Table of Contents

- Eleutherios by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

- Seven Miles by T.C. McCarthy

- To Spec by Charles E. Gannon

- Skyspark by Ryk E. Spoor

- i. Worldshake

- ii. Questions.

- iii. Mysteries.

- iv. Answers.

- The Krumhorn and Misericorde by Dave Freer

- Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden by Wen Spencer

- Haunts of Guilty Minds by John Lambshead

- The Lamplighter Legacy by Patrick O’Sullivan

- Dog's Body by Sarah A. Hoyt

- The Sorcerer of Daigawa by Jon F. Merz

- Sweothi City by Larry Correia

- Out of True by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

- Mars Farts by Ben Bova

- The Virgin of Hertogenbosch by David Drake

- Murder on the Hochflieger Ost by Frank Chadwick

Baen Books

Free Stories 2013

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.

Eleutherios © 2013 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Seven Miles © 2013 by T.C. McCarthy

To Spec © 2013 by Charles E. Gannon

Skyspark © 2013 by Ryk E. Spoor

The Krumhorn and Misericorde © 2013 by Dave Freer

Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden © 2013 by Wen Spencer

Haunts of Guilty Minds © 2013 by John Lambshead

The Lamplighter Legacy © 2013 by Patrick O’Sullivan

Dog's Body © 2013 by Sarah A. Hoyt

The Sorcerer of Daigawa © 2013 by Jon F. Merz

Sweothi City © 2013 by Larry Correia

Out of True © 2013 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Mars Farts © 2013 by Ben Bova

The Virgin of Hertogenbosch © 2013 by David Drake

Murder on the Hochflieger Ost © 2013 by Frank Chadwick

A Baen Book Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

eISBN: 978-1-62579-095-8

Eleutherios

by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

It had been many years since the organ had last given voice. Friar Julian had been a younger man—though by no means a young man—then, and had wept to hear the majesty brought forth by his fingers.

Godsmere Abbey had been great, then, before the punishments visited by earth and air. Now it, like the city surrounding, was . . . not quite a ruin. Just . . . very much less than it once had been.

Though it no longer worked, Friar Julian cared for the organ, still, waxing the wood, polishing the bright-work, dusting the keys, the bench, the pedals. As the organist, it had been his duty to care for the organ. Duty did not stop simply because the organ was broken.

Indeed, it was all of his duty, now: the care and keeping of odd objects—some whole, some broken, others too strange to know—and odd people in similar states of being. The odd people brought the odd objects, for the glory of the gods and their consorts, and the Abbey sheltered both, as best it might.

It seemed fitting.

Before the earthquake, before the Great Storm, Godsmere Abbey had the patronage of the wealthy, and the high. Witness the walls: titanium-laced granite that withstood the quake damage-free—saving some very small cracks and fissures; the roof-tiles which had denied wind and rain; the rows of carven couches in the nave—why, the organ itself!

They were gone now—the high, the wealthy, and the wise. Gone from the city of Collinswood, and from the planet of Fimbul, too; gone to some other, less contentious place, where they might be comfortably safe.

In the meantime, there was no lack of work for those few friars who remained of the once-populous spiritual community of Godsmere. With loss and want, their tasks had become simpler—care for the sick, feed the hungry, nurture the feeble; and curate the collection of artifacts that filled the North Transept, and spilled into the South.

From time to time, the Abbey accepted boarders, though a far different class than had previously leased the courtyard-facing rooms, seeking tranquility in the simplicity of their surroundings, and the sloughing off, for a time, at least, the cares that weighed their spirits.

A bell rang, reverberating along the stone walls: the call to the mid-morning petition.

Friar Julian passed the dust cloth over the organ's face one more time before tucking the cloth into the organist's bench.

"I will come again," he promised it, softly, as he always did.

Then, he turned and hurried down the steps, out of the organ niche, to join his brothers in faith in giving thanks to the gods and their consorts for the dual gifts of life and conscience.

#

Later in the day, another bell rang, signaling a petitioner at the narthex. Friar Anton stood ostiary this day, and it was he who came to Friar Julian in the kitchen, to say that two city constables awaited him in the nave.

Friar Julian took off his apron, and nodded to Layman Voon, who was peeling vegetables.

"Please," he said, "call another to finish here for me. I may be some time, and the meal should not be delayed."

"Yes, Friar," Layman Voon said, and reached for the counter-side mic, to call for Layman Met, which was scarcely a surprise. Voon and Met had vowed themselves to each other in the eyes, and with the blessings of, the gods and their consorts, and worked together whenever it was possible.

Friar Julian and Friar Anton walked together along the back hallway.

"How many?" asked Friar Julian.

"One only," replied Anton.

That was mixed news. They had been without for some number of months, and while one was certainly better than none, two—or even four—would have been very welcome, indeed.

On the other hand, it was true that supplies were low in these weeks between the last planting and the first harvests, and one would put less strain upon them than four. Unless . . .

"In what state?" Friar Julian asked.

"Whole." Anton was a man of few words.

Friar Julian nodded, relieved that there would be no call upon their dangerously depleted medical supplies.

They came to the nave door. Anton passed on to his post at the narthex, and the great, formal entrance, while Julian opened an inner, passed through it into the clergy room, and thence, by another door, into the nave itself.

Three men stood in the central aisle, among the rows of gilt and scarlet couches. Two wore the dirt-resistant duty suits of the city constabulary. Out of courtesy, they had raised their visors, allowing Father Julian sight of two hard, lean faces that might have belonged to brothers.

The third man was shorter, stocky; dressed in the post-disaster motley of a city-dweller. His hair was black and unruly, his face round and brown. Black eyes snapped beneath fierce black eyebrows. An equally fierce, and shaggy, black mustache adorned his upper lip.

He held his arms awkwardly before him, crossed at the wrist. Friar Julian could see the sullen gleam of the binder beneath one frayed blue sleeve. He turned his head at Friar Julian's approach, and the cleric saw a line of dried blood on the man's neck.

"Just one today, Fadder," called the policeman on the prisoner's right. "He's a sly 'un, though."

Friar Julian stopped, and tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe.

"Is he violent?" he asked, eying the man's sturdy build. "We are a house of peace."

"Violent? Not him! Caught 'im coming outta Trindle's Yard after hours, wida baga merch on his shoulder. Problem is, nuthin' caught 'im going in, and t'snoops was all up and workin'. 'Spector wants a vestigation, so you got a guest."

"There's something strange with his ID, too," said the other policeman, sternly. "Citizens Office is looking into that."

"But violent—nothin' like!" The first policeman took up the tale once more. "He ran, sure he did—who wouldn't? Nothin' to be ashamed of, us catching 'im. And he's smart, too—aincha?"

He dug an elbow into the prisoner's side. It might as well have been a breath of wind, for all the attention the man gave it. The policeman looked back to Friar Julian.

"We put the chip in, then stood back, like we do, so he could make a run fer it and get The Lesson. 'Cept this guy, he don't run! Smart, see? We hadda walk away from 'im 'til he dropped off the meter and got the zap." He looked at the prisoner.

"Gotta have The Lesson, man. That's regs."

The prisoner stared at him, mouth hidden beneath his mustache.

"Not very talkative," the second policeman said, and opened one of his many belt pouches.

"The judge says board for two weeks," he said. "If the investigation goes longer, we'll re-up in two-week increments. If it goes shorter, the next boarder's fee will be pro-rated by the amount of overage."

Friar Julian slipped his hands out of his sleeves and stepped forward to pick the coins off of the gloved palm.

"Yes," he said calmly, fingers tight around the money, "that is the usual arrangement."

"Then we'll leave 'im to ya," the first policeman said. "Arms up, m'boy!"

That last was addressed to the prisoner, who raised his arms slightly, black eyes glittering.

The policeman unsnapped the binders while his partner walked across the nave to the safe. He used the special police-issue key to unlock it, and placed the small silver control box inside. Then he locked the safe, and sealed it.

He looked over his shoulder.

"Ponnor!" he called.

The prisoner pivoted smoothly to face him.

"You pay attention to this seal, now! It'll snap and blow if you try to get in here—that's the straight truth. The blast'll take your fingers, if it doesn't take your head. So, just sit tight, got it? The friar'll take good care of you."

"I have it," the man said, his voice low, and surprisingly lyrical.

"Right, then. We're gone. Good to see you again, Friar."

"May the gods and their consorts look with favor upon your efforts," Friar Julian said; seeing Friar Anton approaching from the direction of the North Transept. He had been listening, of course. The ostiary always listened, when there were policeman in the nave.

The policeman followed him out, leaving Friar Julian alone with the man named Ponnor.

* * *

The garda left them, escorted by the gadje who had admitted them to this place. Niku rubbed his right wrist meditatively, and considered the one who would take good care of him, Fadder Friar.

This gadje holy man was old, with a mane of white hair swept back from a formidable forehead. He had a good, strong nose, and a firm, square chin. Between chin and nose, like a kitten protected by wolves, were the soft lips of a child. White stubble glittered icily down his pale cheeks. His eyes were blue, and sad; far back, Niku perceived a shadow, which might be the remnants of his holiness, as shabby as his brown robe.

It was, Niku reflected, surprising that even a gadje holy man should accept the coin of the garda. Niku had no opinion of gadje in general, but his opinion of holiness had been fixed by the luthia herself. And among the blessed Bedel there was no one more blessed than the luthia, who cared for the body and soul of the kompani.

Well. The luthia was not with him, and he had more pressing concerns than the state of any single gadje's soul. It could be said that his present situation was dire—Niku himself would have said so, save for his faith in his brother Fada.

Still, a man needed to survive until Fada could come, so he looked to the holy gadje, produced a smile, and a little nod of the head.

"Sir," he said. Gadje liked to be called sir; it made them feel elevated above others. And the garda had shown scant reverence for this one's holiness.

The holy gadje returned both smile and nod.

"My name is Friar Julian," he said. "I am the oldest of the friars who remain at Godsmere, and it is my joyous burden to bring the prayers of the people to the attention of the gods and their consorts."

Niku, to whom this was so much nonsense, nonetheless smiled again, and nodded.

"Within these walls, my son, you are safe from error, for the gods do not allow a man to sin while he is in their keeping."

"It is well to be sinless," Niku said flippantly

It seemed to Niku that the holiness far back in Friar Julian's eyes burned bright for an instant, and he regretted his impertinence. Truly, the gods of this place had failed him, for it was a sin to mock a holy man, even a gadje holy man. The luthia would say, especially a gadje holy man, for gadje are so little blessed.

"Let me show you where you will sleep," said Friar Julian; "and introduce you to the others."

Niku froze. Others? Others might pose a problem, when Fada came.

"Other prisoners?" he asked.

Friar Julian frowned.

"You are our only boarder at present," he said stiffly. "The others to whom I would make you known are friars, as I am, and lay brothers. This we will do over the meal." He raised a hand and beckoned. "Come with me."

* * *

Ponnor walked the length of his room, placed a hand on the bed, opened the door to the 'fresher, closed it, opened and closed the closet door.

He turned, and asked, in his blunt way.

"What will be my occupation?"

Friar Julian was pleased. Despite his rough appearance, it would seem that this boarder had a sense of what was due a house of the gods. Most did not understood, and in fact, the agreement between Godsmere Abbey and the city constables stated that no boarder would be required to labor.

So it was that Friar Julian said, "You may do whatever you like."

Bright black eyes considered him from beneath lowering brows.

"If that is so, then I would like to return to my grandmother."

Friar Julian sighed, and held his hands out, palms up and empty, to signify his powerlessness.

"That," he admitted, "you may not do."

Ponnor shrugged, perhaps indifferently, or perhaps because he understood that there was no other answer possible.

"If I am to remain here, then, I would prefer to work, and not be locked all day in a room."

"We do not lock our boarders in their rooms," protested Friar Julian. "You may walk the halls, or the garden, meditate, read . . . "

"I prefer to work," Ponnor interrupted. "I am accustomed."

Were a boarder to volunteer to work, the agreement between Abbey and police continued, they might do so, without the expectation of compensation.

"If you would like, Friar Tanni will add you to the roster." Friar Julian hesitated, then added, in order that there was no misunderstanding. "Your work would be a gift to this house of the gods."

"I would like," said Ponnor firmly, and, "Yes."

"Then we will see it done," said Friar Julian. A bell sounded, bright and sharp, and he waved Ponnor forward.

"That is the dinner bell. Come along, my child."

* * *

The dining hall was full of people—gadje, all. The six friars sat together at one table near the hall door. To these, Niku was made known, and Friar Tanni that moment added him to the lists, and promised to have work for him by meal's end.

He was then released to stand in line, and receive a bowl of broth with some sad vegetables floating in it, a piece of bread the size of his fist, rough, like stone, and as dense, and a cup of strong cold coffee.

This bounty he carried to a long table, and slid onto the end of the crowded bench, next to a yellow-haired gadje who looked little more than a boy, and across from a woman who might have been the boy's grandmother.

"You're new," the grandmother said, her eyes bright in their net of wrinkles.

"Today is the first time I eat here," he admitted, breaking the bread and dropping hard pebbles into the soup. "Is the food always so?"

"There's bean rolls, sometimes," the yellow-haired boy said with a sigh. "Bean rolls are good."

"Having food in the belly's good," his grandmother corrected him, forcibly putting him in mind of the luthia, the grandmother of all the kompani. She looked again to Niku.

"Don't know what we'd do without the friars. They feed who's hungry; patch up who gets sick or broke."

"They do this from their holiness?" Niku asked, spooning up bread-and-broth.

The gadje grandmother smiled.

"That's right."

"Some of us," the boy said, "bring finds—from where we're clearing out the buildings don't nobody live in now," he added in response to Niku's raised eyebrows.

"Isn't the same as before, when this was a place for the rich folk," the grandmother said. "When it was over, and those of us who were left—you're too young to remember --" So she dismissed both Niku and her grandson. "Well, I don't mind telling you, I was one thought the friars would leave with the ones who could—and some did. But some stayed, all of them hurting just as much as we, and they opened up the door, and walked down the street, and said they'd be bringing food, soon, and was there anybody hurt, who they could help."

She glanced away, but not before Niku had seen tears in her bright eyes.

"Wasn't anything they could do for my old man, not with half a partment house on top him, but others, who they could."

Niku nodded, and spooned up what was left of his soup. After a moment, he picked up his cup and threw the coffee down his throat like brandy.

The grandmother laughed.

"Not from around here," she said. "Or you'd be going back for more of that." She looked to her grandson.

"You done?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then come on."

The boy rose nimbly and went to her side to help her rise. Then the two of them moved off, the boy supporting the grandmother, which was Bedel-like. Niku sat very still, caught with a sudden longing for the sight of his own grandmother.

When it had passed, he rose, and went to find Friar Tanni.

His assigned work was to wash the floor in the big room—what the gadje called the nave. This suited him well, since the door to the street outside stood open during day-hours, and gadje of all description were free to come inside, to wander, to sit or lie down for an hour on one of the wide couches, to partake of the offered food.

It was this continual passage of feet that dirtied the nave floor, and Friar Tanni had told him that he might wash it every day, if he wished.

