocks; further agronomical research looks to take full advantage of the longer growing season by adjusting terrestrial crops to better match local conditions. Consult the Royal Agronomy Service if you wish to contribute to this project as a researcher, or by growing plots of test crops.
While there are ongoing attempts to domesticate Sphinxian herbivores, these are research projects at this time, and it’s expected that the bulk of the meat eaten will be from terrestrial imports.
Of particular concern is the introduction of ground covering plants like grasses. There is a lot we don’t know about Sphinxian plant life. We do know that grasses are not native to Sphinx, and that there is nothing on Sphinx adapted to eating them natively. We also know that grasses spread across Old Earth in a geological eyeblink 66 million years ago, and that spread left profound biome disruption in its aftermath. With the exception of the pig, every terrestrial meat animal has adapted to grassland living . . . and at the very least, introduction of grasses can cause soil to dry out, and, in large areas, change rainfall patterns. Please consult with the Sphinxian Forestry Service before introducing grasses outside of controlled areas; we have a number of varieties that have been tailored to be digestible to local wildlife with minimal problems, and which have slow germination patterns so that we can keep the intrusions under control.
Disease Risks
The Star Kingdom of Manticore has suffered a population drop due to two bouts of a “virgin field introduction” plague. A native Manticoran pathogen similar to a coronavirus has crossed over and proven infectious to humans. There was an initial outbreak outbreak of a respiratory illness roughly forty T-years ago. While it proved dangerous to the elderly, it was deemed to be no more severe than the common cold or a light influenza. What was not understood then, but is understood now, is that this pathogen was able to mix DNA with existing human coronaviruses; most of these mixes proved unstable and unable to reproduce. One of them proved to be both infectious and to have a protein shell that triggered extreme immunoglobin responses.
This more dangerous infection caused widespread fevers and pulmonary obstructions, as it infected the lungs and was airborne. As there was an extensive reservoir not only in humans, but in pigs raised for farm animals, it proved difficult to combat. The initial outbreak was in 1480 PD, and vaccines were cultured in 1484. A second outbreak of a new strain occurred in 1487 PD, which proved immune to the 1484 vaccine. A third strain emerged in 1489, but was less immediately dangerous. There is now a multi-strain vaccine that has proven to be more than 99.99 percent effective; this vaccine is part of your immigration inoculations.
While we deem it unlikely, we cannot rule out the possibility of another crossover virus. The Star Kingdom takes outbreak reports and new disease reports very seriously, and has extensive quarantine procedures, shown in pamphlet SKM-RNG-1490-PQ.

The Talisman’s Trinket
by
P.C. Hodgell

I

The Moon in Splendor was full that night.
Apprentice thieves laughed, and drank, and diced as always.  Roughly every hour the plates mounted on the walls rattled as next door; for reasons best known to themselves, an obscure lay brotherhood let fall a rock, from a considerable height, on a bound chicken.  Three plates had fallen so far.  
All, in a word, was normal.  
However, a feverish unease gave an edge to the prentices’ sport and to the shouts with which they toasted each shattering platter.  After all, it was only two days since the Sirdan Theocandi had beaten his opponent Men-dalis in the Thieves’ Guild Election.  By now the defeated thief lord should either have fled or fallen prey to an assassin’s wiles.  Instead, he had shut himself up in his fortress-like headquarters and there awaited gods only knew what developments.
A burly journeyman shoved his way onto the bench, thrusting drinkers aside, joggling Patches’ hand.  Beer splashed on the crazy quilt of her sleeve – black velvet, forest green linen, purple satin, carefully pieced together by her mother out of a dozen different rag bags.  
“Still waiting, ha?” he said with a booming laugh, jostling her again with an unwelcome elbow to her ribs.  He was very drunk.  “I said old Penari and your precious Talisman couldn’t pull it off.  You owe me three coppers, Townie.”
Patches moved her mug out of his reach.  “Not yet, Denish, and watch where you put your damned hands.  Is that blood on your shirt?”
He started back, showing the whites of his eyes, and jerked shut the lapels of his coat.  “Don’t you know wine stains when you see them?  Then again, when have you ever been able to afford anything but small beer?”
His knife-fighter’s d’hen jacket was royal blue, marking him as one of Men-dalis’s followers.  Many more were at the Moon that night than one would have expected, given their master’s defeat.  That was another strange thing, along with Men-dalis’s continued existence:  By now his followers should have melted back into the body of the guild, hoping that their former alliance would be overlooked.  That should hold especially true for Denish, who was one of Men-dalis’s inner circle with a reputation for doing his master’s dirty work.  Why was he so on edge?  What were they all waiting for?
Patches herself anxiously awaited news that Jame and her master Penari had successfully stolen the fabled second Eye of the idol Abarraden.  Penari had snatched the first orb half a century ago, making him even more respected in the guild than the Sirdan his brother, who had chosen politics over craft.  Now, however, Penari was old, and blind.  It was the Talisman’s skill on which Patches had wagered money that she didn’t possess.
Her thoughts slid back to earlier that evening, when she had conveyed Penari’s message to his prentice that he wanted to celebrate her promotion to journeyman.  After nights of nursing the dying dancer Taniscent, Jame had looked exhausted, but shadowed eyes couldn’t hide the fine, attenuated bones of her face or the supernatural grace of her movements.  Perhaps both came of being a Kencyr, one of the few in Tai-tastigon, perhaps in all of Rathillien as far as Patches knew, including that odd New Pantheon god Dalis-sar who was rumored to be not only Kencyr but Men-dalis’s father and whom Dally proudly claimed as his stepfather.  Temple concubines made for some odd family trees.
More than looks and lineage, though, Patches admired the Talisman for her achievements.  Like herself, Jame had started out as an outsider but had won grudging respect for her skill, matched by amusement at her refusal either to lie or to steal anything truly valuable.
An honorable thief.  Who had ever heard of such a thing?
That also had to do with being Kencyr, although Patches didn’t really understand why.
She had warned Jame not to go out that evening, given the unsettled state of the city.  
“One wrong move now and bang!  Guild war. That sort of thing, no one wins."
"Sounds like a good time to go hide under a haystack,” Jame had replied with that wry, twisted smile of hers that seemed so at odds with the clean-cut lines of her face, as if she were at perpetual war with her own destiny. “What about Dally? How is he managing?"
“Wouldn’t know. No one's seen him since the Election. I expect he's holed up in the fortress with his brother.”  
Patches could have said more, but the rest hadn’t seemed important at the time.  Then as now, she was more concerned that, despite her warnings, the Talisman had indeed gone out to meet her master and there at the Crossed Stars one of the Sirdan’s henchmen had challenged Penari to repeat his great feat of so many years ago.
Denish slapped the table, making cups jumps.  Gods, but he was wild tonight, as if desperate for distraction.  “More wine, and bring some for our Talisman’s pet trinket, here.  D’you know how this little Townie got into the Guild in the first place?”
“We all know,” said Raffing, sitting opposite.  “Pipe down, Den.”
Denish ignored him.  “Remember her brother, Scramp?  He challenged the Talisman to steal something important for once and she did: the Peacock Gloves.  Oh, they were nothing compared to the other treasures in the Tower of Demons, but still.  Then what, monkey-face, heh?”
Patches tried not to squirm, either at the history lesson or at the reference to her own unfortunate features.  “My brother accused her of lying.  They fought.  He lost.”
“And his master disowned him.  And he hanged himself.”
“And the Talisman gave Patches the gloves to buy her way into the Guild,” Raffing finished impatiently.  “So what?”
“So how does it feel to owe everything to your brother’s murderer?”
Patches glowered into her drink rather than meet his challenging leer.  Murderer be damned.  As far as she was concerned, Scramp had played the fool from beginning to end.
A young prentice burst into the tavern, wildly excited.  “They did it, they did it!” he crowed.  “The Eye is taken!  And guess what?  All this fuss and it turned out to be nothing but glass after all!”
Patches relaxed, relieved.  She had wondered how Jame was going to get around her self-imposed restriction only to steal things of little or no value.
“Seems you owe Patches three coppers after all,” said Raffing with a grin.
“What?”  Denish hardly appeared to be listening, or not at least to anything in the tavern.  “Don’t be daft.  You heard the boy:  the Eye was worthless.”
“But not the skill that it took to steal it.”
“Never mind,” said Patches as Denish lurched to his feet.
Other thieves had also risen and were craning to listen to an approaching uproar in the street.  Denish bulled his way out the door of the Moon.
“What d’you mean, ‘never mind’?” Raffing hissed under cover of the growing commotion.  “I know how empty your pockets are.”
“Do you?”
She drew out two coppers, a clipped silver coin, and something that flashed gold.  Raffish gaped.  “You picked his purse!  But how?  Everyone knows that he carries his valuables in a sealed inner pocket.”
What no one know, not even Jame, was that Patches had the knack of reaching through things to take what she wanted.  Mere fabric, even reinforced with metal mesh, was no obstacle.  It was only a knack, though, not something of which she was particularly proud, compared to genuine skill.  Mostly what she stole automatically became the property of her master, but surely he wouldn’t begrudge her such small pickings as these.
She examined the gold item.  It was a button with a monogram inscribed on it.  Being illiterate, Patches didn’t know what the latter meant, but it did look familiar.  She also noted dark specks on it like splashes of dried wine … or blood. 
“The Square!” someone outside shouted.  “The Mercy Seat! Gods, come and see!”  The tavern emptied out.  Her curiosity piqued at last, Patches rose to follow.

II

The crowd swept her up and hurtled her toward the Judgment Square at Tai-tastigon’s center.  Nearly there, she met a figure in a cream velvet d’hen walking blindly back against the flood.  It was Darinby, one of Jame’s few friends among the Guild’s upper ranks.  The mob thrust Patches into his arms.
“What’s happening?” she gasped, clinging to him. 
He looked down at her without focusing
“Go back,” he said.  “I told Jame as much but she wouldn’t listen.  Don’t follow her.”
Then the crowd pulled them apart.
Go back?  Not if the Talisman had gone before her.  Patches pressed on.
Here was the great square, surging with people.  Every thief in the city seemed to be there, in Men-dalis’s royal blue or the Sirdan’s austere black.  The Mercy Seat loomed at its center, occupied.
Steal a peach, steal a plum, see to what your carcase comes …
 Patches wriggled through the mob, for once glad of her stunted, wiry stature.  By common accord, all had left an open space around the seat, and in front of it knelt the Talisman, bent over, retching.  
Oh, that terrible figure lolling on the stone chair, that busy buzz of flies.  Dally appeared to be clothed in a garment of black and white diamonds -- where his skin was, where it was not, the margins blurred with a seething coat of flies.  Only his face remained unmarked, as if to make the rest more unbearable.  Spread over the chair’s back was his royal blue coat.  Gold monogrammed buttons glittered down its front, all except where one was missing at the throat.
“This is Bane’s doing!” howled a voice in the crowd.  Patches recognizes Denish’s cracked bellow, taken up by many more.  “The Sirdan’s journeyman has done this!”
Those in black drew back, confused, appalled.  Those in blue surged forward.   
“This is war!”
Patches wretched her eyes from that terrible figure, that handsome, easy going boy of whom (admit it) she had been so jealous.
“Storm the Guild Palace!  Make Bane and his master pay!”
“But that’s not right,” she thought. “I have to tell Jame.”  
The space around the chair flooded with people.  Jame had disappeared.  No, there she was, pushing her way through Theocandi’s stunned followers, Men-dalis’s men roaring on her heels.  If she was bound for the Palace, she would never make it before the mob.  On the edge of the crowd, however, she burst free, flung herself at a wall, and began to climb.  A figure rose above the ramparts to strike her down, then instead grabbed her arm to help her up.  Patches remembered that Jame had friends among the roof-top dwelling Cloudies.  
She would have followed, but the crowd swept her on, half the time off of her feet altogether.  
They were in Fleshshambles Street now among the butchers’ closed shops.  Ahead, cresting the River Tone, rose the prow of Ship Island where the Thieves’ Guild Palace resided.
Someone grabbed Patches’ bare wrist and twisted her around.  Denish shook her.  His eyes were blood shot and his breath stank like a slaughter house.  
“What did you do with it, brat?  Oh, I felt you rubbing up against me like a bitch in heat, and now it’s gone.  Where is that button?”
She tried to pull free but he was too strong.  Her shoulder creaked, about to dislocate.  Over his head she saw one of the statues that lined the street’s rooftops – a giant stone bull.  Cloudies were busy chipping at its moorings.  Jame must have asked them for a diversion to slow the mob.  The bull stiffly tipped the six foot span of its horns toward the street below.
“Denish, look out …”
Too late.  Here it came with a deadly rush, blotting out the moon.  People in its shadow looked up and screamed, but they were too tightly packed to retreat.  It shattered into the pavement, flinging lethal stone missiles.  Patches fell, throwing an arm over her face, sure she was about to be smashed to red ruin.
Some time later she woke sick and dizzy, on top of a bed of sharp debris.  All around her people groaned or screamed or lay all too still.  Denish’s hand still gripped her wrist, but it was no longer attached to his body.  That lay smashed under the bulk of the stone bull while his blood leaked out between the cobbles.  
Down the street, she saw the prow of Ship Island backlit with flames.  The palace was burning,
Thal’s balls, how long had she been unconscious?  Long enough for the street to fill with black jacketed figures instead of blue, but they too were howling:
“The Sirdan is dead!  The Talisman has killed him!  You, girl, where has she gone?”  
Hands grabbed her jacket and jerked her to her feet.  Oh, her head!  Could she possibly have phased through the flying debris as she had earlier through Denish’s pocket?  Flesh to flesh as in Denish’s grip she had been helpless, but otherwise …  
Ah, save that thought for later.
Jame, to have assassinated the Sirdan, though?  She might, to avenge Dally, but surely not without knowing all the facts.  It was her fault that Jame didn’t.
“Let me go!”
She twisted in the grip of her captors and suddenly was free despite their startled shouts.  Where would Jame have gone?  Quick, lead them in what she hoped was the opposite direction, back into the maze of streets.  Let them follow if they could.

III

They chased her westward though the labyrinthine city, up lane and down alley, past shuttered shop windows and under narrow, leaning houses.  She knew Tai-tastigon better after Jame’s tutelage than most of its inhabitants did, but not as well as the Talisman herself, which is why Patches suddenly found herself in a dead end before a locked door.  Hunting cries echoed behind her.  She could tell that this time, in their frustration, they were out for blood.  When she pounded on the door, however, no one answered.  
What would the Talisman have done?  Climbed the wall?  Picked the lock?  Turned and fought?  But she was only the Talisman’s Trinket, not the Talisman herself.  
All right.  Now or never to test what had happened when the stone bull had failed to crush her.  Patches screwed her eyes shut and pushed at the door.  Her hands first meet resistance, then one of them slipped through.  Wood clamped over her sleeve like a vise.  She fumbled desperately inside, feeling the lock, twisting it.  The door swung open, taking her with it. The house’s occupants huddled against the far wall, staring at her wide eyed.
“Help,” she said, but they didn’t move.
Bracing herself, she pulled at her trapped hand.  It slid backward up into the bunched sleeve, then into the room with the rip of cloth, leaving half of the coat trapped in the door.  Mother was going to be furious, or at least as much so as she ever got.
Patches slammed and locked the door, leaving a neat, fabric fringed hole in the middle of it.
 “Sorry,” she gasped at inmates.  “Just passing through.”  
Fists pounded on the outer panels and fingers groped through the hole.  The family were piling furniture against the door as Patches staggered out the front of the house.
She was back on the edge of the now empty Square.  No, not quite empty:  someone different sat on the Mercy Seat.  What was this, some cruel game of musical chairs?
Although taller and older than she, Dally had seemed small there, like an abandoned, broken doll.  He who occupied the stone chair now lounged like a tattered king.  They hadn’t stripped off his black d’hen, but it had been cut to fluttering ribbons.  The skin beneath glistened with the blood that still flowed sluggishly from too many wounds to count.  From there it trickled down to pool on the flagstones.  While the flies still buzzed over it in a swirling cloud, however, none landed to touch.
A white face framed in black hair turned toward her and smiled, horribly.  For a moment she thought that it was Jame.  Although the lines of the cheekbones and jaw were familiar, they were also heavier.  Oh gods.  Bane.
He laughed, a terrible, wheezing sound.  “Are you amused, little thief?  Was it your friends who did this to me?”
Patches gulped.  “Not mine.  Not the Talisman’s.  How many?”
“Two dozen.  Three.  None stuck less than once, some many times.  Of all the children with whom I have played, that I should die for one who never felt my touch …”
“You didn’t flay Dally?”
He snorted.  Blood trickled out of his nostrils.  “Of course not.  Jame would have killed me.  What she saw in that pretty poppet, though … innocence, perhaps.  Dally never hurt anyone except once, when a little thiefling tried to assassinate his precious brother.”
Patches remembered Dally’s face and voice the last time he had visited Jame after the election, when she had spied on them.
“I never killed anyone before,” he had said, looking sick.  “I didn’t like it.”
At the time, she had thought him weak and whining.
Bane’s silvery eyes slid sideways toward her and his mouth twisted. “Yes, innocence.  Such a heady lure.  Are you innocent too, little hobgoblin?  Yes, I can smell it on you despite your blood, like Dally, like Jame, although her state is more complex.  Innocent but not ignorant, oh yes.”  He laughed again, weakly, wheezing from punctured lungs. “Not so I, ignorant but not innocent, the worst of both worlds.”
Despite herself, Patches drew nearer.  After the attentions of Men-dalis’s followers, the man was clearly a sieve all but drained of blood.  “Why aren’t you dead?”
“A Kencyr dies hard.  One without his soul dies hardest of all.”
She hadn’t known that he was Kencyr although perhaps she should have guessed.  He and Jame really were much alike in their dark glamour.  As for his soul, she could see that for herself now that she looked, for even in that moon-bright square he cast no shadow.
“Honor,” he groaned.  “Honor is all.  Seven years ago I gave my soul in trust to the Kencyr priest Ishtier to preserve it.  He has it still and while he does, I can not die.  Tell him, little thief.  Tell him to let it go and me with it.”
Patches thought of her six younger siblings – none of them to Bane’s taste, perhaps, but he had flayed many more alive before the Talisman’s purity had caught his interest.  He was a monster who deserved worse than this, and yet … and yet …
“Jame loves you,” she blurted out, hearing her own resentment.
He laughed, a horrible, wet, tearing sound.  “Close.”
“All right.  She hates you.”
“Closer.  We are of one blood, she and I.  Help me or not, then, but if so, do it for her sake and your own.  They will be after her and all of her friends now to serve as scapegoats for the Sirdan’s death.”
A tremor ran through the air, through the ground.  Buildings swayed.  Farther away, some fell.  With a grinding as if of teeth, a crack edged out into the square.
 Patches had been thrown to her knees on the flags.  “What is it?” she gasped.  
“Can’t you feel it?  At last someone has really annoyed our Talisman.” 
To the north, toward the Temple District, lights bloomed out of the dense, crazy quilt of streets followed by more concussions and a chorus of strange, discordant cries.  The crack grated closer, as if something were prying open the flags’ stony lips.
Patches felt her brain swell against the walls of her skull.  So much power ….
She lurched to her feet.  “This has something to do with the Talisman, all right.  The weirdest shit always does.  But what and why?”
He was panting now, straining more to die than to live.  “Shall I … tell you … a story?  The Sirdan sent me to steal … a certain Book Bound in Pale Leather … from Jame.  I did.  It probably killed him.  I assume that now she has given it to that fool Ishtier …”
“Why?  She hates him!”
“Because her friend Marc caught her in the temple of Abarraden … but let her go … when he realized who she was.  He thinks … he has forsworn his oath as a guard and so … has lost his honor.  The only way … to get it back is through … an honorable death.  So he has put himself into Ishtier’s hands.”
“But the Eye is only glass.  The period of jeopardy for any thief will be over by now.  He’s as safe as the Talisman is.”
“Ishtier won’t care about that.  He only lusts … after power.”
The ground shuddered again.  Orange light flooded out between the surrounding houses and moved, casting brilliant, flickering bars, down an adjacent street.  It was headed southward, toward the Lower Town.  All in its wake burned.
“My family …!”
“Go … to them.  I am … dead meat.  I hope.”
As she reached the edge of the square, Patches looked back.  With a mighty gnashing of stone teeth, the crack had reached its center, and swallowed the Mercy Seat whole.
As she ran, the city came alive around her.  Strange shadows flitted from eave to eave.  Lights burst from cracks.  Monstrous forms lurched around corners, and fled when they saw her.  Some gave chase for a block or two wailing “Worship me, worship me!”  Others huddled in corners chittering in terror.  It was clear to her what had happened:  With that burst of power, all the gods had outgrown their temples and were finding themselves, for the first time in their immortal lives, cast out on the streets.
Patches kept pace with the blazing light, one street over.  Seen directly as it passed intersections, it dazzled the eyes, but glimpsed askance it resolved itself into giant, fiery wheels rolling on and on.  Dally had once taken her and Jame to meet his divine step-father.  Not that one could see much in the temple because of the light – all the priests there had long since been stricken blind – but she now recognized Dalis-sar’s sun chariot. More and more, the current situation seemed to relate to the Kencyr, if not entirely:  following the chariot came a small, dark cloud and in it a hopping green form:  Gorgo, formerly the Lugubrious, bringing with him his own miniature rain storm to quench the terrible fire that went before him.
Seeing where they were, Patches sprinted ahead.  North of the Lower Town lay the ring of desolation that surrounded the Kencyr temple, oldest and most shunned in the city.  Given its effects on the neighboring architecture, most of which had been reduced to rubble, no wonder the formal Temple district had chosen to establish itself somewhere else.  
Waves of power emanated from it, causing dust to ripple on the road and Patches’ short hair to bristle like a hedgehog’s.  She could sense that this was the epicenter of the recent earthquake and the subsequent untempling of the gods.  No doubt the Talisman had had something to do with that too.  The image rose in her mind of Jame dancing at the Res AB’tyrr, all but seducing her audience and controlling the complex emotions that she herself provoked.  Tonight must have been a mighty dance indeed, to channel the power of a god.
There was the temple, tall, black, stark, more like a work of nature than of man.  Its door opened and Jame emerged.  She ran toward Patches – no, toward the corner around which Dalis-sar’s flames were just beginning to lick.
Patches waved her arms.  “No!” she tried to shout, and heard her voice emerge in a dust-choked croak.  “Stop!”
Here came the fiery chariot, and all around it everything burned.
Jame’s voice soared over the holocaust:  “Bane!  It’s name is Bane!”
The blazing wheels rolled past, leaving a huddled figure in its wake.  A big man, Marc, knelt beside the Talisman beating out the flames that Gorgo’s rain had failed to extinguish.  
Patches wanted to go to her, not to see if she was all right – in the end, Jame always was – but just to say hello, or good-bye, or thank you.  Whatever else happened, she had the aching sense that this was the Talisman’s last night in Tai-tastigon.
Marc helped Jame up.  They were going.  Time Patches was gone too, after the flaming warrior, toward the ruins of the Lower Town where her family awaited her, by the shortest route possible.