For the moment, he wished, for Fada, when he came, would surely enter by the day-door. It would be best were Niku near at hand to greet him. He had no clear idea what the friars would do, if they found a stranger wandering their halls in search of his brother, but there was, so Niku believed, no reason to discover the truth.

So, he washed the floor, simple work, and soothing, as simple work so often was. When he was done, there still being some time until the midday meal, he took his broom down the long hall to the left of the nave.

This was filled with cabinets, shelves, and tables, and those were filled with this and that and the other thing—an unrelated jumble of objects and intent that vividly brought to mind the work spaces of his brothers and sisters. The "finds" these must be, with which the gadje boy and others like him repaid the god-house for its holy care of them.

Dust was thick on surfaces and objects alike, but Niku had the means to deal with that.

He used the broom first, to clean the dusty floor. When that was done, he pulled the duster from the broom's handle, and addressed the collection.

Taking care to keep an eye on the nave, in hope of seeing Fada, Niku set himself to methodically dust the objects.

It was an interesting collection, to put it no higher than its due. One piece he picked up, his fingers curling covetously around it; another he could scarcely bring himself to touch. Valuable, dangerous, fascinating . . . all jumbled together without regard for utility or merit. It was as if the friars did not know what they had, nor how best to make use of it.

Niku had been born after the earthquake and the storm that had destroyed the city, but he had learned from the tales told by his elders. He learned how those who had means had fled, leaving behind those who suffered, and also much of their own property. The Bedel, scavengers and craftsmen, had recovered items similar to those here, in order to repair, destroy, or dream upon them, as each required.

A bell rang, startling Niku, as if from a dream. He walked out of the transept, into the nave, and looked about. There were a number of people about, as there had been, none of them was Fada, which saddened him. If the bell was a call of some kind, it had no power over those in the nave.

Well enough.

Niku returned to the transept.

Some time later, and Fada still not with him, he took the broom and duster, which would explain his presence, if he were found where he ought not to be, and explored further.

The South Transept was much like the North, save not yet so full of treasure, yet. He did not pause there, but ascended a flight of stairs, to a loft which was very full of dust, and a standing desk facing a tiered platform. There was a low rail behind the desk and Niku stepped up to look below.

A wondrous sight met his eyes—a device he had only seen in dreams, brass glittering in the muted sunlight admitted by tall soot-stained windows. He stood for a long moment, wonder slowing his heart, then setting it to pounding.

Dazzled, he put one booted foot up on the rail, meaning to make the jump to the floor below.

He stopped himself as he leaned forward to grasp the rail, withdrew his foot, and rushed down the stairs.

A moment later, he crossed the threshold into the sunlit niche—and paused, gazing up at it, its perfect form haloed; light running liquid along the silver pipes.

Softly, Niku mounted the dais.

Gleaming dark wood was like satin beneath his fingers, the bone keys were faintly rough. There was no dust on wood or keys; the brass stops had recently been polished.

Niku sat on the bench and looked over the three tiered keyboards, matching the reality before him with his dreams. Reverently, he extended a hand and touched the brass knobs of the stops, pulling one for each keyboard, those being named the Choir, the Great, and the Swell. He placed his feet on the pedals; leaned in and placed his fingers so upon the Choir keyboard, pressed, and . . . nothing happened.

Fool, Niku told himself; there will be a switch, to wake the blower.

He found a small brass button set over the Choir, and slightly to the left of center, and pressed it. Then, as memory stirred a little more robustly, he located the mute stop, and engaged that, as well.

He pressed his fingers once more against the keys.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Niku closed his eyes, striving to call up a more detailed recollection of the organ and its workings. It was several long minutes before he opened his eyes again, rose from the bench and descended to the floor.

The trap was behind the organ set flush to the boards.

Niku pulled it up, and sat on his heels, looking down into the dimness. Unlike the instrument, the rungs of the ladder were furry with dust, and likely treacherous footing. He had reached to his pocket before he recalled that the garda had taken his light-stick, along with the papers his clever sister Ezell had made for Ponnor Kleug, his gadje name.

For another moment he crouched there, debating with himself. Then, with regretful care, he closed the trap, stood—and froze.

He had heard a step, nearby.

Quickly, he ducked out from behind the organ, and went up the dais., pulling the duster from his pocket.

The steps came nearer, and in a moment Friar Julian came into the niche.

He paused for a moment, startled, as Niku read it, to see someone in this place, engaged in admiration of this instrument. Niku smiled.

"It is very beautiful," he said.

The gadje's worn face lit with pleasure.

It is," he agreed, coming up the dais to stand at the organ's opposite side, "very beautiful, yes. Sadly, it is not functional."

"Has she ever shared her voice?"

The friar frowned, then smiled, as softly as a young man speaking of his lover.

"Yes. Oh, yes. Years ago now, she . . . shared her voice often. I was, myself, the organist, and --" He shook his head, bereft of words, the soft lips twisted, and the sad eyes wet. "She was damaged in the earthquake. I fear that I will never hear her voice again, on this side of the gods' long river."

"Perhaps," Niku suggested, softly, "a miracle will occur."

Friar Julian's eyes narrowed, and he glared at Niku, who kept his face innocent and his own eyes wide. After a moment, the old gadje sighed, and gave a nod, his anger fading.

"Perhaps it will. We must trust the gods. Still, even silent, she—she is a wonder. Would you care to see more?"

"Yes," said Niku.

They toured the pipe room, descending the stairs to the blower room, with no need of the trap and ladder. Niku inspected everything; he asked questions of Friar Julian, who was sadly ignorant of much of the organ's inner functions. For the old gadje, Niku realized, it was the voice, the opening of self into another self, that mattered. The mechanics, the why, and the what—they did not compel him as they did Niku.

Some while after, they came through the door, back to the organ niche. Niku smiled and bowed his head and thanked the friar for his time.

The sun was low by then, and Niku hurried out to the nave, to see if Fada had come.

Fada had not come before day had surrendered to night, and the day-door closed and locked. That was . . . worrisome. He depended upon Fada, to bring him, quickly, away.

Niku shared the evening meal of a protein bar and a cup of wine with the friars and the laymen. To take his mind from worry, he listened intently to all they said.

They forgot he was there, tucked into the corner of the table, and they spoke freely. The garda's money was to go for medicines. Where they were to find money for food, that was a worry.

A very great worry.

The simple meal done, the gadje joined hands, and prayed together, as brothers might do.

After, Friar Julian stood, and the rest, also, and filed off to their rooms. Niku rose, too, and went to the room he had been shown.

There, he showered, his worries filling his belly like so many iron nails. The message that had come to the kompani had not been specific as to time, but it was certain that their ship was approaching. What, indeed, if it had already come, and he was left here, along among gadje --

He raised his face into the stream of cleansing spray, and with difficulty mastered his panic.

The Bedel did not leave one of their own among gadje. Ezell, Fada—the luthia—they would not hear of such a thing. They would not leave him alone among gadje, not while Bedel knives were sharp. He knew that; and it comforted him.

But, still, a man would wish to continue his life, as long as it might joyfully be done.

His best hope yet rested upon Fada. But hope mended no engines.

It is said, among the Bedel, that gods help those who help themselves.

Accordingly, Niku stripped the blanket from the soft, gadje bed, wrapped himself in it, and lay down on the floor.

Arms beneath his head, he closed his eyes, and breathed in that certain way that the luthia had taught him. And so slid into the place of dreams.

* * *

The accounts page was bathed in red.

Friar Julian sighed, and shook his head, his heart leaden.

A shadow passed over his screen, and Friar Julian looked up, startled.

"Yes, Ponnor?"

The stocky man ducked his unkempt head.

"Friar, I come to offer a bargain, if you will hear it."

Friar Julian frowned.

"A bargain? What sort of a bargain?"

Ponnor stroked the air before him, as if it were a cat—perhaps the motion was meant to soothe him—and said, slowly, "I am an artificer, very fine, and I have studied many devices, including such a device as your lady organ in the niche." He leaned forward, his hands still, black eyes hypnotic.

"I can fix her."

Fix—? Friar Julian's heart leapt painfully in his breast. But surely, he thought, around the pain, surely that was impossible. The earthquake . . . they had done all they knew . . . and yet --

"An artificer?" he said, faintly.

Ponnor nodded. "My brothers—all of us—there is nothing that we cannot repair, sir," he said, with a matter-of-factness far more compelling than any more humble declaration.

"And you believe you can repair my—the Abbey's organ."

"Oh, yes, sir," Ponnor assured him. "But there is a price."

Of course there was a price. The gods themselves charged a price, for admission into the Life Everlasting. Friar Julian took a breath, careful of the pain in his breast. The price named by the gods was a soul. Perhaps Ponnor would ask less.

"What is this bargain?" he asked, speaking as calmly as he could.

"I fix your lady organ, and you release me, to return to my grandmother," Ponnor said, and rocked back on his heels, his hands folded before him.

The price was a soul, after all.

Friar Julian swallowed.

He could not, could not free Ponnor from his bonds. The chip implanted in his throat would activate and render him unconscious if he moved outside the field of the device locked into the safe in the nave. The police were not idiots, after all; they held the key to the safe; they held the code to the chip.

It was not in Friar Julian's power to release Ponnor to his grandmother, or to anyone else.

But . . . tears rose to his ears. To hear his organ, once more? To play—did he remember how to play? Absurd doubt. He played every night, in his dreams.

He could not agree to this. He --

Stay. Ponnor offered his work to the house of the gods and their consorts. That had already been agreed upon. This other thing—what harm, if it gave him some ease while he worked? After all, the police would surely be back soon, to take him before the judge.

Friar Julian took a breath and met Ponnor's black, compelling eyes.

"After you repair the gods' organ, I will release you," he said steadily.

One side of Ponnor's mustache lifted, as if it hid a half-smile, and he continued to hold Friar Julian's gaze for a long, long moment . . .

. . . before he bowed his head, murmured, "I will begin now," and swept from the office.

Friar Julian, abruptly alone, covered his face with his hands.

* * *

Fada arrived as the sun was sinking. Niku had come out of the organ niche to clean the floor in the nave, seeking to ease muscles cramped by long hours of kneeling inside small places, and saw his brother enter, sidestepping those day-folk who were already leaving.

His brother saw him instantly, and raised a hand to adjust his hat, the smallest finger wiggling, which was a request to meet somewhere private.

Niku fussed with the duster, and the broom, in between which his fingers directed his brother to the inner garden, and warned him it would be some time before Niku could join him. He then turned his back and reactivated the broom, in order to clean up a spot of mud that had dried on the floor since his morning pass.

When he looked 'round again, Fada was gone.

Niku had taken a battered lantern from among the clutter in the North Transept to light him on his way. He found Fada lying on a bench under a fragrant tree, hat over his face, snoring.

"Wake, foolish one!" Niku said, slapping his brother's knee. "How if I had been the garda?"

"For the garda, I am only a man who came to the house for the meal, and fell asleep in the garden," Fada said, swinging his legs around and sitting up. "I cannot work here," he added, "even with the lantern."

"That is why we are not staying here. Come, Brother; let me show you some things that I found."

"This," Fada said, some minutes later, placing his hand reverently on the organ's polished wood. "This, Brother, is something, indeed! Has it a voice?"

"Not presently," said Niku, from his seat on the dais.

"That's too bad." Fada stroked the wood once more, then turned and sat down next to Niku. He reached into his pocket and brought out a flat black rectangle, which he proceeded to unfold until it was a smaller, flatter black rectangle, with various protrusions, like the segmented legs of a river crab.

"First, I take readings," he said, straightening and bending again the legs. "After I have read, we will know how to proceed, which will we do. You will eat breakfast with your brothers, Niku!"

Hope made him giddy. Fada was the cleverest of his very clever brothers; surely no device of mere gadje garda could outwit him. Was it not said of the Bedel—admittedly, by the Bedel—that there was nothing they could not fix, nor any trap that could hold them long?

Fada placed one of the legs against Niku's neck, over the new, pink scar.

"Be still, now—no talking, no moving. Do not breathe until I say!"

Niku closed his eyes and held his breath. He heard a high, poignant hum, which might have been the device, or only his ears, ringing from tension.

"And breathe," Fada commanded.

This Niku did, reaching up to scratch at the scar.

"Now what do we do?" he asked, when Fada had been silent for what seemed too long.

There was no answer, his brother continuing to stare at the face of his device, his own showing lines of what might be worry.

"Fada?" Niku touched his shoulder.

His brother shook his head, and raised his eyes.

"Niku—Brother, I cannot . . . "

"Cannot?" he repeated. "But—"

"This—thing. It is . . . In a word, Brother, it is beyond me."

"You cannot remove it?"

"That—no. It appears to have established tentacles, and those have intertwined with nerves in your throat. It can never be removed."

Niku felt his stomach churn; the thought of this gadje device forever a part of him was enough to make him vomit. He swallowed, hard, and looked back to Fada.

"But you can disarm it," he said.

"That—yes. But at risk of your life. I may . . . I will need our brother Boiko for this . . . " His voice faded out, which meant he was thinking.

Niku sat, thinking his own thoughts. Boiko meant frequencies. Frequencies meant there was a way to turn the blessed thing off.

"We have heard again," Fada said, interrupting his thoughts, "from the ship. We have a day and a location."

Niku's mouth dried.

"What day?"

Fada looked at him bleakly. "Two days beyond a world-week."

"Surely Boiko can find the frequencies . . . "

"Surely he can, but if we must build a device, in among the packing of all the dreams and findings, for the ship . . . " His face firmed. "We will do it. Brother, you must trust us."

"You are my brothers," Niku said. "But, if Boiko can find the frequencies, we have here a device, Brother." He flung his hand out, showing Fada the organ.

His brother considered the organ over his shoulder, then turned back.

"You said it had no voice."

"And so it does not. But I will fix that."

Fada's face did not lose its expression of worry.

"I don't say that you cannot, Brother, but can it be done in time?"

"It must be done in time," Niku said firmly, "and so it will be."

Fada took a breath. "If you say it, then it is so."

Niku nodded. "And we have another path, Brother. I have a bargain with the gadje who loves this organ. When I fix it, he will free me."

"Has he this power?"

"It may be. The garda have sealed the control box into a safe. I think that Friar Julian is not a man who allows such things into the gods' house unless he has some measure of control over them."

Niku straightened, and looked at Fada with a surety he did not entirely feel.

"Boiko will find the frequencies. I will repair this organ for the gadje. You will bring the frequencies—in three day's time."

"Three days!"

"Three days," Niku said firmly. "By then, she will have her voice."

"And if it does not?"

"Then there are still seven days left for my brothers to build their device."

A bell rang somewhere in the Abbey, and they fell silent.

Niku then took Fada by the arm and brought him to his feet.

"Come, there is something else you should see."

#

"More treasure, Brother," said Fada, overlooking the tables in the North Transept. “Do they know what they hold, these gadje?"

"I think not," said Niku. He stepped over to a particular table and held his hand over that object that had so concerned him. "What do you think of this, Brother?"

Fada stepped up beside him and considered the thing with a critical eye.

"I think that it ought to be destroyed. Of course, they don't know how."