IV
Once the Lower Town had been like any other district of the city, if poorer than most.  Patches remembered the shabby, bustling streets, the cries of peddlers, workmen, and mothers gathering in their broods for the evening meal.  That was before the Lower Town Monster had come to hunt the midnight lanes, to follow the stifled cries of children as they hid beneath their covers.  Had that only been seven years ago?  Scramp had already run away, eventually to worm his way into the Thieves’ Guild.  He had never come back.  Patches did whenever she could, bringing whatever trifles her master allowed her to keep to trade for food or sometimes for a toy, with which her six younger sibling solemnly played, each in turn.
There was the house now, the last one occupied on its particular street.
“Ma!” she called, opening the door into a dark room.
Steel struck flint and a candle flared.
Half a dozen men in royal blue d’hens waited for her.
Too late to run.  Besides, there were her brothers and sisters lined up against the back wall, so alike in their wizened features that only age and height served to distinguish them.  She could have joined the head of that line without breaking it.  Her mother stood before them, expressionless as usual, her hands clasped tightly in front of her spotless apron, her silver wedding ring glimmering in the half-light.
“What do you want?” Patches demanded, trying not to squeak.
“Need you ask?”  The man with the flint tucked it back into his pocket.  She recognized him as one of Men-dalis’s intelligence agents, Senci by name.  “Why, the Talisman, of course.  Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Patches lied, or was it the truth?  She had no definite idea where Jame had gone, but she could guess.  Surely these men could too.  Even now, were others of their number visiting the Res AB’tyrr?  “I know why Theocandi’s folk are after her, but why are you?”
“And they said that you were clever.  The Talisman’s Trinket indeed.  We can’t have people assassinating our guild lords, now, can we?  As the new Sirdan, m’lord Men-dalis takes a dim view of such a precedent.”
Patches unobtrusively signaled to her siblings.  They left the wall, each to choose a man and to stand staring up at him with wide, blank eyes.  The thieves seemed to find this disconcerting, especially the one faced with the baby, who sat on his foot and wrapped its arms around his leg.
“Get off,” he hissed at it, but subsided, embarrassed, as the others turned, briefly, to regard him.
Patches returned to Senci.  “Has there been a new election?”
“We needn’t bother with that.  Who else is there, after all, to fill the office?  There will be time, when things settle down, to revisit such niceties.”
Patches felt oddly disconcerted.  She hadn’t chosen a side in the past election anymore than Jame had, neither of them having seen any reason to favor one candidate over the other.   For her, politics had always been someone else’s business.  To be excluded from them altogether, though ….
“You want to distract the guild,” she said.  “Bane was right:  You want a scapegoat.”
Just then the door creaked open, making everyone start.  The figure on the threshold was black-robed and small, but instantly recognizable as Men-dalis’s master spy, the Creeper.
“It’s coming,” he said in his hoarse whisper.
Senci rose, knocking over his chair.  The others stirred and murmured uneasily.  “Er … what’s coming?” asked one.
Patches moved to stand by her mother.  She found that her knees were shaking.  “If you lived in the Lower Town, you would know.”
“Oh.  That.  Er … run?”
As children dodged out of their way, the intruders scrambled out the door, Senci first among them. 
Patches found herself standing on the threshold beside the Creeper.  Only children need fear the Lower Town Monster, she told herself, and she was no longer a child; but her siblings were.  She closed the door.  Inside, a bar dropped across the frame and the light went out.
The street stretched north and south before her, lined with abandoned, decaying houses, washed with silvery moonlight.  Patches felt her heart pounding in her throat.  The Monster had been the bogeyman of her childhood.  
“If you don’t behave,” mothers had warned their babies for generations, “it will come and gobble up your soul.”
That had only been a story when she was younger, but then children had started to disappear – more and more of them – until the Lower Tower was a ghost quarter.  And still Patches had never seen the thing itself.
She did now.  It crawled toward her down the street like a prone shadow.  Long, tenebrous fingers  groped ahead of it, catching in the cracks between the cobblestones, pulling it forward.  Others probed in passing at shuttered windows and traced the edges of barred doors.  It seemed to lie flat to the ground until it raised its head.  Black, featureless, unearthly, it fixed its attention on Patches.  Maybe she wasn’t as grown up as she had thought.  It crept toward her, and the stones limned with frost at its touch. Patches cringed back against the door.  If she pounded on it now, would her mother let her in?  No, not with six other offspring to protect. 
Then it hesitated.
Light flared behind it as fiery wheels rolled around the corner.  It sank into a black pool and waited. On came Dalis-sar’s chariot, in a storm of flame and swirling ash.  Tongues of fire leaped from roof to roof as it advanced until the very air seemed to burn.  The wheels reached the shadow and sank into it between cobblestones which shattered at the sudden change of temperature.  The charioteer bellowed with rage.  His flaming whip lashed at the shadows that crept up the sides of his vehicle, lacing them with frost.  
“To kill a demon,” the Creeper whispered in Patches’ ear, “you need fire, water, and its true name.”
Who or what was the Lower Town Monster? If a demon, that implied a detached soul, one who preyed on children.  What predator had lost his soul some seven years ago?
Patches found herself running toward the struggling chaos of fire and shadow.  “It’s name is Bane!” she shouted at the charioteer, as Jame had before her.  “Bane!”
The shadows were melting.  Back they sank between the stones, into the ground, with the ghost of a wail.  In their wake, everything burned, and then came rain.  Gorgo hopped about the street in a victory dance, little claps of thunder and lightning clashing over his green head, sizzling on the flaming wheels, on the shoulders of the man who stood on the smoldering platform, drooping with fatigue.
“Well done, little sister,” he said to Patches with a tired smile, then faded into a shining ghost, into a memory. Moonlight flooded the broken street in his wake.
Patches could feel it:  all over the city, the gods were shrinking as they expended their power enough to fit back into their temples.  Most went with profound relief.  
The Creeper touched her shoulder.  She recoiled from him.  Half seen in the shadow of his hood, his face was as prematurely wrinkled as her own, his stature as dwarfish.  And he stank, like bad dreams and old blood.
Here was the true bogeyman, Patches thought, Dalis-sar’s shadow and dark genius.  Would anything that had happened tonight have happened without him?  But it was partly her fault too. 
“I didn’t tell Jame that I saw you and Men-dalis meet Dally the night of the election and take him away.  I didn’t lie to her, but I didn’t tell her the whole truth either.”
“Daughter …”
“Leave me alone!  I thought, ’Good:  He’s going back to the fortress, to his own kind.’  She was too good for him anyway.  I thought you would keep him safe.  But you didn’t.  You killed him in Bane’s style to start a guild war.  Why, damn you?”
“We caught him sneaking back from her.  Men-dalis believed that his brother had betrayed him to Theocandi through her and so lost him the election.”
“Because you told him so!  I didn’t like Dally, but he was never disloyal.  And Jame couldn’t care less about politics.  You’re the Creeper, the spy masters’ master.  You know that.  You just wanted a war to overthrow the election, didn’t you?”
The hooded shoulders shrugged.
“All politics are war.  All wars have casualties.”  
#

“Dally, Bane, Theocandi, even Jame if you can catch her.   Well, she’s too good for you too, you … you filthy bogle!”
And she punched him in the nose.
Or tried to.
Her fist sank into the cowl and tangled there in fusty cloth.  The cloak clung to her fold on fold as if it were trying to swallow her.  In it she felt something small, round, and hard.  Without thinking, she grabbed it.  The cloak flew up in her face, over her head, but she fought it off.  In an instant, it withdrew and fled, again draping a dwarfish form, down the street and away.
Patches looked at what she had seized.  It was a plain silver ring, identical to her mother’s.

V

At the Res AB’tyrr she found six thieves’ guildsmen, all unconscious, and Marc’s fellow guard, Sart Nine-toes.
“Came looking for the lass, they did,” he explained, cracking his knuckles. “I settled for them … well, we did.”
The Widow Cleppetania put down the frying pan she had snatched up on Patches’s precipitous entrance.  The rest of the inn’s servants peered cautiously out of the kitchen, as if unsure where cutlery would be flying next.  
“If you’re looking for them too,” she said, “they’ve gone.  The city being what it is tonight and is likely to be in the foreseeable future, it seemed wisest.”
Patches hopped from foot to foot.  All night she had been a step behind Jame.  “Gone where?”
“Out the western gate, bound to cross the Ebonbane for the Central Lands.  Jame said something about going home.”
“But the high passes aren’t open yet!”
“Try telling her that, and yet they’ll probably be safer there than here.”
Patches had to admit that Cleppetty was right as she scurried through the streets toward the western gate.  Even this far from the temple district, fires still burned and shadows slunk from cover to cover.  A wall hiccupped, having swallowed the adjacent house.  The fin of a leviathan surfaced in a puddle.
As for the thieves, they would be out in force as soon as they realized that the Sirdan’s supposed assassin had left her usual haunts.  Would Men-dalis be able to keep the power that he had seized?  Might it even be better if he did?  The city tottered on the edge of chaos.  A strong hand might bring it back into balance – but the hand of a liar and a fratricide?  Was this what the Creeper had meant by politics?  Whatever happened, things would never be the same again.
Here was the western gate, standing open.  Patches stopped on the threshold, panting and holding a savage stitch in her side.  The road to the mountains stretched out before her like a silken ribbon.  Not so far down it walked three figures, one very tall, one very short:  Marc, Jame’s hunting cat Jorin, and between them, Jame herself.
Patches almost called out to them.  They would hear.  They could still turn and come back.  But her voice caught in her throat.
… going home …
Jame had only, ever, been passing through.  Her fate lay ahead, down the path that she had begun to trod tonight.
Patches’ home lay behind her, scarred as it was with fire, shadow, and boiling strife.  That was the Talisman’s legacy, whatever she had meant, and it was the Trinket’s fate to cope with the mess that her mentor had left behind.
So it was.  So it must be.
Patches stood watching until the three were beyond earshot, until she could hardly tell which was which.
“Good-bye,” she breathed at last, and turned to face her inheritance. 