"That would be my guess. It ought not to be sitting here where it can work mischief. Will you take it, when you go?"

"It's best, I think," said Fada, and reached into his pocket, producing a muffling cloth, in which he wrapped the thing, before slipping it into a pouch and sealing the top. "That will keep it."

"There is also," Niku said, reaching carefully into a glass cabinet, "this."

Fada pursed his lips in a whistle, and held out his hand.

Niku shook his head.

"You must do another thing for me, Brother. You must sell this at good terms—bargain hard!—and bring me the money, when you return with the frequencies.”

Fada frowned.

"Money?" he asked, doubtfully, as who would not? The Bedel did not have much to do with money.

"Money," Niku said firmly.

Fada shrugged and accepted the little figurine, wrapping it also with care and stowing it in an inside, padded, pocket. Then, he looked about.

"Brother, I will stay here until the door opens, and then I will be gone. What will you?"

Doubtless more of the collection would find its way into Fada's pockets, but that hardly gave Niku a qualm. What the Bedel found belonged to the Bedel. It had always been so.

"I will go back to the organ," said Niku.

"Should I come?"

"I think not."

Niku embraced his brother.

"Go safely," he said.

"We will not leave you alone," Fada said, and hugged him hard

* * *

Ponnor was at the organ every waking hour, and Friar Julian suspected, every hour that he ought to be sleeping, too.

The man's diligence shamed Friar Julian—and how much more shame would he feel, he wondered, if Ponnor did restore the organ?

When he had first come to Godsmere Abbey, as a boy, he had an elder brother—one Friar Fen. Among the many pieces of wisdom Friar Fen had given his young brother was this—that priests have no honor, for they must always, and first, do everything in their power to serve, without fault, the gods and their consorts. And then they must serve, without fault, those who needed their care the most.

It was not honor, then, that prompted Friar Julian's search of the file cabinets, table drawers, and bookshelves, looking for the key to the constable's safe in the nave.

Surely, he had once had it; therefore, he must have it still. He had given his word, that he would free Ponnor, should he succeed in repairing the organ. Given his word, in this house, where the gods allowed no man to sin.

Late in the night of the second day—or, more accurately, early in the morning of the third—he found it—stuck to the back of the top drawer of his desk. He gripped it in trembling fingers and went out to the nave to test it.

It was only after he stood in front of the safe that he recalled that the police had also applied a sealant, and had taken care to warn Ponnor of its danger.

And for that, he had no answer.

"Friar Julian?"

He started from a doze behind his desk and looked up to find Ponnor in the door. His heart took up a hard, sluggish beat that made him feel ill.

"Yes, my son?"

"It is done," Ponnor told him, black eyes fairly sparkling. "She sings again."

The words—it seemed as though he had heard the words, but lost their sense immediately. The organ—what?

"Friar? Will you come?" Ponnor held out his hand.

He sent a prayer to the gods and their consorts, and rose from his chair, willing shaking knees to support him.

"Of course I will come," he said.

He sat on the bench, placed his feet on the pedals, and rubbed his cold hands against each other. Ponnor stood next to the organ, at his left, and he was pulling a much folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, which he unfolded onto the wood, and smoothed with his palm.

"Here," he said. "This is a song that I write in celebration of her voice. If you will play this, Friar? I will stand --" He looked over his shoulder and pointed, seemingly at random, "there."

"Even muted, that will be far too close for the safety of your ears, my child."

Ponnor gave him a wide grin, his eyes seeming, in Friar Julian's judgment just a little too bright. But, still, the work he had put in to this, the hours of labor and the several nights short of sleep—such things might push a man to frenzy, especially if he labored in a house of gods.

"Please, you will play this?" Ponnor asked again.

Father Julian had long planned what he would play, should the organ ever be repaired, and it grieved him, a little, to cede pride of place to an inept bit of music scribbled onto a grubby sheet by --

By the man he had lied to, and was about to betray.

Friar Julian picked up the paper, running his eye over the notes.

"Of course, I will play this first," he said.

* * *

Niku hurried to the front of the organ, pushing the stops into his ears as he did. When he reached the place Fada and Boiko had determined to be the best, he turned into the sound, and deliberately relaxed.

It was, he thought, a very beautiful thing, this organ. It had been a good thing to do, to repair the blower that had been broken in the quake, and reseat the pipes that had been shaken loose. Very simple repairs. A child could have made them.

Well. Whatever happened in the next few heartbeats—and Boiko himself warned that the outcome might not be happy—he had done well here. This was a deed the memory of which he would wear like a star upon his brow, when he passed to the World Beyond.

Beneath the floor, he heard the blower start.

He heard Friar Julian shift on the bench.

Niku closed his eyes.

The first note sounded, flowed into the second, the third, ascended to the fourth --

Niku felt a jolt of pain, a burning along his throat, he gasped, his hand leaping to the spot . . .

The organ went on. The skin of his throat felt normal, save for the roughness of the scar under his fingers.

Friar Julian played on to the end of the little piece of music Ezell had composed from Boiko's frequencies.

There was a small pause, as perhaps Friar Julian adjusted the stops.

The organ burst into song; a wild, swinging music that had much in common with the music the Bedel made for themselves, when there were no gadje to hear.

His feet twitched into a half-step. He laughed at himself, realized that his ears were ringing, despite the stops, and stepped away from the organ.

* * *

Friar Julian frowned at the scrap of music Ponnor had left, his eye moving over the lines. There was something—a progression, a linkage of line and tone . . .

It was, he understood suddenly, a test pattern; a technical exercise, and no music at all.

He smiled, pressed the blower key, and the mute, and placed his fingers on the keys.

The pattern completed, he paused only to set the stops, his hands moving on their own, surely, no shaking now, and he leaned into the keyboards with a will

He had planned . . . For years, he had planned to play the stately and glittering “Hymn of Completion,” which celebrates unions of all kinds, but is most particularly played when one man and another have chosen to pledge themselves to each other for the rest of their mortal lives.

What flowed out of his fingers, however, was not the structured elegance of the “Hymn,” but the provocative and lusty “Dance of the Consorts.”

Friar Julian closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to have their way.

He came to an end, and lifted his fingers from the keys, listening to the final reverberations from the pipes. He sighed, his heart full, and his soul healed.

"Friar?" a voice said, very close to his left elbow.

Hearing it, his soul shattered again, and when he turned his head to meet Ponnor's eyes, his own were filled with tears.

The other man smiled.

"I am sorry that I will not be able to stay and hear the rest of the great music," he said. "My grandmother calls me."

Friar Julian shook his head.

"I bargained in bad faith. I cannot release you."

Incredibly, Ponnor's smile grew wider.

"I think you are too hard on yourself," he said, and extended a large, calloused hand. "Come, let us celebrate this lady and her return to song."

Friar Julian hesitated, staring from hand to face.

"Did you understand what I said?" he asked. "It's not in my power to release you."

"That!" Ponnor said gaily. "We will see about that, I think! Come, now, and walk with me. We will test this thing. Let us go together down the street to the tavern. We will drink, and bid each other farewell."

"I tell you, it is impossible!" cried Friar Julian.

His wrist was caught in one large hand, and he came to his feet, reluctantly, and Ponnor's hand still holding him, went out of the niche and into the nave, where the day visitors and the laymen, and all of the friars, stood, their faces bathed in wonder.

"Was that," asked a woman wearing a flowered apron, "the organ?"

"Julian?" said Friar Anton. "Is it—I thought I heard . . . "

"You did hear!" Ponnor answered, loudly. "Your organ sings again! Soon, Friar Julian will come back and play for you all, but first, he and me—we have business to conduct."

No one questioned him, least of all Friar Julian, the music still ringing in his head. The crowd parted before them, all the way down to the day-door.

Friar Julian came to his wits as the sun struck his face, and he pulled back.

"You will be struck!" he cried.

"Not I!" Ponnor declared. "What a beautiful day it is!"

That was so, Friar Julian saw, the sun smiling cheerfully upon the broken street, and the children playing Find Me! among the piles of salvage.

Halfway down the street, the bright red sign of the saloon mere steps ahead, Friar Julian exclaimed, "But you're out of range! The chip should have activated!"

"You see?" Ponnor grinned. "You have kept your word! The gods of the house would not let you sin."

A miracle, thought Friar Julian. I am witness to the movements of the gods.

Dazed, he followed Ponnor into the room, and allowed him to choose a table near the door.

"Sit, sit! I will fetch us each a glass of blusherrie! A special day begs for a special drink!"

The friar sat, and glanced about him. The hour was early and custom was light. Across from him a dark haired man wearing a hat sat alone at a table, nursing a beer. On the other side of the door, near to the bar, a young woman with red ribbons plaited into her black hair, black eyes sultry, sat by herself, an empty glass on the table beside her.

"Here we are!" Ponnor returned noisily, placing two tall glasses of blue liquid in the table's center, as he sat down in the chair opposite.

"We will drink to the lady's restored health!" Ponnor declared, and they did, Friar Julian choking a little as the liquid burned down his throat. It had been a long time—years!—since he had drunk such wine.

"We will drink to the wisdom and the mercy of the gods and their consorts!" he cried then, entering into the spirit of the moment.

They drank.

"We will drink to fond partings," Ponnor said, and they did that, too.

Father Julian sighed, surprised to see that his glass was nearly empty. He felt at peace, and more than a little drowsy.

Across the table, Ponnor set aside his glass and rose.

"I leave you now," he said. Father Julian felt his hand lifted, and blinked when Ponnor placed a reverent kiss upon his knuckles.

"Enjoy your sweet lady, sir," Ponnor said, and was gone, walking briskly out the door.

At once, the man and the woman at the single tables rose and followed him out.

That was odd, thought Friar Julian, and sleepily raised his glass for another sip of blusherrie.

"Hey," said a rough voice at his side. Friar Julian blinked awake and smiled sleepily up at a man wearing an apron. The barkeeper, perhaps.

"Yes?" he said.

"What I wanna know," the man said, looking down at him with a thunderous frown, before is whose gonna pay for them drinks."

Friar Julian sat up straight, suddenly and vividly awake.

Money! He had no money! Ponnor --

"The guy with the mustache said you'd pay for them, too," the barkeep said, using a blunt thumb to indicate the two single tables, now empty. "We ain't the church, here, see? You drink, you pay."

"Yes, I understand," said Friar Julian, his heart sinking, thinking of the few coins left in the cash box, after the medical supplies had been purchased.

Futilely, knowing they were empty, he patted the pockets of his robe. The right one was as flat as he expected, but the left one . . .

Crinkled.

Wondering, Friar Julian pulled out a bright blue envelope. He ran his finger under the flap, and drew out a sheaf of notes. Notes! Not coins.

He offered the topmost to the bartender, who eyed it consideringly.

"Hafta go in back to change that," he said.

Friar Julian nodded.

Alone, he fanned the money, seeing food, medicines, seeds for their kitchen garden . . .

Something fluttered out of the envelope. Friar Julian bent and picked it up off the floor.

It was a business card for one Amu Song, dealer in oddities, with an address at the spaceport. Father Julian flipped it over, frowning at the cramped writing there.

The gods help those who help themselves.

He stared at it, flipped the card again, and there was the word, oddities. He thought of the North Transept, the cluttered tables of worthless offerings there.

. . . and he began, very softly, to laugh.

Seven Miles

by T.C. McCarthy

Kostya held his breath. When the airlock door hissed open, the suit's scanner whined to life.

"Clear," its voice chimed.

"Come." He adjusted the incinerator straps, flicked off the safety, and angled his body so that he could squeeze out the narrow portal. Ludmilla followed, her tail between her legs. "It's clear, Ludy, another day of work. Up!" The sound of his voice made her tail go straight, wagging, and she moved to lead the way.

Sadgorod lay far below, barely visible through the trees and undergrowth that had reclaimed the mountainside more than a decade ago. He knew the trees were a good sign -- that nothing had broken through while everyone slept in the bunker below -- but it was so empty. Quiet. The weeds and grass muffled his footsteps so that Kostya only heard the sound of his own breathing, and every so often the wind as it whistled over his exhaust ports.

"Numbskull." Vanya's voice crackled over the radio.

"It's alright," said Kostya, "they didn't make it through, no sign of jamming."

"Lucky for you. Doctor Kostya Popovich, last of the real egg-heads. You know I just love sending you guys into the city, it's like getting even -- but over and over and over. Every time you make it back to us I grin. Know why?"

Kostya gritted his teeth, trying to stay focused. The pain was there again. It started at his right foot and washed up to his knee, making the right leg tremble as it threatened to give out like it had so many times in the past—a reminder of what he had been through and that he shouldn't have survived. "Crumbs" had eaten the flesh around his knee and it amazed the doctors that Kostya walked without a cane. His rescuers had decided to let the things eat until they finished, and then wait for them to roll far enough away to be flamed. They sparkled when they died. Crumbs' organic material burned off first until, eventually, the remaining metals crackled and glowed. Kostya knew why Vanya and the others hated him, knew his involvement with crumbs had put a target on his head, but he still wished he could wrap his hands around Vanya's neck and dig them through the folds of fat to strangle the man. On the other hand, a deep-down understanding -- that maybe Vanya and the rest of them were right to hate him -- kept his anger in check, prevented him from ever acting on violent fantasies. Well, maybe they weren't right, Kostya told himself, but they had a good reason nonetheless. One he understood. Only Ludmilla, the dog who had been his best friend for four years, seemed to like him.

"O.K., Vanya, I'll play along," he said. "Why does it make you grin when I come back alive?"

"Because then I get to send you out the next time, and don't have to start the lottery. Once you're gone, I'll have to send out innocent ones -- maybe even me -- and it won't be so fun. You bastards deserve to be pulled apart." Vanya coughed and a map appeared in Kostya's helmet, showing a suburb outlined in green. "Today you search sector seven. And on second thought, try to stay alive. We can do without you, but we need the dog, the next litters won't be trained for another month. Vanya. Out."

Kostya knelt to scratch her neck, and he smiled because Ludmilla had stopped to wait for him -- cocking her head to the left the same way she'd done ever since she was a puppy -- and for a moment he remembered how her brothers had died trying to rescue him. The dog whined then.

"You're right." Kostya stood and nudged her with a boot. "Today isn't the day to remember them; let's go find some metal."

Metals. Copper was the most important, and then anything else they could get their hands on. Kostya and the ones before him had already scavenged the south end of the peninsula, and when he and Ludmilla broke through the forest closer to the highway, he saw the city below -- like a bleached network of concrete, reclaimed by nature. Sadgorod. The city abandoned. Kostya once saw pictures of Pipryat after a reactor accident, and Sadgorod now resembled it, with weeds and vines growing through cracks, taking over. But it was nothing like the kind of wreckage crumbs left, he thought.

Ludmilla's ears flattened, and she bared her teeth with a growl.

"Just what I need," said Kostya. "Stay." He rechecked the safety, making sure the incinerator's spark plug would discharge, and moved forward. "Scan."

The heads up display flickered on and Kostya heard the servos on his shoulder kick in, sending a small rectangular panel upward to begin its slow spin. Instinctively, he ducked. Kostya's helmet shielded him and Ludmilla knew to stay near his feet during a scan, but he never liked the system, wondering what it would feel like to have one's eyes cooked. They reacted much the same way. Any crumbs in scanning range would secrete a titanium film as soon as the first microwaves hit -- so an area that one moment had absorbed waves suddenly reflected them, revealing their presence.

A blinking red dot appeared almost instantly, about ten meters ahead, moving toward his left.

"Contact," said Kostya. "Looks like a small patch of them, crumbs, on the eastern edge of sector seven."

Vanya's voice sounded louder. "No joke, crumbs, my warning panel just went nuts. Get them. Now. I'll bring out a three-man burn team, but it will take us an hour to equip. Out."

Amazing, thought Kostya: the pinecone himself would be coming topside. Vanya never came out from the hole unless he was really pissed, or really scared. "Stay," Kostya repeated to Ludmilla, and felt his mouth go dry.

He crept forward. The brush formed a tall barrier on the far side of the highway, and his boots scraped against the uneven pavement, now so broken that it resembled a wide strip of jagged rocks. He scanned once more, and saw the dot directly in front of him, about twenty feet away. Kostya hit the trigger. A stream of jelly burst into orange flame, hissing and cracking as it penetrated the shrubs and ignited dry leaves.

"We'll get them, Ludy, don't worry."

Ludmilla barked. Kostya nearly missed it when a brilliant shape leapt through the wall of flames, coming directly at him with a roar. He dove to the ground. Whatever it was missed, passing directly overhead, but after he rose to his knees and turned, Kostya saw it: a huge white tiger, the fur on its left shoulder singed. It readied to pounce again.

"Stay!" he shouted, seeing Ludmilla move from the corner of his eye.

Kostya shot a second tongue of flame, just as the animal prepared to leap, and engulfed it in a cloud of flaming gel. His jaw dropped. The thing didn't make a sound and sped past, plunging back into the undergrowth to cut a burning path.

"Scan," Kostya said again. The immediate area seemed clear, and after the panel retracted into his shoulder, he waited, giving the flames time to move away before waving a hand at Ludmilla. "Up!"

They found the tiger, dead, about a hundred feet away. Kostya's suit was a one piece unit that made it harder to detect his thermal signature, and which had been coated with carbon fiber -- something that wouldn't trigger the crumbs' scavenging sensors. Still, he never trusted the suit completely, and crouch-walked as if the area was infested, not straightening until he stood over the tiger. It was so badly burned that Kostya almost didn't recognize it. This was the way it had gone for the past decade, he thought, and the way it would probably go for the next one until the crumbs would one day swallow everything. Why should he and the others even bother? Once the metals were gone from the peninsula, the colony would have to move north into land they held, and Kostya knew that nobody doubted what would happen then, what chances they had of finding any of the crumbs' supply points. There would be metals there, for sure. All the metals they could ever dream of. But nobody knew where those points were, and nobody dared guess what would happen if they even managed to reclaim the world one day, because what could be done on an Earth with almost every species extinct? Some work had gone into preserving as much animal, insect, and plant life as could be saved, but was it even close to being enough?

He clicked into the radio. "Vanya."

"Go."

"I got them." Kostya crouched next to the tiger and saw that a wide section of its back had been picked clean, its flesh underneath pitted and raw. It took him a moment to locate them: tiny sparks of hot metal, now devoid of organic material, which Kostya hoped he had burned off.

But there was something else. He raised the tiger's left hind leg and saw a patch of sores, black and swollen, nearly the width of his hand -- so that Kostya shivered when he realized that this was something new. But he'd seen something like it before. The memory nudged him under layers of mental dust, from a part of his mind that held recollections of a former life, but then it disappeared before crystallizing, leaving only a vague feeling of dread.

He stumbled backward and flamed the tiger again.

"I'm waiting," said Vanya.

"White tiger," he answered. Kostya thought about describing the black patches too, but decided against it. "And some crumbs."

"Probably a Siberian. And everyone thought they were long gone, what a shame. We'll be topside in approximately forty-five minutes, but you'll have to change your mission."

Kostya felt his stomach tighten. "Perimeter?"

"What else?" Vanya asked. "Westernmost corner first then work your way east. The tiger had to break through somewhere, and we need to repair any tears in the fence before it's too late. Out."

How could the tiger have made it through? While he followed Ludmilla northwest through the bushes, he cursed, realizing that Vanya had been right, that the tiger had to have come from the north, somehow making it past all those crumbs. It made no sense. Crumbs controlled everything north of the perimeter line, for hundreds -- if not thousands -- of kilometers, making it impossible for anything living to traverse overland. It had been months since Vanya and the others lost radio contact with other survivors, and for all they knew, theirs was the last outpost of living organisms, maybe the only one lucky enough to have been established around an underground fusion reactor. So what chance did a tiger have out there?

"They all want me dead," he said. Kostya hoped talking would keep him from thinking, and Ludmilla stopped to look back, her tongue hanging out. "Because. You have to understand them, Ludy -- Vanya and the others. They think that I let them loose and they resent the fact that we gave them such a silly name. Our team leader, Anna, named them after her husband, her 'little crumb.' You would have liked her. She wasn't like Vanya at all."

Kostya had trouble remembering the woman's face now, but he'd never forget helping her suit-up for one of the early trips out, when the perimeter fence hadn't been finished. Anna's face had gone bone white. He'd told her it would be fine, just like taking a walk through the park, except this time she'd have an incinerator.

"It took them twenty minutes to pick her flesh apart, and she never stopped screaming, not even when I started screaming too because a pocket of them had dropped onto my leg," Kostya said. Ludmilla stopped again and barked. "You're right, let's keep our minds on work."

Kostya hadn't been to the perimeter in some time, and the idea of being so close made his palms clammy. Mindless collection. He imagined the hum as the crumbs scavenged, undermining the main fence so they had to move it back every so often, each time embedding it deeper into the soil. Someday, Kostya realized, the fence wouldn't be enough to hold them -- one could only embed it so deep -- and his hands began to tremble.

Ludmilla pushed through a thick hedge and then whined. The fenceline rose from the sea, and Kostya traced it eastward, straining to locate any breaks or tears where the animal could have gotten through. It didn't take long to find. A large flap of fence rattled in a strong wind, but the electrified cables seemed unbroken, and Kostya guessed that somehow the tiger had pushed in, between the wires, its inertia enough to propel it beyond so it survived the massive shocks.

Ludmilla barked again, then growled.

"I know." Kostya didn't want to look, but couldn't not look either. "There they are."

Beyond the fence lay a nightmarish landscape, cratered and empty to form a kaleidoscope of broken ground in shades of grey and brown. Lunar, he thought, the Earth had become the moon. Kostya spotted them easily now, no need to scan. A film of crumbs scrambled over the ground for as far as he could see, their undulating movements making it seem as though they formed a shimmering blanket over the Earth. Alive.

A glint of light caught Kostya's attention. Far beyond the fenceline, miles away, he saw the flash again, the late morning sunlight reflecting off something, and he zoomed to the maximum setting his goggles allowed. At first he couldn't make it out. The crumbs sent up clouds of dust as they collected grains of material, passing them from one to another for deposit in underground sorting stations.

He saw the flash again though, and a strong wind cleared the air for a moment to give him a better view. "I'm at the fence, Vanya. We need to go to a secure channel."

Vanya laughed. "Why? Are you afraid the reactor operators might find out that the crumbs are at the gate?"

"I'm going secure," said Kostya, ignoring him. A few moments later Vanya clicked in.

"What's so important?"

"Do you remember the fighter base, southwest of Artem?" asked Kostya.

"Sure," Vanya said. "It's long gone now."

"Not all of it. I can see one of their storage bunkers. The crumbs have mined everything around it so that it's raised on a mound of earth, but something is keeping them away from the structure itself."

The radio went silent. Kostya could almost hear the man think, and was about to ask if something was wrong when Vanya responded.

"That's impossible. There's plenty of metal in there, and if it's weapons storage there will be nitrogen-based chemicals too, things they would never ignore. You're seeing things, Kostya. We'll have the psychiatrist take a look at you once you repair the fence."

"Listen. The tiger made it through them without any defenses. Now we see a bunker that hasn't been touched, stayed there for all these years. There's something going on. It's important."

"So what?" Vanya asked. "It's not like anyone can go out there. Let it go, Kostya, it's that kind of curiosity that got us here in the first place. You and the other egghead geniuses, nothing more than a bunch of murderers."

Murderers. It was one of the more tame insults and Kostya took a deep breath, willing himself not to get angry. "We can go out. I can. I'll just need a harness cart and incinerator gel. Trust me on this one, Vanya, if there's something out there that they're afraid of, we've got to try and get it."

Kostya fought to contain his frustration, one that he had felt ever since Vanya -- who seemed to enjoy the fact that he, an uneducated security guard, wielded so much power over scientists -- had assumed control of technical personnel. If he pushed too hard, Vanya would freeze up, wouldn't budge no matter how much sense Kostya's arguments made and then would turn the logic into a reason for instituting greater controls over scientific teams, calling on the chief administrator to approve more oversight of their work, because if Vanya couldn't understand why something had to be done, it must be something bad for their little colony. Sense had little to do with Vanya.

It took the man more than a minute to respond. "You've finally gone nuts, haven't you? I'm coming out now, hold there and don't do a damn thing. Vanya. Out."

#

It hadn't taken long to convince him -- once Vanya saw the bunker for himself -- and now that it was time, Kostya felt alone. The burn team formed a semicircle behind him, ready to flame any crumbs that tried to make it through and Vanya stood to the side, commenting to nobody that the dust had gotten thicker. Kostya no longer saw the bunker's glint.

"Remember," Vanya said. "We'll switch off the power until you get out, but move quickly. If those things start coming, we'll flame and I don't care if you get torched or not."

"I understand," said Kostya. He shrugged into the harness cart -- a small, four-wheeled powered wagon, attached by a carbon-fiber line to a backpack harness. He picked up his incinerator. A long hose ran from it to the cart, upon which sat a pump and two huge tanks of gel, and Kostya prayed that it would be enough to get him to the bunker and back. But just as he was about move out, Kostya froze. What the hell was he doing? It almost made him laugh that he had gone so far in preparations, to the point of moving into the land of crumbs, before self-preservation instincts kicked-in, warning that he was committing suicide, and of course Vanya had agreed with the plan because what did he care if a know-it-all, bio-weapons scientist died at the hand of his own creation? They'd laugh about the way he had died, referring to "Kostya the fool" as they got drunk, not "Kostya the hero." But Kostya willed his hands to stop trembling and ignored the twinge of pain from his leg when the logical side finally took over, reminding him that he was dead anyway, and it may as well come to him now rather than later. When he was ready, he nodded.

"Cut the power," said Vanya, and as soon as one of his men gave the signal he shouted. "Go!"

Kostya pushed through. The crumbs must have noticed the change because a tide of them moved closer, resembling a low wave about to roll over Kostya's feet. At first his cart got stuck in the wires. Kostya cursed and gave up trying to free it, swinging his incinerator to shoot a sweeping burst of flame, and he sighed with relief when the closest line of them erupted into a cloud of sparks.

"Go!" Vanya shouted again. Kostya looked back and saw that one of them had untangled the cart, while Ludmilla barked wildly, her handler barely able to hold her back, and Kostya fought the urge to retreat inside the fence to safety, to wrap both arms around Ludy and take her for one of their rare walks on the beach. The crumbs never went into the salt water; they avoided it, the same way they had avoided whatever was on the tiger. At first he and the other scientists thought it was the potential for corrosion that kept them away, but later they discovered that it was a combination of things, strong current and communications problems, that made the ocean a crumb-free zone. Kostya shook his head clear; thinking wouldn't help him to the bunker so he pushed forward, determined to make it if for no other reason than to show Vanya, all of them, that they had been wrong and that getting there and back was possible. And just before Kostya's headset cut into static -- the crumbs' radio communications overwhelming his own -- Vanya sent him a final message. "Don't stop. Keep moving and shoot a quick burst into the air so we know when you get there. Don't stop."

He moved in a blur, the sight of them on all sides making Kostya shake again. Seven miles is no detour, he reminded himself, laughing mentally at the old proverb. For a mad dog. The things moved around him, sensing the metal of his cart and trying to push in, and it was all he could do to hose the area clean with flame. Sometimes he lost sight of his destination. The uneven ground folded and dipped, so that he would have to fight his way down a gentle slope and up the other side, thanking God once he reached a point where he again saw the bunker. By the time he arrived, Kostya had emptied one tank and had already worked his way through part of the the second.

"Vanya," he said, "Can you hear me?" The area at the bunker's base was higher than he originally thought, but free of crumbs, and Kostya supposed the slight altitude increase might make radio communications possible. "Vanya."

Vanya's voice came intermittently through the static. " . . . can't see you, Kostya, but can hear . . ."

"I made it. Don't want to waste gel on a signal. Out." There's not enough left for the return anyway, he realized, and pushed the thought from his mind.

The bunker sat high on a mesa-like section of ground, which was only as wide as the structure itself, leaving a narrow strip of dirt in front of the main door. Getting up the steep slopes with his cart was difficult. But getting the door open proved even harder. Rollers, fused to their axles with rust, screamed and Kostya had to lean almost horizontally to force the panel far enough for him to enter. He held his breath. The bunker's darkness seemed dangerous -- held something that even the crumbs wouldn't approach -- and when he stepped through the doorway it took his eyes a few moments to adjust, moments in which he nervously fingered the flame unit's trigger.

Ammunition. Row after row of it stretched into the gloom, a narrow shaft of light piercing the shadows to highlight a beam of fine dust. The dust was everywhere, he realized. White powder coated the floor and shelves, and every movement seemed to raise clouds of it, as though the material was weightless. Something tugged at the back of his mind again, that same sense of unease that had come with seeing the tiger. He knew what this was. It wasn't right, there shouldn't have been that much dust and the color was just . . . When the realization hit him, Kostya nearly panicked.

On his left side stood metal shelves that rose from the floor and ran to the ceiling, within which rotting wooden cradles held bomb after bomb, their noses painted a brilliant red. On his right side rested stacks of plastic crates. Kostya reached out and lifted the top off one and saw three artillery shells nestled inside, their skins painted flat olive green. A symbol had been stenciled on their sides, and Kostya flicked on his helmet light so he could see more clearly, wiping a thin layer of dust off to reveal words.

He yanked his hand back, and nearly jumped when the lid slammed shut. It was too late. Kostya felt a sense of terror when he saw that the bunker's dust had already attached itself to his suit, turning the black fabric dull grey. This, he thought, might be even worse than crumbs.

"Vanya." Kostya waited for the response but none came. "Vanya!"

"Not dead yet, you ass?" The signal was strong, with almost no static.

"Clear the topside, I'm coming back soon."

"What?" asked Vanya. "You'll need us to help you through the fence. What's wrong with you, Kostya, what did you find?"

He thought for a moment, considering the option of telling Vanya about the tiger and his find, everything, before Kostya had the flash of an idea, one that might mean their survival. But if he told them what he had found -- or even hinted at what he was he was thinking about doing with it -- Kostya knew Vanya and the others wouldn't take the risk. They'd incinerate him at the fenceline.