Murder at Ford’s Theater

Bob Conroy

Good Friday, 1865

Jerry Carney was fascinated by the theater. Life there was colorful, brash, and bold—everything that life at home with his widowed mother wasn’t. She was stern and unforgiving. She incorrectly imagined she saw too much of her hard-drinking and wife-beating late husband in her only son. Worse, she fervently believed that anyone connected to the theater was also connected to Satan and likely going straight to hell. She had, of course, forbidden him from going anywhere near Ford’s Theater. Jerry, of course, disobeyed her at each and every opportunity.
At thirteen, he was becoming fascinated by the actresses, many of whom were heavily made up, and far more open and friendly than any of the older women he knew. He defined older as anyone born before he’d been. That the women had noticeable breasts and hips was also intriguing and sometimes caused embarrassing changes to his body that he tried to hide. 
This evening he’d slipped out his bedroom window while his mother, who’d just come home from a day of cleaning other peoples’ houses, was next door complaining to her neighbors about her miserable life. Jerry felt he was owed some free time after spending so much of the day at church and listening to the priests chant and wail in Latin. They said that Latin was a dead language and, in Jerry’s opinion, it deserved to die.
Mom would kill him if she ever found out that he’d gone to Ford’s Theater on Good Friday, but what the hell, he figured. She’d also beat him if she heard him swear like that, but it was what so many adults said, so how could it be wrong?
 He arrived at Ford’s Theater early in the evening. As always, the theater was almost full. Gaily dressed women and men in blue Union Army uniforms were everywhere, along with a number of prosperous looking civilians who’d probably made a fortune in war contracts. Ford’s was the finest theater in Washington, D.C., and the play was a comedy entitled “Our American Cousin,” with Harry Hawk playing the lead. 
There was a feeling of jubilation in the air. After all, hadn’t Robert E. Lee surrendered the forces under his command, the vaunted Army of Northern Virginia? And there were rumors that the other, smaller, Confederate armies were going to lay down their arms as well. Peace was at hand. Jerry had mixed emotions about that. He didn’t want to see people die, and some older friends had fallen in battle, but he also wanted a shot at the glory that came with being a warrior.
Boys only a few years older than he had gone off to war, and some of them, he thought ruefully, hadn’t come back, or, if they had, they’d been somehow changed. What puzzled him was that they wouldn’t talk about it. Could it have been that awful? He desperately wanted to find out.
He walked backstage. Nobody stopped him; they were too used to his presence. Some of the actors actually said hello, which made him brim with pride. One of the younger actresses patted him on the head and he felt a warm feeling go through his body. Warm feelings like that were happening a lot lately. He guessed it again had something to do with growing up. Too bad there was nobody he could ask. His mother was one of those devout Catholics who thought that anything to do with sex was a sin, and his friends would just give him a smart-aleck answer.
His buddy, Pete Hayes, was waiting for him. Pete was a couple of years older and thought he knew everything, which was sometimes very annoying. 
“Guess who’s going to be here tonight?”
“I heard rumors that it might be Lincoln,” Jerry said.
“Yep, and General Grant’s gonna be with him.”
“Jesus,” said Jerry, swearing again. 
He’d seen Abraham Lincoln on several occasions, but never General Grant. After being appointed to command the Union armies, the general hadn’t spent all that much time in the nation’s capital. Grant was a national hero. He was the man who’d defeated Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia and captured Richmond. Jerry would be thrilled to see Grant. He would brave his mother’s considerable wrath by hanging around until he did. Maybe he would even have a chance to meet the great man.
Lincoln and his guests were not scheduled to arrive until later and would take their seats in a box overlooking the main floor of the theater. Jerry cautiously walked upstairs in order to get by the security guard, a former policeman named John Frederick Parker. This usually wasn’t much of a problem since Parker was generally drunk. However, he was a big, burly, and nasty drunk and he’d taken swipes at Jerry and others when they got too close to him.
This night Parker was nowhere to be seen, which Jerry thought was unusual. After all, his job was to keep people from barging in on the Lincolns and interrupting their evening. How could he do that if he was across the street swilling beer? Maybe he’d be back in a few minutes.
Jerry was on his way up the stairs when Pete grabbed his arm, “Bad news, Jerry. Grant ain’t coming. Lincoln’s gonna be with someone named Rathbun and his fiancé, a woman named Clara Harris.”
Damn, thought Jerry and he decided it wasn’t worth sitting in a hallway waiting for someone he’d seen before, even if he was the president. He’d also seen Clara Harris before. She was a senator’s daughter, aloof, and quite buxomly. She’d caught him staring at her breasts once and had glared at him until he’d turned away. 
Disappointed, he went downstairs and just watched the play from backstage, occasionally wandering out front to see if anything interesting was happening. When they got tired, he and Pete sat on the floor and rested their backs against the wall. Jerry was beginning to wonder if the trip to the theater was going to justify all the problems he was going to have with his mother when he finally got home. There was very little likelihood that he could sneak in without her seeing him. Hell, he thought, she probably already knew he was gone. Thankfully, she would never come to the theater looking for him. That would be entering Satan’s domain.
“Hey,” said Pete, “isn’t that Booth?”
Jerry agreed that it was John Wilkes Booth, one of the preeminent actors of the day. Jerry didn’t try to say hello. Booth had a reputation for being stuck up and rude to those he felt were normal mortals. This evening, Booth looked even more out of sorts than usual. He was nervous and seemed to be sweating. He looked around quickly, his eyes glancing over both Jerry and Pete, and quickly dismissing them.
Booth turned and quickly went upstairs. “He’s heading for Lincoln’s box,” said Pete. “I wonder if he was invited as well those other two?”
Jerry laughed. “If he wasn’t, he’ll have a hard time getting past that prick Parker.”
“Don’t worry about that. I saw Parker leave while you were out front looking down women’s dresses. He hasn’t come back yet.”
Jerry stood up and stretched. “I’m going to see if Booth gets in.”
Jerry took the steps and found himself looking at Booth’s back. The actor’s left hand was on the knob and there was something in his right hand. Oh, Jesus, it was a gun. He didn’t know all that much about guns, but even he recognized it as a single shot Derringer. What the heck was Booth doing with a gun? Then it dawned on him.
“Murderer!” Jerry yelled at the top of his voice and Booth wheeled. “Murderer!” he yelled again and was aware of commotion beginning from the main floor below.
Booth screamed and pushed the door open. It took only a second and Jerry was on Booth’s back, punching him. Booth pushed him away like he was a bug and entered the box. Lincoln was standing, a look of shock on his face. Booth fired at the same instant that Lincoln’s strong grip yanked on his arm and propelled him over the railing and onto the theatergoers below. 
There was pandemonium. Major Rathbun had also fallen over the rail while attempting to grab Booth and Clara Harris was screaming wildly. Men and women were yelling and trying to leave the theater. A stampede was starting. Jerry entered the box and leaned over. Booth lay across some chairs. His back was twisted and contorted. Rathbun had landed on his head and there was blood all over the place. Jerry thought he was going to be sick, but he gathered himself.
“He tried to kill Lincoln,” Jerry yelled and pointed at the unmoving Booth.
	Booth was still alive and again he screamed his anger and frustration. He howled but his body didn’t move. His back was broken.
Sickened by the sight, Jerry turned away and looked at Lincoln. The president was pale with shock and looking at his wife. Her eyes were wide open and there was a bloody hole in the middle of her forehead. Booth had missed Abraham Lincoln but had murdered Mary Todd Lincoln.

#

Jerry Carney sat on a bench in the park that was directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from what many people called the White House. The president’s house was ringed with blue-coated Union soldiers. All were looking outward for attackers. There would not be another chance for Southern assassins to murder Abraham Lincoln.
Some of the soldiers recognized him; they knew him as the boy who’d saved Lincoln’s life by screaming and jumping on John Wilkes Booth’s back. He always smiled when someone said that. That evening had changed his life in so many ways. For one thing, he no longer wanted anything to do with the theater. That life now seemed shallow and artificial. He’d gotten his name in the papers and had met both Lincoln and Grant. He was shocked to realize that he had grown to where he was almost as tall as the Union general. Congress had voted him a medal that was in his bedroom at home where his mother no longer gave him a hard time about much of anything. In fact, they’d made up a truce—he wouldn’t go to the theater if she didn’t push him to go to church. Given his current attitude about the theater, he was the big winner.
A senator from Pennsylvania wanted to be his sponsor so he could go to West Point, and that seemed like a very good idea. When told there might be an issue with residency, the senator had said not to worry about it. Even though Jerry had seen the horror of violent death up close, he still wanted to be a soldier and the idea of a free education intrigued both him and his mother. He knew he had to get better at math and had already begun studying.
A squad of soldiers marched across the White House lawn. Jerry wondered what was going on inside. Only a few weeks ago, it was quite easy to get into the White House. Long lines of job and contract seekers, parents of soldiers, and many others were granted access to both the president’s house and the president. Not any longer. The place was a fortress. Abraham Lincoln had become a remote presence.
Everybody said the war was over, but there was still fighting, especially west of the Mississippi—and everyone wondered just what Abe Lincoln was going to do about it. Hell, Jerry thought, the war might still be going by the time he became a lieutenant. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the horror that Mary Lincoln’s face had become thanks to John Wilkes Booth.

#

Abraham Lincoln sat in his rocking chair and looked at the bed that he and Mary had once shared. Many people had ridiculed her. She was too short and too plump for him, they said, or maybe he was too tall for her, causing the couple to look ridiculous. Then her enemies said that she had too many relatives in the Confederacy to be a loyal American. They also said that she was profligate with Lincoln’s money, buying numerous pairs of gloves and other unnecessary paraphernalia. She was always exceeding whatever budget she had.
	It was also said that she’d entered into some questionable business dealings, mainly the selling of political favors in return for the forgiveness of her debts. Mary Todd Lincoln had not been a particularly good president’s wife, except for one thing.
	He loved her.
	Abraham Lincoln sat in the rocker and let the darkness take over and the endless tears pour down his cheeks. He’d suffered from bouts of what some people called the “hypo,” which some said was short for hypochondria. People who didn’t understand mental illness had a hard time believing it really existed.
	But Lincoln knew. It was an animal that had taken control of him in the past and it was in total control now. The beast within his soul wanted to be fed and he would feed it with unbridled hatred. Once he had held to the idea of a peaceful reconciliation with the Confederate states, but no longer. They had killed Mary and they would pay. The Southern states would scream in pain. The North would take reparations from them and leave them destitute for a hundred years. The men and women of the South would live as serfs. They had killed Mary and deserved it.
Booth was the first to hang. His limp and unresisting crippled body had to be carried to the scaffold. He’d howled and cursed when his head had been covered, but he’d stopped quickly when the latch had been sprung. Lincoln had enjoyed that. He hadn’t stayed to watch the others swing. They hadn’t killed Mary. Booth had. And so had the Confederacy.
But now to the South’s barren future. Lee and the other military leaders would not be executed. Instead, they would spend the rest of their lives in prison, probably in dank and unhealthy Fortress Monroe, or perhaps the military prison at Alcatraz in San Francisco Bay. He laughed harshly. That would keep them out of the way. 
Jefferson Davis would be tried for treason along with his key cabinet leaders and most of them would be hanged. Davis had tried to defend himself by saying that he’d known nothing about Booth’s plans, but that was plainly inconceivable. John Wilkes Booth had been Davis’s man. 
Some were saying that the South would rise again and the new rebellion would be most terrible. Let them try. They would not succeed, at least not in his lifetime. Not in the lifetimes of his great-grandchildren.
Sometimes Clara Harris would visit him, but he discouraged it. Her fiancé had also died that terrible Good Friday and she was lonely. Maybe someday he could open his soul to someone else and maybe it would be Clara Harris, but not this day. He hunched forward, an action that someone said made his craggy visage look more like that of a predator.
Yes, he thought, a predator, and the people of the South are my prey. I will be the terrible swift sword of justice.

Author's Note: In our timeline, Major Rathbun was badly wounded by Booth after he killed Lincoln. After recovery, he and Clara Harris were married. A number of years later, an increasingly moody and despondent Rathbun murdered Clara.