"I'm not sure, but I think it's something that could help. You need to trust me on this one, Vanya. Get underground and wait for me to radio once I'm inside the fence."

There was another moment of silence before he responded. "I don't like it, Kostya. You probably don't have enough gel to make it back, and we have a wager on how close to the fence you'll get before they rip you apart."

Jesus Christ. "Clear the topside or we're all dead. If I'm right, and what I've found can help, we won't need the fence anymore."

"If you make it back and I lose my bet, you'll be assigned to latrine-burning duty, topside, for a damn month. Vanya. Out."

There were only a few hours of sunlight left, and Kostya didn't like the idea of being caught outdoors, at night, with them. He had to hurry.

He pushed the tanks of gel from the cart and began lifting the crates, not even careful this time to avoid raising dust. It didn't matter. The suit didn't have great intake filters and by now he could taste the stuff as he inhaled it, at the same time feeling strangely exhilarated by the pure oxygen secreted by the crumbs, the only reason none of the colony had suffocated once vegetation vanished. After he finished loading the crates, he tested the wagon -- to make sure it would move normally -- and then sighed.

"Now or never," said Kostya. He picked up handfuls of dust and threw them over the cart, then over himself, making sure that the particles coated his suit completely. By the time he finished, the sun had slipped lower.

Kostya stepped outside and pulled the cart with him. As if testing the water of a cold pool, he approached the line of green crumbs and lifted his foot, inching it toward them. The things anticipated his movement and rolled in, tumbling over themselves so that the edge of their field thickened.

One of them rolled onto his foot, sat still, and then, just as quickly, rolled off. When the rest of them moved away, Kostya grinned. "That's more like it." He stepped toward them and they parted.

On the way back, he smiled. Kostya imagined that he could already feel it -- the chill of an oncoming cold -- an illness that would take a miracle to survive, and for which he would have to somehow convince Vanya and the chief administrator to spare colony antibiotics. Given his discovery, it was the least they could do. Why hadn't he thought of the answer sooner? He was supposed to have been the biological genius of the crumbs’ development team, and Kostya should have realized that despite being impervious to most organisms, they would be susceptible to at least some. Then again, nobody else had considered it. Why should they? Most, Kostya suspected, were like Vanya: scared of biology or any technology, and trusting in the judgment of non-scientists, any non-scientist, in this post-modern world. Being stupid, he concluded, was an advantage these days.

But not for long. The cart and what it held, Kostya knew, were his tickets out.

"I'm at the fence, power down."

Vanya sounded angry. "No. They'll get through. I'll send another team topside, you know the procedure."

"They won't get through. I brought something back -- something that will make it so we won't have to worry about crumbs ever again. Power down."

"When you get back inside . . ." said Vanya. But he didn't finish, and as soon as Kostya saw the fence lights flick off, he quickly picked his way through the wires, pausing only for as long as it took to pull the cart clear.

"I'm through, you can turn it on again." Kostya sighed with relief when he crossed the ruined highway, making his way toward the closest airlock.

"Is the great Kostya going to tell me what he discovered?" Vanya asked.

"Anthrax."

At first there was nothing. Kostya grinned widely inside his helmet, barely able to hold back a chuckle at what he knew would be an initial moment of disbelief, followed by Vanya's near homicidal rage.

The man's voice trembled. "Are you crazy? You'll wipe out the rest of us, there is no way I'm letting you back in."

"I'll give you ten minutes." Kostya had anticipated the response, and sighed. He popped his helmet open with a hiss, pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, and lit it before continuing. "If you don't open up, I'll dump a handful of anthrax spores into the air intakes. Use airlock seven; it leads to one of the old decontamination rooms, we can use it to clean me and the equipment off."

"You're dead," said Vanya.

"You know what? I'm sorry the crumbs went bad."

"Kiss my ass."

"No, I'm serious." He hadn't planned on apologizing to anyone, but Kostya at least enjoyed the fact that Vanya couldn't do anything for the moment, had to sit and listen for once. "Someone invented them for deep mining, to recover metals from depths we couldn't reach, and for terra-forming. But then the military got involved, saw the crumbs as an offensive opportunity, and looked for someone to make it work. I did it. Anna and me, and her husband, and fifty other egg-heads. But it turned out that we unintentionally altered the design so that they would consume living tissues to maintain organic systems and replicate, rather than depend on us to provide them with amino acids and other nutrients. If not for us, the crumbs never would have attacked, and none of us ever imagined it would have all happened so quickly. I'm sorry, Vanya. You'll never know how sorry I am. But I did it out of duty, the same reason you do your job now for the administrator."

After Kostya reached the top of the mountain, he paused to watch the sunset. He hadn't seen one in . . . forever. It looked better than he had remembered, the air clearer in an atmosphere unpolluted by industry.

"What are you planning?" asked Vanya.

"First, let's talk about what I want. I want my own lab and my own quarters -- I'm not spending another second in one of those damn cubicles. Second, I want the rank of scientific supervisor, with a team of my own choosing, in charge of the plan to re-take Earth. Third, I'll need authorization for a full treatment of intravenous antibiotics. And I want it all in writing, an order from the chief administrator himself."

"He'll never agree to it," Vanya said.

Kostya nodded, knowing that it would be difficult. "That's your problem, not mine. While I'm waiting, I'll work out the next steps."

"Next steps? You want to bring anthrax into the colony, which will kill us all. There are no next steps."

"Think about it, you fat idiot." Kostya was getting angry now, hadn't believed that even Vanya was that dense. "A biological weapon. Spores that remain viable for years, and which we can sow over the earth, infecting crumbs at will and driving them away. Crumbs don't evolve. There's no way for them to develop immunity or fight the infection, and they sense this stuff is dangerous. First, we throw this stuff around and the crumbs that live will back off, never to return. Then we plant foliage in the areas we reconquer so that we have an atmosphere. And of course there's the problem of how to keep ourselves from dying of infection."

"I'm going to get the administrator," Vanya said. "For now, we'll leave you topside."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. But let the administrator know that should you two decide to go back on the agreement, and lock me up without trying to save me, that I have a plan for just such a contingency." Kostya didn't, but he figured they were too stupid to realize it. "Kostya. Out."

While he waited, he sat on the ground and leaned against the concrete airlock. Kostya didn't know if they'd be able to save him, and suspected that they couldn't -- one didn't inhale this much weaponized agent and walk away, even with antibiotics. But it didn't matter. This was the way his people would make it, with or without him, and at least one of the other scientists would see the truth of it. They would see the plan through, and daytime scavenging patrols would soon be a thing of the past because now they had a way to scout for, and reach, the crumbs' storage points.

It occurred to Kostya that he had forgotten something. "Vanya," he said.

"What?"

"There's something else I want."

"I'm listening," said Vanya.

Kostya smiled and took a last drag, inhaling deeply before he responded. "Ludy. I want Ludy."

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the grass, taking a moment to identify the new feeling that filled him. Promise. Maybe he would make it, along with everyone else and stranger things had happened: seven miles hadn't been a detour at all.

To Spec

By Charles E. Gannon

Mendez, the newest guy in the squad, had been jumpy ever since the worsening solar weather updates started coming in. The most recent message—that Priestley’s replacement wouldn’t show up for at least another three hours—just made him more anxious. As Eureka command post signed off, Grim saw Mendez hold his new rifle—a flimsy piece of experimental junk called the Cochrane XM 1—a bit too tightly. So, in an effort to get the newbie’s mind off his fears, Grim asked him, “What’s on the ‘other’ radio today?”

A tentative grin twitched at the right corner of Mendez’s mouth. “It’s against regs to listen to—”

“I’m a sergeant, Mendez: I’m too stupid to remember all those ‘regs.’”

Mendez needed no further encouragement: he made a fast, flat zero-gee hop over to the control panel. Steadying himself on a handhold, he pushed a preset button, jumping the radio over to the Commonwealth Armed Forces frequency.

But instead of plaintively wailing guitars, the two of them heard a painfully jocular deejay working his way through the end of the news. First, Mendez looked like the kid who got coal for Christmas—but then he went rigid as the announcer segued into the weather:

“Hey, here’s a CWAF flash from our siblings-in-arms guarding the Big Secret out at Eureka. ‘Quaff’ this one, grunts: they tell us that it’s another beautiful February day out at the Mars L-5 point, with the mercury peaking at minus 215 Celsius. There’s good visibility despite average dust densities and a continued surge of downstream trash sent by some unknown admirers near Mars. But for everyone out here in the fourth orbit, remember: that huge solar storm-front we’ve been watching will move on through in just an hour or so. So come on inside before the weather turns and send a shout out to the folks back home. Don’t let that half AU stop you.”

Great: now Mendez looked more anxious than ever. Sergeant Eldridge Grimsby—-“Grim” to all who knew him and wanted to avoid a fistfight—reached out a brown, blunt-fingered hand and shut off the radio. Reflecting that this might be the right moment to employ some of the conversational and psychological subtlety for which sergeants have always been famous, he leaned forward: “What the hell is wrong with you, Mendez?”

Mendez looked gratifyingly startled, then abashed. “Well, sir—”

Grim sighed. "Mendez, don't offend me with that 'sir' crap: I'm not an officer. I work for a living."

"Yes, si—Master Sergeant Grimsby."

Grim grunted at the narrow margin by which Mendez had avoided a repetition of the original slur, nodded for him to continue.

“Sarge, it makes me nervous—guarding the Big Secret they’re building on Eureka. If it’s as important as the security precautions seem to indicate, someone out there”—he swung an arm at the space beyond the bulkhead—“could have us in their crosshairs now, this very second.” When Grim failed to respond in any way, Mendez added, “Sarge, we could die without warning—and without ever knowing what it was we were guarding.”

Grim stared at him. “And your point is?”

“Well—that’s an awful lot of risk without an awful lot of information.”

“Mendez, if the vacc suit you’re wearing hasn’t tipped you off just yet, you’re in the ExoAtmospheric Corps, and we don’t get information; we get orders. And bad food and worse pay. What part of this have you failed to understand?”

But Mendez’s gaze wandered away-—meaning that he hadn’t exposed what was really eating at him: beyond his general anxiety about the duty, Grim sensed a more specific and deeper fear. And the best way to unearth it was to keep the newbie talking: “Okay, Mendez, so why are you more worried today than yesterday? Which is to say, what’s you’re latest theory about how the Big Secret is going to get us all killed?”

Mendez folded his hands and stared at them. “Sarge, I was floating watch outside the comcenter yesterday and heard the staff officers getting briefed by a pair of civvies. One was some kind of spook, I think. Name was Darryl Wilder; mean anything to you?”

Grim felt his stomach contract. “Yeah; security specialist. Ex-Air Force. Then ex-FBI.”

“Who’s he with now?”

“Wish I knew.”

“Private contractor?”

Grim emitted a rumbling set of grunts; he was secretly proud of having a laugh that sounded like an irritated crocodile. “Mendez, guys like Wilder don’t retire. Ever.”

“So—”

“So he’s interagency, or an errand boy for the Joint Chiefs, or carrying out an Executive Order.”

“How do you know about him?”

“Right after we started setting up shop out here, he was on-station for about a month: always sniffing around, like a security inspector or engineer. Didn’t talk much, never gave an order, but always looking, examining, watching. He was the one who wrote the specs on the facility’s secrecy protocols: that if any of us entered the Restricted Work Zone—the lair of the Big Secret itself—that we had to be removed from general circulation. At least until the Big Secret isn’t a secret any more. I think he was also the one who suggested building it out here on Eureka in the first place.”

“Well, he sure as hell picked a crappy place.”

“Which was his intention, I’m sure. Easy enough to get to Mars from here, and vice versa, but not really on anyone’s flight path, so you see intruders well in advance. Now, you said you heard a second name?”

Mendez looked sideways at Grim. “You know that guy Wasserman, the professor who—”

Grim leaned forward before he could stop himself. “Robert Wasserman? The physicist?”

“High energy physicist—and engineer. Nobel nominations last two years in a row.”

“So you think the minority scuttlebutt is true?”

Mendez shrugged. “Well, I guess the Big Secret could be a starship, Sarge.”

Grim leaned back so energetically that he almost floated into a backwards somersault out of his seat. Robert Wasserman. And Darryl Wilder. Both out here in the Martian L-5 wasteland. What besides a secret FTL project could explain their presence? And it would also explain why the other blocs were having trash-heaving hissy fits about being kept at arm’s length. If they knew that the Commonwealth was getting close to achieving faster than light travel—

But Mendez wasn’t done. “And everyone at the debrief was worried, Sarge. Real worried.”

Hearing Mendez’s tone and words, Grim suddenly felt the first creeping fingers of contagious anxiety. “They were worried? About what?”

“About this solar storm.”

Grim tried not to scowl, failed. “Jee-zus; what the hell is it with this storm? With these hourly updates on expected EMP and rad levels, you’d think we’d never seen a flare before.”

“Sarge, this isn’t a flare: this is a CME. A big one.”

When transferred hastily into the brand-new ExoAtmo Corps six years ago, Grim had managed—blissfully—to sleep through all the space science crap served up by the rear-echelon weenies, so now he was compelled to ask: “So remind me: what’s the science behind a . . . a—?”

“A CME. A coronal mass ejection.”

“I know what it’s called,” Grim lied. “I asked for the science of it.”

Grim immediately regretted making that request, because Mendez—otherwise a good kid—sat a little straighter, and readied himself to deliver a Recitation of The Facts, as was his wont: he was bucking for OCS so hard that Grim wondered if he sometimes got whiplash from the effort. “A coronal mass ejection occurs when the sun actually heaves out a jet of plasma. Much worse than a flare: lots of EMP, hard radiation, and—-” Mendez actually shivered “—a big increase in cosmic rays.”

Now, finally, Grim understood Mendez’s anxiety. In the flippant vernacular of the Service, radioactive emissions were collectively known as “zoomies.” Cosmic rays, however, had their own special category: they were “ultra-zoomies.” Unless you were safe inside a (fantastically expensive) electromagnetically-shielded hull or habitat, you just prayed that the water tankage arrayed as shielding stopped all of those little nano-scale laser beams. And if it didn’t, you added a novena that the ultra-zoomie wouldn’t hit a chromosome and clip one of your telomeres too short, thereby kicking off the runaway cellular replication commonly known as cancer. Fortunately, that kind of damage was beyond prediction or control and was, therefore, just part of the random nonsense of the job. So Grim—a hardened veteran—wasn't disposed to worry about it. Much.

However, it meant they might have to wait out the storm in their one-room rad shack, safe behind its multi-layered radiation shielding. Designed to house—barely—a three-man team, its interior was an inhumanly cramped collection of long-range guidance and tracking computers, sensor and drone control consoles, and a single bunk. Its head was a constant source of black humor and savage derision: by comparison, the fresher of a commuter jet seemed positively palatial. On extended watches in the shack’s claustrophobic interior, even Grim had found himself beginning to reconsider the hazards of a spacewalk in exchange for a little extra room to stretch, and a change of scenery. But now he was about to find himself the middle of the biggest solar storm on record. He sighed, and found a way to conceal the rest of his ignorance: “Review time, Private Mendez: what are the special protocols for a CME?”

“Well, we’ll have to pull in the sensor and comm array or it will fry. No reason to leave it out, anyway: anything but laser-based comm and nav is going to be awash in static-soup.”

Grim shrugged “And it’s not like we have much to scan except the Mars trash.”

Mendez obviously tried to keep a frown from wrinkling his brow: he failed.

Grim glared at him. “What? Now you’re worried about the Mars trash, too?”

“Well, the brass is, Sarge. Seems like the other blocs are not dumping the trash anymore—at least not the way they were right after we posted Eureka as a no fly zone. Word is that just last week, Earthside HQ got on the horn with Admiral Riggen and tore him a new one. Threatened him with additional proctological modifications if he didn’t find where the trash was coming from and pronto.”

“God almighty, Mendez: it’s space. How hard can it be? You track back and—”

But Mendez was shaking his head. “The trash has changed, Sarge. Nothing too big, and no metals: all composites and plastics. Just a bunch of black bodies by the time it reaches us.”

The command circuit toned twice: coded traffic from Eureka Base, which was perpetually twelve kilometers behind them. The inevitable Junior Grade Lieutenant on the other end didn’t sound as bored as usual: “Shack Four, we are updating you on Priestley’s replacement. We’ve got a clearance snafu on our end; won’t get it resolved before the end of your watch.”

As Grim heard the first indignant words come out of his mouth, he realized that he was now shouting at an officer— as had happened too often throughout his career. It did not matter that the officer was a J.G. and therefore the service equivalent of pond scum: this pond scum still ranked him and could pull a “rocker” off the bottom of his stack of sergeant’s chevrons. Grim’s realization of this trailed a crucial second behind his shout of: “We’re going to be a man short because of a ‘clearance snafu’? What the hell kind of bullshit is that...sir?” Grim could hear the insincerity in the lagging honorific; knew the J.G. had heard the same. Oh well, Grim hadn’t really liked being a Master Sergeant anyway: too much paperwork.

“Sergeant Grimsby,”—the voice was markedly colder than the outside temperature—“Priestley can only be replaced by another member of his special duty team.”

“Special duty? What special duty?”

Mendez tapped his junk-rifle, muttered: “Sarge, he means the Cochrane. Carrying a field prototype of a weapon is special duty: along with Priestley, they only cleared five of us for—”

Grim rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Sir, are you telling me you won’t send out a replacement because you don’t have anyone else who’s permitted to carry around another of these dumb-ass guns?”

“Sergeant, I’m telling you I can’t send anyone who’s not a part of the field trial: the protocols are quite explicit.”

“Great: so we’re down to two men for the rest of the watch.”

Grim was surprised when the affirmation lagged, and then did not come. Instead, the J.G. said, “No; you’re down to one man.”

Grim looked at Mendez, who was already looking at him. Eyes narrowed, Grim asked the console coolly. “Say again, sir. Sounded to me like you said the duty watch in this shack is to be reduced to one.”

“That is correct, Sergeant.”

“That is a violation of our standing orders, sir. One man can’t oversee all the critical systems in the event of an attack. So—with all due respect—I am not going to leave Private Mendez out here on his own. He’s only been on station for—”

“Sergeant: you’re not leaving Private Mendez. He’s leaving you.”

Oh. Well. How very wonderful for me. “On whose order am I losing Mendez, sir?”

“Doesn’t say, Sergeant: the order to pull him off the line comes straight from Mars HQ. And he’s got to start back now. Otherwise he won’t make it inside before the hard weather hits.”

Mendez raised his chin, seemed ready to resist; Grim shook his head at the newbie once, sharply. “Understood, base. Mendez is on his way. Rad Shack Four out.”

The light that indicated a live carrier signal hadn’t winked out before Mendez launched into his protests. “But sir—”

“Mendez!”

“I mean, ‘but Sarge,’ this order just isn’t right—”

Grim was touched. “Listen, Esteban; I’ll be fine out here on my ow—”

“No, no: I mean that my recall order sounds fishy—and besides, it will invalidate the Cochrane’s field test.”

It made Grim all warm inside to realize that Mendez’s commitment to an experimental weapon was immeasurably greater than whatever concern he had for the continued well-being of his senior NCO. “Ah. The Cochrane.” That flimsy piece of shit. “Listen: if they were about to invalidate their precious test, they would have told you to leave it behind for me to babysit.”

“No, Sarge, something’s wrong with all this: no one has told the J.G. that, by ordering me in, he’ll invalidate the current trial phase. It makes even less sense that my recall order comes all the way from Mars HQ. And leaving you out here on your own? That’s blatantly against standing orders.” Mendez frowned. “I’m gonna look into all this back at base.”

“Which is where you’re heading now.” Grim snagged and handed the Cochrane up toward him.

Mendez, distracted, took a moment to realize what Grim was doing: then he shook his head. “No, Sarge: you keep it.”

I’d rather have a piranha in my pants. But Grim said: “Mendez, as you pointed out, I’m not cleared to—”

Ever-respectful Mendez interrupted, almost violently. “Sarge: keep the Cochrane. If—well, if anything happens out here, you might need it.”

Like I need a hole in my vacc suit. “I’m better off with my old—”

But Mendez had snatched up the weapon Grim was about to mention—an Armalite six millimeter caseless. “No, Sarge: I’m taking this one. You keep the Cochrane.”

“Mendez, you stop this nonsense. I’ve been using that Armalite since—”

But Mendez smiled an apology as he snugged his helmet, faceplate still up, over his head. “Sarge, the Cochrane is state of the art: liquid propellant, variable munitions and velocity. That makes it extremely versatile, and great—great—in zero-gee. Do you remember everything I told you about it?”

I hear your endless gushings in my sleep. “Some of it.”

“Then please: do this for me.” He checked the clock. “Mother of God; I’ve gotta go. Via con Dios, Sarge.”

Grim answered with a softer-than-usual grunt.

The airlock squealed open, and then complained once more as it was shut.

Leaving Grim quite alone in Rad Shack Four.

* * *

Forty-two minutes later, the external environment monitor started chiming. Grim pushed himself into a slow drift toward the console, looked at the radiation sensors, inspected the rem numbers on the real-time dosimeter—and blinked. As he reached over to silence the alarms, he kept his eyes on the unprecedented readings, and settled in to watch their equally unprecedented rate of increase.

—and bumped into the XM-1 Cochrane’s oddly vented flash-suppressor, which nudged cheekily against the side of his thigh. Grim scowled at it; okay, so it was cool to look at: a sleek, unipiece design. And, although he had refused to admit it to Mendez, he had read the specs on the weapon. If the hype had any resemblance to the truth, its nanyte-reinforced composites made it light and extremely rugged. But it still looked like some flimsy piece of crap out of a sci-fi B-movie of about a hundred years ago.

But, to hear the brass tell it, looks were apparently deceiving. With the liquid propellant stored separately from the warheads, the bullpup magazine held three times the usual number of rounds. No shell casings meant it was a sealed action, without breech or bolt: the liquid propellant was simply injected into the combustion chamber, making velocity—and therefore recoil—a function of how much was injected at any one time. The same combustion chamber was also used to boost bigger munitions out of the integral, underslung launch-tube. Grim wanted to call that a “grenade launcher” but every time he did, Mendez corrected him: apparently this miracle weapon was capable of launching a variety of other, rather exotic submunitions. The Cochrane could probably turn water into wine, too, given half a chance. Grim sneered down at it: yeah, you look fancy, and the specs look impressive, but you just won’t cut it as a sturdy tool. You look like—and probably are—a kid’s toy, not a real gun: all bells and whistles, but no balls for business.

The short-range radar emitted a strangled squawk: a partial contact, just at the edge of the system’s threshold. It was probably a marginal object that, tumbling, had presented a momentarily bigger cross-section for the radar to bounce off. But the system squawked again, and this time Grim saw what had tweaked it: a faint signature, range established at seven kilometers—no, six. Then the range indicator plummeted to three, jumped up to ten, and finally zeroed out for a recalibration as the whole screen surged brightly for a moment. As it faded back into its normal contrast ratios, Grim looked up at the external weather sensors: a corresponding surge in charged particles was dying down. Which suggested that the contact was maybe just an anomalous interaction between the storm and the trash, since the blip had been closing at the same rate, and along the same vector, as today’s unusually dense sampling of debris.

The radar pinged the object again: no doubt about it, now; something was out there. At the same moment, the rad indicators spiked, but this time, remained bright: the sensor’s overload alarm system chirped and an orange warning light glowed on the board. The automatic protection software had activated: in ten seconds, unless overridden, it would yank the combined sensor/comm mast back into a hardened Faraday cage. Grim watched the countdown ticker erode toward zero—but when it hit “4,” he reached over and turned the system off. The program hooted at him, asked him—in bright red block letters—“Do you wish to override the automatic safety?”

Did he? Really? Grim rubbed his stubbly chin. Well, of course he didn’t: if he kept the mast extended, there was a reasonable chance that its sensitive electronics would fry, and an equal (indeed, directly proportional) chance that the brass would fry him. That, along with the duty SOPs, should have decided the matter. But this situation—-with a mystery bogey inbound—was not the one envisioned by the armchair jockeys who had written the “standard procedures.” And that meant that Grim’s adherence to them was about to “fluctuate.”

Fluctuate. That was the term he had used during his first disciplinary hearing twenty-eight years ago, and had been using ever since. And he’d probably get busted another stripe for leaving the mast out today.

And what for? Was there really-–really—any danger? Even if a basketball-sized package of plastique slipped past his metal-obsessed sensors, and headed toward the Big Secret on Eureka, how could it engage a target with any precision? It would have to be invisible to radar, which meant there could be no metal in it, which meant no terminal guidance: if something was inbound, it would—-quite literally—-be nothing more than a shot in the dark. And with all the EMP activity, there’d be no way to command-detonate such a package, unless some mad scientist had come up with a strange new piezo-electric initiator, or maybe a switch activated by timed biological decay—

Like iron filings suddenly exposed to a magnet, Grim’s thoughts swiftly collected around the term “biological,” just as the short-range radar let loose a full squawk, and showed the same junk-blip still approaching—but on a slightly altered vector. Grim added the terms and concepts together: Biological. Change of vector. No reliable electric systems.

God damn, it was a live attack; in the midst of this solar typhoon, there were living, breathing saboteurs inbound, who had just corrected their course—

Grim reached out and tapped the dynamic button that would open the link back to base. Which produced no results. He tapped it again, then harder, then hammered at it. Nothing. He turned to the hardwired auxiliary console to his immediate right, flipped the toggle for the command line: a sudden wall of cat-scratch static prompted him to shut off the volume.

So: thanks to the weather, communications were out. Which meant he had no way to call for help, or send a warning, and, reciprocally, base would no longer be receiving automated status updates from the rad shacks and therefore would not check to discover why he had failed to retract his sensor/comm mast. He was alone—and only he had the knowledge, and therefore the opportunity, to act.

Grim leaned back slowly, checked the range and speed of the blip: given the one meter/second closure rate, he had about ten minutes to consider the problem, decide on a plan, and carry it out-—whatever it happened to be.

Grim turned to his tried-and-true first maxim of planning: know thy enemy—and he had to admit that he knew next to nothing about the approaching attackers. So, using what little data he had, could he induce or deduce any tactical intel from it?

First, given the detection range of Eureka’s main arrays, and the attackers’ rate of approach, they had not been inside any metal hull—shielded or otherwise—for at least a week. That meant that the attackers had floated in with the junk, using it as a moving smoke screen. And that, in turn, meant that this was a suicide mission: given the wholebody rem dosage the attackers had accrued during that extended approach, this solar storm meant their death from radiation sickness would be as certain as it was swift.

As peculiar as that conclusion seemed, Grim discovered that it was consistent with the emerging pattern of careful and meticulous planning evinced by his opponents. The timing of the attack indicated that it was designed to take advantage of the rising solar activity cycle, which had surprised the experts when it began a year ahead of its eleven-year cyclic schedule. Indeed, the attack unfolding now had probably been held in readiness for weeks, possibly months, until solar meteorology indicated the first, turbulent signs of an imminent coronal mass ejection. In the meantime, Eureka’s security forces had been lulled into a slow and inevitable complacency regarding the camouflaging trash flow, ultimately seeing it as just another part of their routine operating environment. And in retrospect, Priestley’s absence, and now Mendez’s, had probably been achieved by hacking, bribery, or both.

Given the attacker’s evident commitment and preparation, it was probable that their equipment was purpose-built for this mission, meaning that from weapons to vacc suits, it was almost entirely nonmetallic. However, complete thermal equalization and diffusion was more difficult to achieve in space, and might become a further problem due to the exclusion of all-metal components.

Which, Grim realized, meant that the attackers’ thermals might still be visible. He quickly snapped over to the slightly more robust thermal sensors. And there, mixed in with the slowly oncoming stream of trash, was a diffuse, almost invisible thermal bloom above the background, pointing inward toward Eureka like a finger.

It was also pointing straight at Rad Shack Four. Grim rechecked, confirmed the vector of approach. Although their target was unquestionably the Big Secret being built on Eureka, they were heading straight at him. Why?

The answer followed hard on the heels of the question: because the saboteurs surely knew about the rad shacks, and therefore knew that they needed to eliminate whichever one sat astride or closest to their point of penetration as they crossed through Eureka’s spherical security perimeter. Which meant that Rad Shack Four was no longer a haven: it was a coffin.

Oh, it still protected Grim from the rads, but that wasn’t the imminent danger, now. Thinking like the attackers, he somberly concluded that, in their place, he would certainly take out at least one rad shack to open a hole in Eureka’s outer defenses, and would do it with something quick and decisive. A high-explosive, armor-piercing missile would be the weapon of choice: it would easily penetrate the shack’s shielding and would bust it open like a pickaxe smashing through the shell of an unsuspecting mollusk.

Grim returned from his thoughts, facing down into the sensor screen over which he was perched. He placed both of his hands on its wildly flickering surface. Despite the pronounced veins and sturdy wrists, his lightly pebbled and very dark brown skin looked suddenly fragile as he concluded, I’ve got no choice: I’ve got to go out there, too.

Which seemed like suicide, on the one hand, because in this storm, EVA ops was the radiological equivalent of going outdoors during a hailstorm of razor blades. But if he remained inside his EMP-crippled rad shack, he could not defend himself or fight back: he could only wait to die.

Grim rose carefully from the seat, picked up his helmet, reached for his Armalite—and closed his hand on empty air. Oh. Right. Slowly, he turned to look at the Cochrane. Okay, then: you and me, bitch. And—for your sake—you’d better perform to spec, or you’re going to get very lost in deep space.

He reached down, picked up the weapon and moved toward the airlock, slaving the rad shack’s shaky sensor feed into his HUD relays as he went.

* * *

Exiting the airlock, Grim controlled the first, transient wave of nausea that always surged up when he went EVA: no up, no down, and the black forever all around him. The stars only made the distance and solitude more absolute. Why so many people—from the earliest astronauts to the current day—were thrilled by “space-walks” was beyond him.