	Pawn to King Four

by

Timothy Zahn

The night patrol had been pretty uneventful, Badger Werle thought as he and Dillon de Portola drove along one of the dirt tracks that passed for roads out here in the upper reaches of DeVegas Province. He and de Portola had cleared out two spine leopard nests, killing five males and scattering the females and young, and had taken out one of the predator way stations that were in many ways more troublesome than the nests themselves.
Still, relatively calm though the night had been, Werle was looking forward to getting back to his small apartment and eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Turning the car onto the main southern road, rolling up his window and opaquing the top to block the sliver of brilliant sunlight peeking over the eastern horizon, he headed toward the province’s capital city of Archway.
“So where did Lorne disappear to, anyway?” de Portola asked suddenly from the passenger seat.
Werle looked over in mild surprise. The other Cobra had been quiet so long that Werle had assumed he’d fallen asleep. “You mean Lorne Broom?” he asked.
“You know a lot of other Lornes?” de Portola asked dryly.
“Well, there’s Lorne Blankenship over in Homer,” Werle said, shifting to a one-handed grip on the steering wheel as he counted off fingers. “There’s also a Lorne Davison in Coby, a Lorne Pomerantz up in Redcliff, a Lorne Chee in East Archway, a Lorent Avery in Brookside—”
“That’s a Lorent, not a Lorne.”
“Yeah, but people goof up his name all the time,” Werle said. “Assuming you’re asking about Lorne Broom, all I know is that Ishikuma said Chintawa called yesterday morning, told him an aircar was on its way, and that Cobra Broom had better be on it when it hit Capitalia again.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Unless your network of spies in Capitalia has a different story?”
De Portola snorted. “If you think two sisters, three cousins, and six nieces and nephews under the age of eight constitute a spy network, you’re sadly mistaken,” he said. “You’re the native son with all the deep dark information sources.”
Werle shook his head. “Sorry. All my gossip webs end at the province’s borders.”
“Yeah, but Chintawa’s call came into the middle of your gossip web,” de Portola countered. “What the hell is that?”
“What the hell is what?” Werle asked, activating his optical enhancers’ light-amplification capabilities and giving the landscape around them a quick scan. Dushan Matavuli’s herds were grazing placidly in the fields to both side of the chain-link barrier fence that ran alongside the road, and he could see no sign of spine leopards or other predators.
“Stop the car,” de Portola said tersely.
“Stopping,” Werle said, glancing at the other as he steered the car off the rounded edge of the pavement. De Portola was staring out his window, his shoulders hunched down as if he was looking at something high in the sky. “What is it?”
“Something coming in from the west,” de Portola said. “Coming in fast.”
Werle leaned over, but couldn’t see anything but more grazing animals. “Like aircar fast?” he asked. Opening his door, he climbed out and frowned up at the western sky.
There were lights up there, all right: two sets, high-altitude and heading their way at a very respectable rate of speed. Resting his forearms on the car’s roof, he shifted his opticals from light-amp to telescopic.
For a couple of seconds the landscape spun dizzily as he centered his gaze on the incoming lights, every small movement of his head multiplied a hundredfold. Then he had the lights, and the view settled down.
They were spaceships. Bigger than even the largest freighters the Troft merchants brought into these regions; much bigger than anything in the Cobra Worlds’ modest four-ship fleet. They weren’t shaped like freighters, either: tall and long, but strangely narrow, like some of the flatfish in the eddy pools at the bottom of Braided Falls.
And unless he was misjudging their vector, they were heading straight toward Archway.
“Behind them,” de Portola said, pointing out his window. “Looks like three small freighters.”
“Make that four,” Werle corrected as he spotted a fourth transport half hidden by one of the others. They were respectably large medium-range freighters, small only in comparison to the three leading ships of the convoy. “Any thoughts about the big ones?”
“Take a look at those short wings they have fore and aft,” de Portola said. “Extra power or fuel nacelles, you think?”
Werle raised his magnification level a notch and tried to center on the forward wing. But the ships’ course was starting to cross their line of sight, and he was unable to make out any detail through the rippling of the slipstream. The convoy shot past a few kilometers ahead of them, still heading east toward the rising sun.
Abruptly, the car’s radio toned the emergency signal. Werle ducked back inside, still watching the convoy through the windshield, as de Portola punched the control. “Patrol Two.”
“Ishikuma,” the Cobra commandant’s taut voice came from the speaker. “What’s your twenty?”
“Half a kilometer south of Coline Trail,” de Portola said. “Listen, we’ve got some incoming ships—”
“Stay there,” Ishikuma cut him off. “No, better—go to ground somewhere. Aventine’s been invaded.”
Werle felt his jaw drop. “Invaded? By who?”
“Trofts,” Ishikuma said tersely. “Don’t yet know who. Until we do, you two stay clear of Archway. Having all our eggs in one—”
Abruptly, the voice cut off.
Werle looked out across the landscape again. In the past minute the Troft ships had dropped sharply in altitude, to the point where he could only get glimpses of them now between the trees. Definitely headed for Archway.
And as he strained his eyes, he thought he saw the faint flicker of reflected laser light.
De Portola saw it, too. “What the hell?” he murmured, sounding stunned. “Did they just—?”
“I don’t know,” Werle said, punching the car’s diagnostic key and scrolling though the screens until he reached the radio section. “The carrier’s still coming in, so they didn’t take out the comm tower. The question is—”
“Right,” de Portola cut him off grimly. “Get ready—here it comes.”
Werle froze, holding his breath and keying in his audio enhancers. Over the roar of the breezes rolling past their car, he heard a faint rumble in the distance through de Portola’s open window.
De Portola gestured, and Werle lowered his audios back to normal level. “Fifty seconds,” de Portola said grimly. “Sixteen and a half kilometers.”
“About that,” Werle confirmed, visualizing the layout of the fields and forests in front of them and the city beyond. Sixteen and a half kilometers put the blast… “They hit the Renking Center,” he breathed, a growing rage and horror twisting into his gut. The Renking Center, Ishikuma, and every other Cobra who would have been inside preparing for their shifts…
“Probably,” de Portola agreed. “But I don’t think they took down the whole building—the place may be falling apart, but it wouldn’t have collapsed that quietly. I’m guessing they just took down the link to the main tower.”
Werle ran the sound of the explosion back through his memory. “Maybe,” he said, feeling a little better. “But why the hell are the Trofts—any Trofts—attacking us?”
“No idea,” de Portola said. “But Ishikuma told us to stay clear of Archway, so that’s what we’re going to do. At least until we’ve figured out what’s going on.”
“Okay, but only until we figure it out,” Werle said, gazing toward the city and trying to think. At least there weren’t any more laser flashes coming from that direction.
Unless the ever-lightening sky was simply hiding the distant reflections. For all he knew, the invaders might be carrying out mass executions right now.
He took a deep breath. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to run the car back to power and go to the aid of his fellow Cobras and the rest of Archway’s citizens. But de Portola was right. Rushing blindly into the unknown wasn’t going to gain anyone anything.
“Don’t worry, I have no interest in sitting this one out, either,” de Portola assured him. “Any ideas?”
 “Well, obviously we can’t stay here,” Werle said, pulling out his comm. “Matavuli’s place is closest—let’s try there first. You said the tower’s still running a signal?”
“Yes,” de Portola said, his voice suddenly odd.
“Great,” Werle said, punching in a number and then tossing the comm into de Portola’s lap. “We’ll try the Ranchers’ Center first—they’re big enough to have their own relay to the tower. I’ll head toward Matavuli’s while you see if they can tell you what’s going on in town.”
“No—wait,” de Portola said, punching the comm’s disconnect button. “We need to think this through.”
“What’s to think through?” Werle demanded as he drove back onto the pavement and leaned on the accelerator. “We’ve got signal. Let’s use it while we can.”
“That’s exactly my point,” de Portola said. “Why didn’t they hit the tower? One good blast would have knocked out half the province’s communications. Do they really not care if we talk to each—? Oh, hell.”
“What?” Werle demanded. He glanced over at de Portola.
Just in time to see the other throw his comm out the window. “Hey!” he said indignantly.
 “Don’t worry, it’ll have company,” de Portola assured him, pulling out his own comm and tossing it out after Werle’s. “Don’t you see? They left the tower going so they can collect and backtrack signals from people outside the city. Ranchers, farmers—”
“And outriders like us,” Werle said, wincing. “Good idea, but a little late.” He pointed through the windshield at a dark sliver that had risen above the trees and was rapidly heading their direction. “I need to concentrate on these potholes. Tell me what that is.”
For a moment the only sound was the rumble of the car’s wheels against the ground. Werle kept his attention on the road, swerving around the potholes, wondering if there were more invading ships on the way. Archway was pretty small, with only ten thousand residents, but even so it really should take more than two warships’ worth of Trofts to beat them down. If there was a second wave, and if it followed the same incoming vector as the first, someone on the ground might be able to ambush them.
He felt his lip twist. An ambush. Right. The only weapons anyone out here had were handguns, rifles, shotguns, and a few lasers designed for hunting and defense against predators. Penetrating the outer hull on even a freighter would be well-nigh impossible, let alone the armor plating of something specifically designed to be shot at.
“It’s a drone,” de Portola reported tightly. “At least, I think it is—it’s too small to have someone inside.”
“Is it armed?” Werle asked.
“I don’t see anything obvious,” de Portola said. “But all the hardware could be recessed or behind doors.”
“Doesn’t matter whether it is or not,” Werle said, coming to a quick decision. “Even if it’s just an observer, we have to knock it out. Once it identifies us we might as well just walk into Archway and turn ourselves in.”
“Wait a second,” de Portola said cautiously. “Are you suggesting we don’t go back to Archway at all? That we stay out here and hide?”
Werle snorted. “No. That we stay out here and fight.”
“Just the two of us?”
“If necessary, yes,” Werle said firmly. “We’re Cobras. That’s what we’re supposed to do.” He squinted out at the rapidly-approaching drone. “Okay, here’s the plan. We lean back so that whatever cameras it has aboard can’t get a good look at our faces. When it gets close enough, I’ll spin the car around to the left, and you stick your leg out the window and lase the damn thing. How does that sound?”
De Portola hissed between his teeth. “Dangerously stupid, actually.”
“I agree,” Werle said. “Let me know if you come up with something better in the next thirty seconds.”
“Trust me,” de Portola said, unfastening his seat belt and swiveling partway around in his seat. “Give me a three-count.”
“Right,” Werle said, holding the car at an even speed and mentally counting down the seconds. Ten…five… “Three, two, one—”
He slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel. With a howl of protest from the tires and a cloud of flying dust the car swung ninety degrees around. It was still shuddering its way to a halt when de Portola swiveled the rest of the way around, propped his left leg up on the window frame, and fired his anti-armor laser.
The brilliant blue beam caught the drone just behind the nose. It held there for half a second, then slid back along the rounded side as de Portola searched for a vulnerable spot. Werle squeezed his eyes shut against the acrid light, switching to his opticals and trying to figure out what they were going to do if this didn’t work. The focal point of de Portola’s laser reached the drone’s midpoint—
And with a brilliant flash of yellow flame and a sputtering crackle like the sound of a falling tree, the drone exploded.
“Well, look at that,” de Portola commented, turning upright again and wrenching open his door. “Their grav lifts are just as vulnerable to expansion cracks as ours are. Come on.”
“Or else you got lucky,” Werle said as he opened his own door. “Where are we going?”
“I was thinking the woods,” de Portola said, pointing toward forested land to their left. “Whether they saw our faces or not, they definitely saw the car.”
“Not a lot of cover from infrared out there,” Werle warned.
“Sure there is,” de Portola called over his shoulder as he set off toward the trees at a full-out sprint. “Grav lifts mess up infrared fine-tuning something fierce. All we need to do is find a nest of something close to human-size to cozy up. The Troft drones will never know the difference.”
“Human-sized animals?” Werle asked as he sprinted off after his friend. “Like maybe spine leopards?”
“Yeah, that should work,” de Portola agreed.
Werle grimaced. “Terrific.”
It was about two kilometers to the edge of the woods, and their leg servos ate up the distance with the kind of speed and stamina that only Cobras could achieve. They were nearly to the edge of the forest when, as Werle had known it eventually would, their luck ran out.
De Portola spotted it first. “There,” he said, pointing toward the line of trees that lay between them and Archway. “Looks like another drone.”
Werle’s eyes flicked to the horizon where de Portola was pointing. The drone had disappeared behind the trees, but it would be clear again within seconds. They had to get under cover, and fast.
Only that option was rapidly evaporating. They could probably make it into the forest, but there was no way they could track down a group of large animals to hide themselves in. Not in the time they had left. Not this close to human civilization, where all such animals except spine leopards were increasingly rare.