The distant sun—a small, painfully incandescent nickel—peeked into his helmet, rising up over the lower rim of the faceplate as he manually dogged the hatch and resteadied himself. He had a full MMU on his back, but the less activity and motion he engaged in, the better. Right now, surprise was an advantage, so high-energy maneuvers of any kind were out of the question.

Using the external handholds, he towed himself back down into the shadow, and then around behind the rad shack, placing its mass between himself and the approach vector of the saboteurs. Once there, he checked the rad shack’s sensor feed in his helmet: not good. Whether it was the sensors failing or the EMP interference, the data skipped sideways, winked out, came back, fizzled, leaned, then straightened and remained momentarily, quaveringly, readable—before it commenced its weird free-form dance all over again. But in that brief moment of clarity, Grim had seen the oncoming blip: larger now, and shaped like a lumpy, collapsed quatrefoil. There were four of them? Maybe it was just another sensor glitch—

But it probably wasn’t, because it made perfect sense. It was just the right number: one heavy weapons expert, a backup expert who was probably carrying the missiles they planned to use on the Big Secret, and then two combat specialists. The combat personnel would be specially trained in EVA weaponsplay—which, given the way that conventional firearm recoil sent you tumbling ass-over-ankles in zero-gee, was not a common or easily acquired skill. Those muscle-boys would provide cover for the other two, distract and/or neutralize responding defense forces, maintain situational awareness. The guys with the missiles would be monomaniacally focused on their equipment and their target. And in one more minute they would reach the 2000-meter range mark: a logical distance from which to eliminate the rad shack.

Meaning it was time for Grim to get a little distance from the shack, but without using his high-signature MMU. Grim placed both feet against its hull and reached down to grasp the handhold on either side of him as he coiled his body into a tight squatting position. Then he simultaneously released the hand holds and pushed as hard as he could with his legs.

As he shot away from the rad shack, he checked the HUD to see if there was any reaction from the blips; no new course changes, there—and then the whole display went black. Great. Either the commo signal was lost or the shack’s sensor system was finally fried; either way, it was all on him, now.

Which meant it was time to confront the Cochrane and its insanely diverse ammo bag. Clips of penetrators, expanders, nonlethals—those were pretty self-explanatory. Pulling up the top flap on the segmented grenade pouch, Grim laid a finger on an HE round, considered its use as both a weapon and a flare, rejected the tactic. Since Eureka’s own sensors would be pulled in, they wouldn’t see it. Instead, Grim selected two range-detonated flechette rounds, loaded them, and reasoned he should give the targeting system a quick check before trusting his life to it. He turned it on, and raised the integrated sighting scope to his right eye—

And held his breath. Whatever computer was silently working in the recesses of the Cochrane, it was apparently laboring overtime: multiple moving objects were quickly located optically, ranged and vector assessed by a laser ping, and a guidon indicated how to reposition the gun to acquire the closest target. Damned impressive—but still just a toy, Grim reminded himself.

He revised that opinion when the Cochrane flashed a new guidon into existence in what seemed like open space and indicated a cluster of four objects—which Grim himself still couldn’t see—closing at .97 meters per second at 2100 meters range. Sweet Jesus: unprompted, the Cochrane had found the attack force. Well, well, Grim thought, smiling at the gun, you’ve earned your continued existence—bitch.

The targeting display flickered, then reasserted shakily. The electromagnetic soup was getting to the Cochrane’s electronics: Grim switched off the power, and brought the scope back up to his eye.

Even through the faceplate, the unassisted sight-picture in the unusually wide eyepiece was still viable. At maximum magnification, the plain old mechanical scope was already picking out dark blotches moving across and occluding the background starfield where the targeting system had detected the intruders. Grim grunted in satisfaction: gotcha. He settled in to watch them, calculating that they would make their move within the minute, if his conjectures were correct. And so far, they had been—except for one unsolved tactical variable: where was the ship from which the attackers had deployed, and how had it stayed both out of sight and out of the trash stream?

Grim glanced sideways at the scattered, tumbling bits of irregular blackness and grayness that were the trash stream—and suddenly he knew the answer: the attackers’ “ship” was floating past him right now. Their ship was now part of the junk. Sure: each of them had been sealed and launched in a self-disassembling pod with a hull of composites and plastics. It had had rudimentary thrust, life support, comestibles, and was set on a ballistic course, so it required no guidance. When the attackers neared the range at which Eureka’s arrays might pick them out, they (figuratively speaking) pulled their ripcords and let the pods fall—or rather, float—to pieces around them. That way, they could probably have approached to within about three hundred kilometers before getting into their vacc suits and preparing for—

The attack began with a sudden burst of vapor, centered on a bright flash which bloomed and then arced out from the midst of the attackers: a rocket, speeding toward the rad shack. Grim flinched away as a blinding flash coronaed up from the far side of the boxy module, knocking it into a slow tumble as papers and pulped electronic parts vomited out of the huge, jagged rupture in its side.

Time to return the favor. Grim reactivated the targeting system, leaned into the Cochrane’s sights again, ready to fire—but was surprised to see a question mark glowing on the right margin of the display overlay, underscored with the legend “0G opt?” Grim wanted to spit: goddamn, was this weapon busted already? Goddamned tinker toy piece of sh—

Oh, no, wait: Mendez had told him about this. The weapon sensed profound changes in ballistic conditions—such as gravity—and would ask if you wanted an optimum solution. So: “0G opt?” was obviously offering him an optimal firing solution for zero gee. Well, that seemed like a good idea: he edged his thumb up to the “accept” button behind the handgrip, pressed it. The query blinked away.

Grim focused on the four attackers again: they were at 1400 meters range and still clustered. He reasoned he might get two of them with a flechette grenade. But how to access the launcher?

The needed information arose as chapter and verse from Mendez’s endless worship of the Cochrane: “You’ve got three settings, Sarge: main weapon, launcher, or integrated. Just adjust this dial down here—”

Grim did. The Cochrane identified the ready round in the launcher: a laser-controlled, range-detonated flechette grenade. It computed the ballistics—which were pretty clean in free space—and superimposed the firing solution on the current scene: it painted a dim red cone on top of two of the attackers’ vector-projected plots at the time of warhead discharge. Then the image fuzzed, almost disappeared: another EMP surge. Damn: moment of truth. Grim snapped the safety off, lined up the weapon until the guidon told him his aimpoint matched the indicated firing solution, and squeezed the trigger—just as the targeting image flickered and winked off for good.

For a split second, Grim was sure—again—that the weapon had malfunctioned: the almost imperceptible jolt from the underslung launcher barely tumbled him. But no, he could see the grenade moving briskly downrange. But wait a minute: he could see it? How was that possible? Why was it going so slowly—?

And then he realized that, in zero-gee, the optimal firing solution was not as dedicated to maximizing accuracy as it was concerned with minimizing recoil: the munition had been fired with only a tiny bit of force.

Grim, now moving backward more rapidly, and in a very slow tumble, entertained the brief hope that, because of the minimum discharge from the launcher, that it—-and his position—-would remain undetected by the attackers. No such luck: a mere second after his counterattack, the infiltrators turned toward him, weapons flickering. He twisted his head to keep them under observation: the muzzle flashes were very small, and seemed to occur in short, angry sequences: probably small-caliber weapons, with a maximum three-round burst setting. All common features in zero-gee firearm designs that—ever unsuccessfully—tried to minimize the recoil of conventional rounds. A few self-oxidizing tracers indicated the vector of the fire, which dropped off: having seen that they were wide of their mark, the attackers were no doubt using their own MMUs to correct their tumble before reaiming—

Almost precisely where Grim had seen the sparkle of their weapons, there was a barely visible flash, from which extended a small, lateral vapor plume: his flechette grenade. As Grim rolled up slowly toward direct alignment again, he brought the scope up to his eye.

Seen at the visual equivalent of fifty meters, one of the figures he had targeted was thrashing spasmodically. Whether or not he was wounded, it was pretty clear that his suit was vented, probably multiple times. The other figure was a stark contrast: motionless, arms widening slowly, some object—his personal weapon?—had begun to free-float away on a slightly altered vector of its own. The third attacker, who had been at the edge of the area of effect, was also engaged in rapid motions, but these were brisk and methodical, not desperate. Probably one of the missile specialists trying to change over to his personal weapon.

As Grim completed his first full 360 degrees of tumble, he switched over to the Cochrane’s main barrel and briefly considered using his own MMU to restabilize. But if he did so, he would lose the advantage of getting in another shot before they were ready to respond. On the other hand, taking another shot would make his own tumble worse. Mendez had mentioned something about rear-angled compensator jets for zero-gee firing stabilization—sort of like a mini-bazooka back-blast that equalized the force of the muzzle discharge—but Grim couldn’t recall the details. And since Grim had no time to screw with it, he used what he knew: he spun the propellant dial to the lowest setting—minimum recoil, in case the automatic optimization system had been fried. Then, before he rolled up beyond his current position of direct alignment with the target, he hastily lined up the attacker who had been outside the cone of flechettes, and fired four quick rounds.

Grim was surprised—and relieved—to find that most of weapon discharge vectored him directly backward; as he fired, the muzzle brake’s cruciform nozzles selectively vented the Cochrane’s exhaust to precisely counteract any pitch, yaw, or roll changes to his trajectory. But the Cochrane’s system wasn’t perfect: possibly because Grim had rapped the rounds out so fast, there was still enough off-vector impulse to increase the rate and skew of his tumble.

As he came around on his first, faster, slightly cockeyed rotation, Grim panned the scope across what he estimated had been his target area. At first, he saw nothing—then a faint white plume: he swept back toward that. The plume disappeared briefly, then appeared again, evidently rotating back into view. It was a punctured air-tank: the rapidly venting gases had thrown its wearer into an accelerating spin and were carrying him on a very divergent trajectory. Judging from the figure’s already muted writhings, he wouldn’t live to see where his new heading took him. Grim guessed that he had hit more than just the backpack unit.

But now, as Grim continued his own knees-over-nose rotation, he faced two alternatives—neither of which had promising outcomes. Grim could either wait until he completed another somersault, try to access the last target through the Cochrane’s scope (unlikely, given his increasingly erratic tumble) and score some more hits (profoundly unlikely, for the same reason); or, he could let the Cochrane float on its lanyard while he grabbed for his MMU controls to correct his tumble—and thereby allow the other guy to finish getting his personal weapon readied and aimed, and thereby beat Grim to the probably fatal punch. But wait: Mendez had once said, “And here’s the beauty part, Sarge; you can use the Cochrane to correct your tumble—”

—And then Grim was following his memories of Esteban’s instructions, just as they came to him, word by word—

“First you set the magazine feed to ‘off’—”

—Grim did—

“—so that when you squeeze the trigger, the Cochrane’s muzzle works just like a little rocket. And to counterboost, you just reorient yourself so you’re facing into the direction of your tumble—”

—Grim swung his left arm out, imparting enough spin to turn his body around—

“—-then aim into the vector you need to correct—”

—Grim aimed down into the direction of his roll and slightly to one side—

“—and fire.”

Grim squeezed the trigger, leaned into the light recoil, felt his rotational speed drop, saw that the yaw had almost disappeared. He straightened out the tube, fired two more times. And was almost perfectly stabilized. He threw his left arm back across his body to turn around again—toward the enemy—and, engaging the magazine feed, brought the weapon up to his right eye.

He got his left hand back on the forestock, saw the starfield sweep past in the scope, caught a glimpse of movement—and then spotted a silhouette against the stars, head hunched down as if taking aim. Hail Mary, now. Grim thumb-selected autofire, twisting at the waist to keep the barrel on-target. He saw angry little flickers coming from the silhouette as he fired.

Even the Cochrane’s compensators couldn’t keep up with a full-automatic barrage of thrust-generating discharges. Grim tumbled backward—and felt a sharp slap to the back of his head as the spinning began. That slap was probably death’s calling card: the attacker’s first accurate round had hit Grim’s helmet—luckily in the tough rear-plating, probably burrowing into the command electronics for his now useless computer and HUD. But the next round would probably hit something that was soft, would puncture, would release air, would leak blood: would kill him.

But that next round never came.

* * *

After correcting his madcap cartwheels with the MMU, and maneuvering into the solar lee of a small rock that dutifully followed the ruined Rad Shack Four in its slow orbit of the distant sun, Grim waited. And waited. And contemplated his probable wholebody rem dose. And waited some more.

Almost a full hour later, base finally sent a shielded pinnace out to nose among the rocks in the vicinity of Rad Shack Four. When it got within five hundred meters, Grim toggled his radio, heard the faint hum of the carrier wave under the EMP static, and said, “Hey. Over here.”

After a moment of silence, there was the inevitable request for the day code, the countersign, and a curt request from a new voice: “Sitrep, Sergeant Grimsby.”

“Uh—who is this?”

“Sergeant Grimsby, my name is Darryl Wilder. I’m—”

“Yes sir; I know who you are, sir.”

A pause. “Very well. Proceed.”

As the pinnace made its slow retroboosting approach, Grim proceeded to give the most respectful, thorough, professional, and utterly boring sitrep of his entire career to date. At the end, he even managed to forget about the rads sleeting through his body long enough to ask, “Any idea who was behind this, Mr. Wilder?”

“No hard evidence yet, but I’d say it was the megacorporations.”

“Corporate? Why? Are they afraid you won’t let them sell Big Macs on Alpha Centauri?”

There was a long pause. “Sergeant, you seem very sure that our construction project at Eureka has something to do with interstellar travel.”

Oops. “Uh...sorry, sir.”

“Sorry?”

“Shouldn’t have said that on open channel, sir.”

“Hmm...no, you shouldn’t have. But your conclusion, and your presence of mind, is promising. So, it seems, is the Cochrane.”

Grim stared as the gun; the approaching bow lights of the pinnace glinted off its selector switch: it seemed like a bright, conspiratorial wink. “Yeah, well—it was okay.”

“`Okay’? Sergeant, from what our first readable scans are showing, it seems like it was the star of the show.”

“Sure—but, with all due respect, Mr. Wilder, what if the Cochrane hadn’t worked?”

“Just be glad that it did work, o ye of little faith,”—-an expression which made Grim wince: that had been his Grandmama Rayshawne’s signature tag-line, so it just didn’t sound right coming from a man—“because if you had had your old Armalite-6, you would have had to conduct a full MMU tumble correction after every shot. How many shots do you think you could have taken that way?”

“Uh—two. Maybe.”

“Yes, ‘maybe’—with a capital ‘M.’ Either way, two shots would have been two too few: they came at you with four attackers. A conventional zero-gee weapon couldn’t have engaged them all. But the Cochrane could—and did. You were right to have Mendez leave the Cochrane behind, even if it was against regs.”

“Uh, sir—”

“Yes?”

Grim paused: the smart thing to do was to take the credit for keeping the Cochrane at the shack. But—maybe because he had just recalled Grandmama Rayshawne belting out “Sweet Bye and Bye” at Church—he said, “Sir, I didn’t think of keeping the weapon at the shack. That was Mendez.” With any luck, that would earn Esteban enough brownie points for his OCS nod, allowing him to become a less-than-typically detestable shave tail—if he lived long enough.