De Portola was clearly thinking the same thing. “Okay—Plan B,” he said, veering suddenly to the right toward one of the fenced-in grazing fields. “What’s that thing over there, a livestock grain supply?”
Werle eyed the structure they were now heading for. It was small and low, encircled by shallow troughs, and about a dozen meters inside the perimeter fence. “A haylage feeder, actually,” he said.
“Close enough,” De Portola grunted. “It’s broken, and we’re fixing it. Last one there has to clean the manure spreader.”
He put on a burst of speed, bounded over the fence, and raced the rest of the way to the feeder. Werle was right behind him.
Just in time. Even as the two Cobras squeezed through the narrow gap between two of the troughs and opened the top of the feeder, the drone reappeared over the tops of the trees, heading in their direction at a high rate of speed. Werle held his breath, but the machine ignored them completely, ripping instead across the sky toward the spot where they’d destroyed the first drone and abandoned their car.
“I wonder how good its cameras are,” de Portola murmured as they leaned over the open feeder. “The first one may have gotten a clear view of my leg as I shot it down.”
“Take off your clothes and turn everything inside out,” Werle suggested, sidling around to the far side of the feeder and unfastening his shirt. The drone was dropping lower, and as he watched it disappeared behind another stand of trees. “And make it snappy.”
“Sounds pretty lame,” de Portola warned as he tore off his clothes.
“I know,” Werle conceded. “Let’s just hope they don’t know anything about human fashion. Smear on some of the haylage, too—that’ll help disguise everything.”
They’d finished with their makeshift disguises, and Werle was giving de Portola a quick lesson in the art of cleaning ranch machinery, when the other Cobra suddenly stiffened. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.
“What is it?” Werle asked, forcing himself to not look up.
“Don’t look now, but apparently the Trofts don’t like having their drones shot down,” de Portola said. “Looks like a small tank coming this direction.”
Werle felt his stomach tighten. “Maybe it’s just a patrol. Let’s try ignoring them and see if they’ll go away.”
“I don’t think so,” de Portola said, his voice darkening. “We’ve also got a rut-rider coming in from the southwest. I think that’s Matavuli himself at the wheel, isn’t it?”
Werle swiped at his forehead, using the gesture to turn his head far enough to put the rut-rider in view out of the corner of his eye. It was Matavuli, all right, riding on the spindly vehicle and looking angry enough to chew rocks.
And perched on top behind him were a pair of armed Trofts.
Not just armed, either. Notching up his telescopics, Werle saw that both aliens were wearing helmets and what appeared to be thick, probably armored versions of their usual leotards. Each was also carrying a large sidearm and wearing a long knife.
 “Yes, that’s Matavuli,” he agreed heavily. “And from the look on his face, he’s not very happy to see us on his property.”
“He’s happy enough when we clear out the spine leopards for him,” de Portola said with an edge of bitterness. “What do you want to do?”
Werle hunched his shoulders, looking around and jerking a little as he pretended to catch sight of the Troft tank. It was more like an armored truck than a full-blown tank, actually, though the roof-mounted swivel gun looked more than capable of blasting through anything Archway could put in its way.
And from the changing pitch of the engine, it sounded like the thing was aiming for a halt right alongside the haylage feeder’s section of fence. Clearly, the tank wasn’t simply on patrol, but was here to backstop the Trofts riding with Matavuli.
“I guess we wait and see what’s going on,” Werle said, straightening up and keeping his eyes on the tank. “They might have grabbed Matavuli as a hostage to our good behavior.”
“And if they grabbed him so he could finger us?”
Werle felt his lip twitch. “Like I said, we wait. Look surprised and scared, will you? We don’t see alien armored trucks in DeVegas Province every day.”
“Yeah,” Werle grunted. “Let’s hope it’s not a trend.”
The armored truck rolled to a halt, its engine revving down to a low rumble. Werle waited, still watching it with a mixture of awe and uneasiness on his face, until the rut-rider coming up from behind them was close enough for a normal person to hear as it swished its way through the grass. “I guess we’d better see what Matavuli wants,” he murmured to de Portola. “Here’s the story. We were on a pre-dawn energy hike, we saw a bird caught in the feeder—that happens sometimes—and we came in to free it. If Matavuli is willing to play along, we may get away with it.”
“Assuming they don’t think to ask where we came from or where our car is,” de Portola warned.
“We came from the Ortez ranch,” Werle said. “That’s the next one over, and I know Jak will back us up.”
“Only if we can clue him in before the questioning starts,” de Portola warned. “Matavuli really does look furious, doesn’t he?”
“He’s always hated trespassers,” Werle said, his heart sinking as he studied Matavuli’s face. The man looked about two blood-pressure points away from a stroke.
The rut-rider jerked to a halt. Matavuli hopped down without even bothering with the steps and stalked toward the feeder. The two armored Trofts were right behind him, their sidearms ready. Werle took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matavuli—”
“Don’t give me sorry, Hickory,” Matavuli snarled. “What the hell are you and Zeke doing here?”
Werle blinked. Hickory? Zeke? “We were just—”
“You were told to clear out the stickler-weed patch in east-two,” Matavuli cut him off, jabbing a finger across the road. “Instead I find you here?”
“We’re sorry sir,” de Portola said, with just the right mixture of humility and stubbornness. “But like we told you yesterday, this feeder’s been jamming up. I thought Hickory and I could—”
“And like I told you, I’ve got other people to fix the damn machines,” Matavuli bit out. “People who actually know what they’re doing.” Abruptly, he strode forward, brushing past both Cobras and looking down into the feeder. “Show me what you did.”
Werle moved to his side. “There,” he said, pointing to a random part of the machinery. “There was a calcified husk stuck—”
“Yeah, yeah, I see,” Matavuli muttered, leaning over and reaching in.
And with his hand out of sight of the Trofts, his fingers curled into a quick thumb’s up.
“Fine—so you fixed the damn thing,” he said, straightening up again and giving Werle one final glare. “But the next time you blow off a work order your butts will be flying from the flag post.” He transferred the glare to de Portola. “You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” de Portola said meekly.
Matavuli turned to the two Trofts. “My apologies,” he said in a slightly more civil tone. “Turns out that the men you saw were mine.”
One of the aliens stirred. “You said no one was in this field,” he said, the flat words coming from a round pin on his left shoulder.
“And if you’d been paying attention, you’d have heard just now that they weren’t supposed to be in this field,” Matavuli shot back, his patience cracking a bit. “You mind if we get back to work now? I’ve got a ranch to run.”
For a long moment the two aliens simply gazed back at him. Werle keyed his opticals to infrared, hoping to get a reading on the Trofts’ faces. But the helmets’ faceplates were blocking too much heat for him to get anything.
Their beaks were working, though. Clearly, they were having a private conversation.
On sudden impulse, Werle put target locks on the two faceplates. With an armored vehicle at their backs he very much hoped they could keep this nonviolent. But it never paid to have enemies behind you and in front of you.
“You may go,” the first alien said. “Do not leave your property. We will be observing all that is done in this area.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet you will.” Matavuli jabbed a finger at Werle. “You two—get on the rider. You can clean up back at the op center. And you’d damn well better have that stickler-weed cleared out by dinner time.”
#
Rut-riders were designed to carry six people. When two of the passengers were armored aliens, Werle quickly discovered, the vehicle felt considerably more crowded than usual.
No one spoke during the ride back to the cluster of buildings at the center of Matavuli’s operation. Another Troft vehicle, smaller and less heavily armored than the one they’d seen on the road, was waiting at the main house. Still without saying a word, the two alien soldiers got inside and headed back down the long drive.
“Come on,” Matavuli said gruffly, and led the way across to the combination stock barn, feed storage, equipment shed, and vehicle garage that served as the ranch’s operations center.
Waiting silently inside the cleaning room were Matavuli’s wife Carol and two men Werle recognized as the ranch’s senior hands. He’d seen both seniors on various occasions, but couldn’t recall either of their names. “Okay, let’s have it,” Matavuli said, stalking over to his wife and planting himself beside her. “What the hell is going on?”
“All we know is that Aventine’s been invaded by Trofts,” de Portola said.
“Yeah, we got that part,” Matavuli said sourly. “Which Trofts? What demesne?”
“And why?” Carol added.
“We don’t know,” de Portola said. “That was all we got before Ishikuma was cut off.”
“Do you still have working communications?” Werle added. “We need to find out what’s going on in town.”
Carol shook her head. “The comms are still working—at least there’s a carrier signal—but we can’t get anyone in town to answer.”
“But it’s pretty obvious the invaders think there are still Cobras running loose,” Matavuli added. “So how are you going to get rid of them?”
Werle felt his eyebrows creep up his forehead. “Us?”
“You’re our soldiers, aren’t you?” Matavuli countered. “Or at least, the closest thing we’ve got. Aren’t you supposed to be trained for this stuff?”
“We are,” de Portola said calmly. “But before we can make any move we need more intel. How many Trofts are in Archway, what kind of weapons they have, how they’re positioned. That sort of thing.”
“And if we’re all supposed to stay on our own land—well, your land, anyway—I don’t know how we’re going to get to town without being grabbed,” Werle said.
“Well, we can probably help you with that.” Matavuli gestured to the two men. “Hayes and Grundy. They’ll get you whatever they can about the situation in Archway, hopefully by tonight.”
Werle looked at the two men, keying on his infrareds as he did so. “It could be dangerous,” he warned. “You two really willing to stick your necks out for us?”
“For you personally, no,” Hayes said bluntly. “But like you said, this is Mr. Matavuli’s land, which means it’s our land, too. Our land, our town, our province.”
“And our people,” Grundy added. “And if a bunch of chicken-beaked aliens think they can walk in and take it over, they’re badly mistaken.”
“Satisfied?” Matavuli asked.
The infrared signatures had shown no indication of duplicity. Hayes and Grundy were honestly willing to help.
Whether they actually could do anything useful, of course, was an entirely different question. “Satisfied,” he confirmed.
“Good.” Matavuli gestured at the ranch hands. “You two get going. And you two,” he added, pointing at the two Cobras, “are going to get into proper farm clothing and go clear out some stickler-weed.”
“Just in case the Trofts follow up on this?” de Portola asked.
“Of course,” Matavuli said. “Why else?”
#
Werle never did find out how Hayes and Grundy pulled off their communications magic trick. Apparently, there were still a few information conduits the Trofts hadn’t yet closed down.
However they worked it, by evening they had everything the two Cobras needed.
“They’ve fenced off six-block sections of Main and Chicalla Streets and Third Avenue,” Hayes reported as the six of them sat around the table in the Matavulis’ oversized dining room. “They’re using some kind of mesh, with a tighter weave than the chain-link jobs we use around our fields. They’re the same five meters tall as ours, though, so I guess they know something about spine leopards. The fences are anchored to the building fronts along the streets, so those buildings are kind of a part of that same zone. Outside of those areas—”
“Get this,” Grundy cut in. “Outside those three streets they’ve dumped four transports worth of spine leopards into the city.”
“You’re kidding,” Matavuli said, frowning. “The province is up to its chin in the things, and they’re importing them?”
“The province is, but Archway isn’t,” Werle said grimly as he caught on. “Is the city’s perimeter fence still in place?”
“Mostly,” Hayes said. “There were a few places where pieces got knocked down, mostly where some nupe-head in a car tried to outrun the invasion. The Trofts have patched the holes with more of their own mesh, though, so it’s all buttoned up again.”
“Which means everything outside those three streets is now a kill zone,” Matavuli growled. “Yeah, I see now. Damn them.”
“Let me guess,” de Portola said. “For a pledge of cooperation or undying loyalty they’ll let you come into the safe zone. Otherwise, you sit in your house until you run out of supplies and starve to death.”
“Or else come out and get eaten,” Hayes said. “Exactly.” His lip twisted. “Except that instead of a loyalty pledge, they want people to give up the Cobras.”
Werle stared at him, his blood suddenly running cold. “And?”
“Oh, they’re not doing it,” Grundy said hastily. “Least, that’s what our guy said. I mean, you’re our friends. Right?”
“At least until the food starts running out,” Matavuli said. “What are the Cobras doing in the middle of all this?”
Hayes and Grundy exchanged apprehensive looks. “They’re not really…” Grundy began, then stopped.
“They’re doing nothing,” Hayes said. “They can’t. According to our guy, word came in from Capitalia about an hour after the Trofts landed that everyone’s supposed to stay calm and not put up any resistance.”
“Even the Cobras?” de Portola asked.
Hayes made a face. “Especially the Cobras.”
Werle looked across the table at de Portola. “I didn’t get any orders like that,” he said.
“Neither did I,” de Portola agreed. “Too bad I tossed both our comms out the window.”
“Wait a second,” Hayes said cautiously. “You’re not thinking…?”
“Of course we’re thinking,” de Portola said. “This is what our weapons and nanocomputer programming were designed for, remember?”
“But you’re just two men,” Grundy objected. “I mean, really—it’s just two of you. Our guy didn’t think any other Cobras got out before the Trofts landed.”
“Fine, so there’s just two of us,” Werle said. “How many are we supposed to have before we get off our butts and do something?”
Matavuli stirred. “You’re wrong anyway, Grundy” he said. “It’s not just two of them.” He looked over at his wife. “Like Hayes said this morning, this land belongs to all of us.”
Werle focused on Carol, wondering if she was going to object. But she simply nodded. “Agreed,” she said, her voice as deadly calm as her husband’s. “What’s our first move?”
“First thing is to come up with a plan,” Werle said, trying to think.
De Portola stirred. “I may have something,” he said slowly. “But we’ll need to get closer to Archway. Do you think the other farmers and ranchers will be willing to risk helping us get across their land?”
“I don’t have to think,” Matavuli said. “While you two were pulling weeds I was talking to the other ranchers. I can get you to Archway or anywhere else you need to go. So what’s this plan?”
De Portola visibly braced himself. “Okay,” he said. “Here it is…”
#
They set out the next morning before dawn in one of the ranch’s rut-riders: Werle, de Portola, and Matavuli, who had insisted on personally taking them on the first leg of their trip.
 That first leg ended sooner than Werle had expected. And in a very different place.
“You’re joking,” de Portola said, eyeing the narrow culvert stretching out past the border fence and disappearing beneath a low hill.
“Hey, be thankful we’re not using it for irrigation right now,” Matavuli growled. “If we were, you’d be swimming upstream against water that would probably still have chunks of mountain ice floating in it. You sure you’ve got the route?”
“Culvert to the Ortez ranch; overland to the south border, then over the fences to the Busenitz spread,” de Portola said. “Two more after that, and we’ll be at the northern drainage field—”
“Which should be pretty dry right now,” Werle added.
“—and within spitting distance of the city,” de Portola concluded.
“And remember to change clothes whenever necessary,” Matavuli said. “And make sure you check for drones before you jump the fences. You blow another one out of the sky like you did yesterday, and they won’t just send a couple of cars around to take a look.”
“We’ll be careful,” de Portola promised.
“Starting right now,” Werle said, keying on his telescopics and giving the sky a quick but thorough look. Drones might be a handy tool for an occupation force, but between their infrared signatures and the glow of their grav lifts they were pretty easy to spot. “Looks clear.”
“Agreed,” de Portola confirmed.
“Right,” Werle said. “Thanks, Matavuli. You should hear from us by late tonight.”
“Let’s hope so,” Matavuli said gruffly. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Werle looked at de Portola and gestured toward the culvert. “Your plan. You get to go first.”
The culvert wasn’t nearly as narrow or claustrophobic as it had looked, even for men wearing four layers of heavy clothing. They emerged beside a small dam blocking the edge of Minuet Creek as it flowed down from the mountains another twenty kilometers to the north. A brisk half-kilometer walk took them to a cluster of oaklings and the rut-rider Ortez had left for them. They rode the vehicle the rest of the way to the eastern edge of the ranch, then turned south as if they were out on an ordinary perimeter fence inspection.
Once, de Portola spotted a drone drifting past high overhead, and they stopped and made a big show of pulling some weeds that were crowding against a section of fence. Then, resuming their ride, they continued on their inspection tour. When the drone was again out of sight they turned away from the fence and headed to an equipment shed near the ranch’s southern border. Parking the vehicle inside, they again checked for drones, then leaped over the fence, crossed the road, and leaped over the next fence onto Busenitz land.
Jeri, Kalen Busenitz’s granddaughter, was waiting in another rut-rider, and as soon as Werle and de Portola had stripped off another layer of clothing the three of them set off. The next ranch in line was the Eisenhart’s, with Hank pulling up to them on a vehicle that looked nearly as old and beat-up as he did. As was the case with Hank himself, the rut-rider’s looks were deceiving, and they were deposited quickly and efficiently at the edge of the Starks’ land, where yet another vehicle had been left for them. Once again, they ended up pausing for some weeding and fence repair under the gaze of a high-flying drone, continuing only after it and a follow-up drone were once again out of view.
By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, they were down to their final layer of clothing and had made it to the edge of the Swenson property, only two hundred meters of drainage field away from the northern edge of Archway.
 “There,” de Portola murmured, nodding toward the five-meter-tall protective fence encircling the city as he handed a section of crossbar down to Werle. “That off-color piece just this side of the river inlet grating. That must be one of the replacement patches Hayes told us about.”
“I see it,” Werle confirmed as he set the crossbar down beside the others. He notched up his telescopics, wondering briefly how much of this part of the plan Matavuli had passed on to Thom Swenson. Still, Swenson had left the fencing material on the rut-rider as the Cobras had asked. Even if Matavuli hadn’t given him all the details, Swenson was smart enough to have figured most of it out on his own. “Any sign of patrols? Never mind,” he interrupted himself, spotting another of the armored trucks they’d seen the previous day as it lumbered into view around a bend in the city fence. “Here’s one now.”
“I wonder if he’s going to stick to the roads,” de Portola said as the truck continued in their general direction.
“Certainly has to stay there long enough to cross the bridge,” Werle pointed out. “Makes for a nice pinch point.”
“If we can trust them to always come from that direction,” de Portola warned. “If they’re also doing clockwise circles we could have a problem.”
“True,” Werle conceded. “Still, we have all day to watch how they do things.”
“Right.” De Portola straightened up, arching his back as if stretching tired muscles. “Don’t see any drones up there.”
“Which makes sense,” Werle pointed out. “Why waste drones on a city where you already have two warships and lots of soldiers on the ground? Especially when there are another hundred thousand square kilometers to keep an eye on.”
“Even more if they’re in charge of all of Willaway, too,” de Portola agreed. “Somehow, I can’t see an invasion force tasking even one of those ships to sit on a town as small as Mayring. I wish we knew how many drones total they have.”
“And if they’ve kept any spares,” Werle said. “Maybe we’ll find out tonight.”
“Maybe.” De Portola gave one final stretch and then lifted another roll of fencing, pretending to struggle with the weight as if he was a normal man who didn’t have the added strength of Cobra servos. “One more?”
“One more,” Werle agreed, taking the roll and doing a little staggering of his own. “Let me put it down, and then we’ll set up the postholer.”
They worked straight on until midday, when Swenson came by to bring them lunch and look over their progress.
“Nice,” he said, as he examined the six meters of extra fencing they’d put together in a flexible framework and left propped up against the main fence. “If this warfare thing doesn’t work out, I can probably find you a job. That’s not going to be too heavy, is it?”
“It shouldn’t be,” Werle assured him. “The fencing is reasonably light, and using crossbeams instead of fenceposts for the uprights let us cut down even more on the weight.”
“The big question was whether the Troft patrols would wonder what we were doing and come over for a closer look,” de Portola said as he lifted up the corner of his sandwich and peered at the contents. “But I don’t think they even noticed.”
“They’re probably more interested in people trying to break out of Archway than people trying to break in,” Swenson said, stepping over to the two-meter-wide section of the main fence the two Cobras had also modified. “So these extra uprights are supposed to hold this section together so that you can take it out without unraveling the rest of the fence?”
“Exactly,” Werle said. “And these post holes here—”
“Yes, I see how that’ll work,” Swenson said. “Looks good. The bigger question is whether the spine leopards will play ball.”
“The theory’s perfectly sound,” Werle said, biting into his sandwich without bothering to inspect it first. It turned out to be roast lamb, a Swenson specialty. “We know that spine leopards can sense when there’s open territory nearby, and that governs their movement and breeding patterns. The only reason they aren’t standing three deep against your fences is that they’ve also learned that doing that won’t get them into the territory and will also probably get them shot.”
“But this particular collection aren’t locals,” de Portola pointed out. “More importantly, the Trofts have landed at least three more transports today, and if they were all full it’ll be getting pretty crowded in there. If and when they spot unoccupied territory and are able to get to it, we should get a full-bore gold rush.”
“Which unfortunately could be a serious problem for you,” Werle warned. “It may be awhile before we can get back in there and clean them out again.”
Swenson grunted. “Don’t worry about us. We built the house to stand up against the worst of the winter storms. A few spine leopards aren’t going to bother it any. We also spent most of the morning stringing chain-link along the walkway between the house and the op center, so that’s covered, too.”
“What about food?” Werle asked.
“We’ve got six weeks’ worth of supplies,” Swenson said. “After that, I guess we’ll find out how roast spine leopard tastes.” He twitched a smile. “At the very least this should clear out the rabbit and mole problems we’ve been having in the vegetable fields. When are you planning to make your move? Midnight?”
“Sundown, actually,” de Portola said. “Or rather, right afterward. We don’t want to throw big shadows everywhere we go.”
“Darkness really doesn’t help that much in modern warfare,” Werle added. “It gives the illusion of concealment without actually providing any.”
“If you say so.” Swenson gestured north. “By the way, one of my men spotted what he thought might be a way station by the river bend just south of Baxter’s Crossing. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, actually that’ll help,” de Portola said. “If there are spine leopards there it should keep the Archway contingent from heading that direction. You brought the rabbits we asked for, right?”
“In the cooler,” Swenson said, nodding toward the plastic chest he’d set beside the rut-rider. “We were only able to get about a dozen—I hope that’ll be enough.” He gestured toward the squat equipment shed a hundred fifty meters back from the fence, its corrugated metal walls glistening in the noonday sun. “Oh, and I should warn you that the shed gets pretty hot on a sunny day like today. You’ll want to stay close to the floor where there’s at least a little ventilation.”
“Already planned on doing that,” Werle said. “Don’t worry—a little heat exhaustion’s good for the soul. I read that somewhere.”
“Right,” Swenson said dryly. “Well, I’m off. Good luck, and if you need anything else, let me know.”
He climbed back onto his rut-rider and headed back across the field. “Good man,” de Portola murmured around his sandwich. “If we had enough like him, the Trofts wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“We have enough,” Werle assured him, feeling an unexpected stirring of pride. De Portola had grown up in Capitalia, and though he’d never said anything to lord it over the others Werle had nevertheless always felt a bit rustic and unsophisticated in his presence. Maybe de Portola saw things clearer than Werle had realized. “It’s just a matter of giving them the right spark.”
“Then let’s do it.” De Portola took another bite of his sandwich. “Right after lunch.”
#
The sun dipped below the western stands of trees, and as it vanished so did the telltale shadows the Cobras had hoped to avoid.
And it was time.
Werle ran a hand over the fence section he and de Portola had spent the day building, checking the sturdiness of the quarter-meter lengths of cross beam jutting out from each of the uprights. It wasn’t going to be too heavy, he promised himself firmly.
“There he goes,” de Portola murmured.
Werle looked up. The armored truck running the clockwise circuit around Archway—there were indeed both clockwise and counterclockwise patrols, they’d discovered during the day—had made its way across the Caluma River bridge, across the northern edge of the city, and was nearly out of sight. As the two Cobras watched, it made a final turn and disappeared from view behind the fence’s curve.
“And with the other patrol truck still a good fifteen minutes away, that’s the one they’ll send when the balloon goes up,” de Portola continued.
Werle nodded, raising his eyes from the fence to the sky. That was their assumption, anyway. He just hoped that the Trofts didn’t find a way to rewrite the theory when he and de Portola weren’t looking. “Sky seems clear,” he reported. “You ready?”
“I was born ready,” de Portola declared firmly, pulling on the thick work gloves he’d worn most of the day. “You ready to toss some rabbits?”
“I was born ready,” Werle said, crouching down and opening the cooler.
“Okay.” De Portola took a deep breath, let it out in a huff. “All of our gear was also born ready, right?”
“So they tell me,” Werle said. “Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”
“I know,” de Portola said. “Just make sure they spell my name right on the statue. See you.”
Hooking his fingers into the fence’s links, he headed up.
Werle picked up two of the rabbits as he watched the other’s progress. There was no need to climb, of course—with Cobra servos de Portola could easily have simply jumped over the fence. But there might be Trofts watching from the city, and they needed to conceal their true identities as long as possible.
De Portola made it to the top, got his legs over, and headed down the other side. As he reached the ground Werle lobbed the two rabbits over the top. De Portola caught them and headed for the Archway fence at a fast jog, aiming for the replacement patch the Trofts had added used to cover the hole.
Werle studied the patch for a moment, wondering briefly which of Archway’s citizens had tried to ram his way out. But the how of the gap didn’t really matter. What mattered was that the hole was there, and that it had been patched with something that should be relatively easy for de Portola to cut through.
Speaking of which, Werle had some cutting of his own to do. Stepping up to the two-meter-wide section of fencing he and de Portola had prepared, he set the tip of his gloved little finger against the mesh and triggered his metalwork laser.
Normally, the laser flashed with a bright blue beam, distinctive enough to alert any Troft who spotted it. But with his fingertip pressed against the metal, there was no such telltale blaze to alert anyone that there was a Cobra at work.
Unfortunately, while there was no telltale light, there was a small but nasty mist of molten metal droplets. The work gloves absorbed most of it, but there were bits of exposed skin where his laser had cut its way through the glove. The droplets that landed there hurt like hell.
But there was nothing to do but get through it. Clenching his teeth, wincing every time a droplet found its way through the glove, Werle kept going, slicing the section free from the rest of the fence.
He had the first side finished in under a minute. Grabbing the cooler, he headed to the other side of the section, peering through the links to see if de Portola was on schedule.
He was. Even as Werle reached the other end of the section he saw the other Cobra cross the road that encircled the city and come to a halt in front of the Trofts’ patch. As Werle watched, de Portola tossed one of his two dead rabbits over the top, then set to work burning through the edge of the patch with his own metalwork laser.
He’d been at it for barely fifteen seconds when a spine leopard appeared from nowhere and pounced on the rabbit. Even as he tore hungrily at it, two more of the predators emerged from around buildings, clearly intent on scoring free meals of their own. De Portola paused long enough to throw his other rabbit over the fence, then got back to work. The two waiting spine leopards dived for it, one of them won, and suddenly there were half a dozen of the creatures milling watchfully around the patch.
Werle smiled tightly. This part of the plan, at least, was definitely going to work. Pulling more of the rabbits out of the cooler, he began throwing them over his fence, increasing the distance with each toss and creating a line of free spine leopard meals leading from near de Portola’s fence all the way back to his own. When the cooler was empty, he kicked it aside and got back to work freeing the other end of his fence section.
He was working on the last link when, from across the open space came a stuttering crash as the Troft patch came down.
He looked up. De Portola was on the ground, the section of mesh he’d cut away completely covering him as at least twenty spine leopards charged through the opening, leaping on, over, or around him. With their foreleg quills extended to ward off their fellows, they raced madly for the line of dead rabbits.
Werle keyed in his telescopics, his breath freezing in his throat as he focused on de Portola. If he’d been knocked over by the predators before he was ready…
But to his relief de Portola was in exactly the pose he and Werle had worked out earlier that day: lying flat on his back, his arms and knees rigidly extended against the mesh to keep the predator’s claws and spines away from his head and torso.
And with all those claws and spines rushing furiously across the drainage field, it was high time Werle got into position himself. Cutting the last connector, he took a long step to the middle of the freed section, braced his hands against the links, and rolled onto his back. The spine leopards were nearly to him; extending his arms, he locked the joints in place and braced himself.
A second later they hit, thudding across the links as they ran up the angled section of fence and then bounded off into the wide expanse of Swenson’s property. Werle craned his neck to watch, ready to bring one of his fingertip lasers to bear if one of the predators noticed him lying here and decided a meal of human meat would be even better than dead rabbit.
But none of them so much as glanced back. Everything else was forgotten as the predators sensed the presence of rich and unclaimed hunting ground. They dashed off in all directions, each intent on staking claim to his own piece of that territory.
And as the last of them took off through the twilight, Werle heard a new and distant rumble. Raising his head, he peered down along his body.
The armored truck that he and de Portola had seen sedately rounding the curve of the city on its patrol was back.
Only it was no longer being sedate. With its engine revving at a level Werle hadn’t yet heard from one of the things, it was bearing down on the bridge at almost reckless speed.
Werle took a deep breath. And now, with the truck’s return, came the moment of truth. The question of whether the plan would succeed as he and de Portola had hoped.
Or whether it would cost one of the Cobras his life.
Because if the Trofts inside the truck saw only the gaping hole in the city’s fence and the escaping spine leopards, de Portola should have a chance to roll beneath the truck as it passed across the bridge and—if he was very lucky—find a way to disable it. The rest of the endgame would still be a little touch-and-go, but an immobilized vehicle would at least be unable to chase anyone down.
But if the aliens spotted de Portola lying motionless beneath the mesh and decided he was worth shooting where he lay, the whole plan would instantly fall apart. De Portola would be dead, Werle would have no chance of getting to cover before they shot him too, and anyone inside Archway who tried to get out would also be chased down and killed.
De Portola hadn’t seen it ending in quite so dramatic a disaster, of course. Or at least he’d pretended not to. Even as he insisted on taking that part of the scheme, he’d also insisted that Werle would have a good chance of slipping away if the whole thing went sideways. While the Trofts dealt with him, he’d argued, Werle would be able to get to the distant shed, where he could hide until the aliens gave up the search, safe to fight another day.
And Werle had pretended to believe him…because what de Portola didn’t know was that at the first hint that the truck’s swivel gun was moving to target the Cobra lying in ambush, Werle would be on his feet, charging the truck and trying to draw the Trofts’ attention and weapons away from his friend.
Which probably meant he would die tonight. But at least de Portola would have a chance.
The truck was nearly across the bridge. Bracing his heels and shoulders against the ground, Werle focused his attention on the swivel gun. If it moved—if it even started to move—
And with his full attention on the weapon, he was taken completely by surprise when a man dropped out of nowhere and landed squarely on the top of the truck.
Werle jerked violently, the chain-link section rattling with the movement. He wrenched his eyes away from the swivel gun just in time to see a second man arc smoothly over the city fence and land with laser-cut accuracy on the truck beside the other man.
And as he watched even more amazement, the two men produced soft-looking fist-sized globes and smashed them against the truck’s front and side windows. The globes burst into splashes of a thick-looking black liquid that spread out to completely cover the windows.
He was belatedly keying in his telescopics and zooming in on their faces when both men’s left legs blazed with laser fire focused at the base of the swivel gun.
“Werle!” a hoarse voice called.
Werle looked toward the breech in the city fence, his mouth dropping open. He and de Portola had hoped that two or three of the Cobras in this part of Archway would spot the work they were doing and realize that there was a plan for getting them past the spine leopards without having to reveal their identities to the invaders. Maybe a civilian or two would see the exodus and impulsively join in.
But it wasn’t just a handful of Cobras and a couple of civilians racing toward him across the open field. There were at least twenty men, plus a few women, and only about half of them were Cobras. And there was nothing impulsive about it—most of the civilians were carrying rifles or shotguns, and several had bulging backpacks riding their shoulders.
“Where to?” the voice called again.
And this time Werle was able to recognize it. “In here!” he called back to Commandant Ishikuma as he shoved the section of chain-link away and scrambled to his feet. “Bring them all.”
He had picked up the extra six-meter section of fencing he and de Portola had constructed when the mass of Cobras and civilians arrived. “Here—grab this and wrap it around you,” he ordered the group, shoving the fencing into the hands of those in the lead. “Use those pieces of crossbeam as handholds. Keep it closed, and the spine leopards shouldn’t be able to get to you. Your target is that shed over there.” He pointed to the distant metal structure. “Get inside and lie flat on the floor. Someone will be by later to take you to the ranch op center.”
“And take the fencing inside with you,” Ishikuma added as the group gathered into a tight group and pulled the fencing into an upright cylinder around them.
“Right,” Werle said. There a crack from the direction of the bridge, and he turned to see the muted flash of an arcthrower from beneath the Troft armored truck, the light almost invisible against the glare from the two Cobras still lasing the swivel gun. There was another flash and boom, and another, and another.
And abruptly, the truck went quiet.
“So an arcthrower under the engine compartment will kill it,” Ishikuma said, his tone grimly satisfied. “That’s good to know.”
“Where’d all these people come from?” Werle asked, frowning at the group hurrying across the field inside their makeshift spine leopard shield. As he watched, one of the predators veered toward them, raked its paw once across the fence, then veered off elsewhere into the night in search of an easier meal.
“What, you didn’t think we’d notice a couple of Cobras working on a fence?” Ishikuma scoffed, scanning the sky. “Help me keep an eye out for drones, will you?”
“Yes, we figured you’d spot us,” Werle said, raising his eyes to the darkening sky. “That was the whole point, to try to get a few more Cobras out. My question was how all the civilians knew to make a break for it when the fence came down. I thought all the comms were dead.”
“Not dead, but probably being monitored,” Ishikuma said. “Whoa—watch it.” He swiveled up on his right leg and sent an antiarmor blast back toward the shed.
Werle spun around, just in time to see a spine leopard falter in its charge toward the fence-wrapped group. Ishikuma fired a second time, and the predator collapsed and lay motionless. “That one looked a little more determined,” the commandant said with a grunt. “Anyway, we didn’t want to use the comms, so we used the putty-ball system instead.”
Werle blinked. Putty-ball? “Never heard of it.”
“Not surprising, given we just made it up today,” Ishikuma said with a malicious grin. “It’s a really simple game: you write out a message, wrap it in a ball of putty, and lob it over the roving spine leopards to someone else’s house. He reads the note, writes out his own or rewraps the original, and throws it to the next house over. The putty’s sticky enough to hang onto windows long enough to be retrieved, but soft enough not to break them.”
“And with Cobra servos behind the throws, you can probably send one of them a block away,” Werle said, nodding.
“Actually, the current record’s a block and a half,” Ishikuma said. “Sumara to Rafe.”
“Impressive.” Werle gestured to the fence segment he’s been hiding under earlier. “Help me get this back in place, will you?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Just hold it up against the opening,” Werle told him, going over and picking up the two extra fenceposts. As Ishikuma held the section in place, he slid the two posts into the holes he and de Portola had dug just inside the original line of fenceposts, wedging the section between them and the original posts. “That should keep out any new spine leopards until we can get it properly welded in place,” he said, checking the fit.
“And it isn’t so obvious that it’ll lead the Trofts straight here,” Ishikuma agreed, giving the section a quick stability check. “Nice. Now, you’ll be on your own, so the decisions are ultimately yours. But I recommend—”
“What do you mean, on our own?” Werle asked, frowning. “Aren’t you—?”
“Shut up and listen,” Ishikuma cut him off. “Travel will be risky, but if you stay in one place too long the Trofts will eventually run you down. You’ll need to either keep moving between ranches or else set up a base somewhere in neutral territory. You might try the cave system behind Braided Falls—it’s shallow and not very roomy, but all that cold water ought to nicely hide your IR signatures. Plan your attacks carefully—hit quick, hit hard, and get out. And remember that the civilians are willing and eager, but they haven’t had the training we have. Good luck.”
Bending his knees, he leaped up and over the fence. “Wait a second,” Werle said. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“I’m the commandant here, Cobra Werle,” Ishikuma said somberly. “I’m responsible for all the people of the province, starting with Archway. I’ll be fighting, but I have to fight from the inside where I can keep an eye on all the rest of the civilians. Watch yourselves, and be as big a pain in the butt to the Trofts as you can.” His lip twitched in a brief smile. “And don’t die.”
Turning, he sprinted back toward the city. A second later, with a thump and a swishing of grass, de Portola landed at Werle’s side. “Where’s he going?” he asked.
“The coward’s decided to fight the invaders from right inside their stronghold,” Werle said.
“From right under their noses?” De Portola shook his head. “Simply craven. So what’s our job?”
Werle gave the sky a final quick sweep. Still no drones, but that wouldn’t last. And even if the Trofts in the disabled truck were too cautious to peek outside there were undoubtedly more trucks and troops on the way. “To stay out here, make as much trouble as we can, and give him a chance to do his part from in there,” he said. “And we’re supposed to not die. Almost forgot that part.”
“I think we can handle that,” de Portola said. “Should be interesting.”
Werle nodded, gazing across the field at the city. The occupied, quiet, but simmering city. “Pawn to king four,” he murmured.
“What?”
“The classic opening move of a chess game,” Werle told him. “But at least we’re not the only two pieces on this part of the board anymore.”
“So let’s go meet the other pieces,” de Portola said, turning toward the men and women now filing into the equipment shed. “Last one there scrapes the manure spreader.”

The End