Wilder was still talking. “Well, your actions certainly proved that Mendez made the right choice.”

“Yes, sir, but I did break a few regs.”

“Well, I’m not your CO, but it seems to me that if we don’t bust you, we’re going to have to decorate you.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Well, in addition to single-handedly defeating a sabotage attempt on what everyone will soon know as FTL Project Prometheus, you just gave the Cochrane a field test the likes of which no weapon has ever had—either in terms of what was demanded of it, or how well it performed. The testing team at Eureka look like they stole grins off a Cheshire cat: they’re talking about sequestering and debriefing you for a whole week. But before that, we should have a talk about your future. How does that sound?”

The talk about his future sounded almost as good as the sequestered debrief, which meant a soft, solo bed in officer’s country and real chow, instead of the gruel and grey walls of the brig he had been expecting to inhabit for the foreseeable future. “That sounds fine, sir.”

* * *

What Wilder hadn’t mentioned about Grim’s future was that, in the immediate short term, his trip to Eureka included a one way journey past numerous hatches and checkpoints he’d only seen the outside of, and some of which he had no idea existed. That hasty trip ended in an infirmary more clean and more modern than anything he had ever seen—even in those bullshit technothriller vids where high-tech medical facilities are always sterile white, indirectly illuminated by pale blue and even indigo lights. This sick bay made those slick Hollywood sets look like piss-poor imitations.

However, surface glitz did not change the invariable indignities of being in a medical facility. He was poked, prodded, run under, through or in front of a bewildering variety of machines, filled with fluids, and then had those or his own fluids drawn, drained, or deposited.

At the end of it all, the medtechs left him alone with chow that was better than what he was used to, but nowhere near so fine as he had imagined, and dressed in a gown that would have embarrassed a half-witted three-year-old. Still, he was making fair progress with the small portions and was reflecting that no matter how you dressed it up, you just couldn’t make jello look or taste new or improved, when the privacy tone chimed. “Who is it?” Grim growled.

“Darryl Wilder.”

Oh, shee-it. “Please come in, sir. Sorry if I sounded impatient. I was—”

Wilder, a little blond hair still glinting dull gold amidst the full collection of silver, grinned and waved airily as the door slid open. And now Grim was really scared: he’d never seen Wilder smile. He’d never seen anyone that high in the military-intel food chain smile. Not unless they were trying to scam you or deliver bad news. Both of which could be imminent, Grim figured.

Wilder sat beside Grim’s bed. “How do you feel, Master Sergeant Grimsby?”

“Uh, fine sir.”

“Good. But you won’t in a little while, I’m afraid.”

“The rads, sir?”

“I’m afraid so. Nowhere near a lethal or permanently debilitating dose, but the next week doesn’t promise to be a lot of fun. Of course, we can’t really know how your body will react: radiation effects are a bit of a wild card at this level of exposure.”

Well, that was true. But there were other issues that had clearer numbers attached to them. Grim steeled himself and asked the question he had hoped he’d never need to ask: “What are my long-term health prospects, sir?”

Wilder’s gaze became thoughtful. “Realistically, no one can say. But the actuarial studies say that your little jaunt took something like seven to ten years off your life. Of course, you could be paying that price in five years—or never: it’s a crap shoot.”

Easy to say when you’re not the one whose crap has been shot full of atom-sized holes. But Grim only said, “I see, sir.”

“Well, I’m not sure you do, Sergeant. We’re on the verge of putting a number of post-exposure radiation-repairing drugs on trial that could sufficiently improve those odds.”

“But sir, how could that be? I always heard that rad exposure was like spilt milk: you could cry over it, but there wasn’t much use doing so, because the damage was already done.”

Wilder nodded. “Except now there are therapies that may make it possible to replenish the lost milk.”

“Sir?”

“Okay, Sergeant Grimsby: I’ll abandon the analogies. Straight talk: third generation gene therapies have led to a new line of drug research that can spur the body’s intracellular mechanisms to detect and perform limited repairs upon telomere damage.”

Grim goggled. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, then sign me up for the trials—sir.”

Wilder smiled. “Well, about that: I have good news and I have bad news.”

See? When the big bosses smile there’s always a hitch . . . “Well, I think you’ve already shown me the good news, sir: there’s a way to repair some or all of the damage I sustained from the CME. But I can’t see the downside, not from where I’m sitting in this hospital bed.”

Wilder sighed, the smile diminished but did not disappear. “The downside, Sergeant, is that you can’t be part of the trial.”

“What? Why not? I should be perfect for it, given what just—“

“Sergeant, it has nothing to do with your condition. It has to do with your location.”

“Well—yes, sure, sir: I don’t suppose they want a test subject out on Mars, and at a secure government facility, no less. But like you said, I might be in line for a decoration. If so, then I’m guessing I might be able to ask for a long enough leave to be part of the trial—”

“Sergeant, where are you? Right now, and precisely: where are you?”

“Sir? I’m right here on Eureka.”

“More precise than that.”

“Well, let’s see: after going through those high-security hatches, I’m probably beyond the primary ops hub and in the—“ Oh. Grimsby’s flesh became very cold very quickly. I’m inside the Restricted Activity Zone. Shit. “I understand, sir—but honestly, what have I seen? There’s no reason to keep me under wraps when I haven’t even—“

Wilder shook his head. “No exceptions, Sergeant Grimsby. Personnel who enter the Restricted Activity Zone must remain sequestered for the duration of the project’s secrecy. I believe that is part of the speech you yourself have been giving to incoming security personnel for almost three years now, isn’t it?”

Grim felt that he might throw up. “Yes, sir.” Which really means, “Yes, sir, I will sit here, or in some safe-house or secure base, for months or years, waiting to see what will happen first: the Big Secret becomes common knowledge, or one of my cells goes haywire and does me in.”

“So,” finished Wilder. “Being part of the trials is out of the question.” Then his voice changed, became almost whimsical. “Of course, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be part of the trial, anyway—not when I also have the option of getting the final, proven drug, instead.”

Grimsby looked up. “Uh . . . what are you saying, sir? That the Big Secret is really a time machine, and you’re going to give me a quick ride into the future?”

“No: as you guessed and I confirmed, the Big Surprise really is a starship. But that doesn’t stop me from giving you a ride into the future. A one way ride, however.”

Grim frowned, then felt his heart rise even as his stomach sank. “Cryogenic sleep?”

Wilder nodded, and the touch of whimsy was stronger; it was even in his face, now. “Exactly. We can schedule you to be revived only after the drug trials are over and a proven compound exists.”

“Can you really do that? I mean, I thought that long-duration cold sleep was dangerous for someone who is, well, injured or at risk. That the shock can kill them.”

“Sergeant, what was the first thing I asked you when I entered this room?”

Oh. Yeah. “You asked me how I felt, sir.”

“Still feel as fine as you did then?”

“No effects yet, sir,” Grim reflected. “Well, not from the radiation, anyway.”

Wilder nodded. “You’re feeling conflicted because you don’t know what will be left of your old life when you are ultimately reanimated.”

Grim nodded, but had to admit: how much was he really leaving behind? His one ill-advised marriage—an idiotic furlough fling that had ended the next year in a childless divorce. And he didn’t have much family to speak of. Certainly no one who went out of their way to keep track of Grimsby Elder. And hell, he’d get a chance to see the future—a future with starships and journeys to other worlds, and wonders he had not even imagined.

Which, he realized as he looked up and met Wilder’s eyes, was where the older man’s whimsy came from: it was actually a kind of amicable envy. “Sure, sir,” Grim finally answered. “Cold sleep sounds like a fine option. And I guess that it will certainly ‘take me out of circulation’ as per the specifications for anyone who enters the Restricted Activity Zone.”

Wilder nodded. “Yes; it is indeed all according to spec, Sergeant. Now: any questions before we prepare you? We don’t want to waste any time; the doctors need to start slowing your cellular functions before your body starts registering the rads.”

Grimsby thought for a moment. “Just one question, sir. The starship—“

“The Prometheus,” Wilder supplied with a smile.

“Yes, the Prometheus. Why make it a Big Secret at all, sir? Why put it behind the black curtain for the last five years? Up until then, everyone knew the Commonwealths were working on advanced spaceflight technology. But then all of a sudden, the project went dark, and the other political blocs started raging at us to share our research. Why not have the whole planet in on the effort?”

Wilder smiled, waved a hand at the door, inviting Grim to rise and follow him. “That’s an interesting question, Sergeant, and one that the rest of the world has been asking for a few years now. And because you’re going where you can’t tell anyone until it no longer matters, I can share the answer with you: we did it to piss them all off.”

“What? Why would you want to do that?”

“To make them push harder on their own, Sergeant. You’ve trained recruits, you know how it is: you give them an easy way, they take it. Pretty similar for any kind of larger achievement, too. By being forced to conduct their own research, to take their own chances, the other blocs have pushed forward the sum total of human knowledge on how to build what Robert Wasserman is calling a ‘shift drive.”

“And together with them, you’ve solved the problems?”

Wilder laughed. “Oh no; we’ve already solved the problems on our own.”

“What?”

“We conducted the first successful trials about a month ago. I suspect some intel on that leaked, and might have triggered the attack today. I suspect it was an attempt to break our research momentum, force us to rebuild before we can advance further.”

“Then what was to be gained from pissing off the other blocs into accelerating their own programs?”

“It gave humanity a number of different perspectives upon the same set of problems. Sure, we’ve already built a drive that works. But when we finally share our information with them, and vice versa, humanity will be able to construct a far more refined second generation drive. And besides, because they think we’re holding out on them, they’ll rush out into the stars as quickly as possible, determined not to be left behind.”

“But that could start a . . . an interstellar stampede, a land-grab frenzy.”

In response to which Wilder only smiled broadly.

“You mean, you want that to happen?”

Wilder nodded. “Of course we do. Look, Sergeant, for reasons I can’t go into, we—all of humanity—needs to get out among the stars as quickly, as vigorously, as possible. Nothing will achieve that faster than an initial phase of intense, even fearful, international competition to do so.”

Grimsby grunted as they left the infirmary section and started moving into what looked like a cross between a factory floor and landing bay. “I hope that doesn’t ignite a war, sir.”

“Me, too, Sergeant. It’s not without risk—but it’s a pretty manageable risk when you can simply turn around and give—literally give—your competitors almost everything they wanted. And you’ll be there to see what comes of it all. Maybe from a planet circling a distant star, if you want to give us a release to send you out beyond this system.”

“Yes, sir. I’d—I’d like that a lot, sir.”

“Good. Now, one last thing about your action earlier today.” They were approaching rows of lab benches, the Cochrane’s eager technicians staring at Grim, nodding, whispering behind cupped hands. “About the experimental weapon you used. Its primary engineers are standing right over there and they need to find out if there were any failures or shortcomings with the Cochrane. Of course, given your pressing date with a cold cell, it turns out we can’t wait long enough to let them debrief you, now. So I promised them I’d ask for a performance assessment before we started prepping you. Sergeant, did the Cochrane fall short on any of its design parameters? Or did it perform to spec?”

Grim looked over at the lab bench on which the gun itself was resting, like a revered object on an altar surrounded by eager acolytes in white coats. “Yes sir, it performed to spec.” Just like I’m doing now. Then—when he was sure no one was looking—he grinned. And he thought:

Yeah; definitely to spec.

Acknowledgements:

For expert opinion and information on the topic of solar weather in general, and the effects of coronal mass ejections in specific, the author gratefully acknowledges the input of: Dr. Gordon Holman, NASA Goddard Space Flight Center; Lt. Col. Peter Garretson, USAF; and Russell Howard, a principle investigator in the USN’s SECCHI (Sun-Earth Connection Coronal Heliospheric Investigation) initiative.

Skyspark

A Short Story of Boundary Series

By Ryk E. Spoor

i. Worldshake

Blushspark clung tightly to Bluntspear's broad, rough back; the big, stolid haulfin gripped even more tightly onto the mass of wild spearweed, as the world roiled around her. Spearweed. Good choice, Bluntspear, good choice. That won't break off in your arms.

Of course, that wouldn't save them if this part of Hotwall collapsed. She could hear the deep-thunder splitting of rock in the distances, a sudden shrieking of a vent pinched almost shut; her skin visioned the panicked movement of flakefish and giant orvanel, discharges of life-signals bright and urgent; she thought she picked up Jetgrab's cursing from the other side of the valley. And above all, the sharp, shattering, groaning howl as the sky broke far above.

This is the worst worldshake I've ever felt. Worse than anything the Elders, even Steadyglow, ever told about. Worse than anything I've read about in the Archives!

A shockwave of current erupted from the depths below, and she felt both her and Bluntspears' grips beginning to slip. No! If we let go –

If they let go, the currents could carry them anywhere – smash them to pieces against rocks, suffocate them in concentrated feedfumes, even into a fresh vent to burn alive or to the sky where they might vanish.

The clump of spearweed began to lift, telling her that part of the bedrock had come loose.

But before their anchorage was entirely torn away, the current hesitated, shifted, and began to die down. The water was now so clouded that she could barely make out Bluntspear's panicked flickerings under her own body, less than a quarter-spear from her higheye. She chirruped and fluttered against him, reassuring him with bright flashes. "Good Bluntspear. GOOD work. We're going to be okay."

The world was still echoing all around with the movement of sky and continuing fall and settle of the ground. But in a moment or two, she could pick out a familiar long-voice hum. "Blushspark? Blushspark!"

"I'm all right, Jetgrab," she answered, unable to keep a small, uncontrolled tremble from her resonances. "You?"

A vibration of terrified amusement. "The cave I was hiding in collapsed but I got out." The voice was hard to understand at this range, but they'd been playmates almost since they hatched, so she could make out the words.

The thought of being inside a cavern when that happened. . . She shuddered, her body vibrating from the end of her tailgrips all the way to the tips of her fingers. "Spirits and Ancestors!"

"No harm." He tried to make it sound casual, not succeeding very well. "Lot more exciting than our game of Earth Against Sky usually is."

She couldn't argue that. "We'd better get back; I can't hear the pod from here, so there must be a lot of turbulence and maybe heatwaver coming up."

"There is. Concentrate on the highband – where we look for zinties, about – and you'll be able to hear the waver." "We'll have to go all the way around Hotwall, I think." His voice was suddenly uncertain. "You're the one who lives in the Archives, Blush… is this as bad as I think?"

She wanted to reassure him, but she couldn't lie. "This felt worse than anything I've read about."

In a tone so quiet she could barely make it out through the still-chaotic noise around, he said, "Then the pod…"

The horrifying possibility had already occurred to her. "We can't tell. We have to hope that it's just the disruption."

His tones firmed up; "You're right. But they'll want us home fast."

She'd been getting enough echoes from him now that she could catch his space fairly well. "You're a long ways ridgeward from me; wouldn't make much sense for us to join up now. You take the far end and I'll take the near."

"You sure?"

"I've got Bluntspear, remember? Even a full-size Orekath isn't going to just charge him without warning. You take care of yourself."

"You too. See you back at Seven Vents." A hesitation, then, "And if… well, if anything's gone wrong, we meet at Twinevent, okay?"

She listened; the rippling pulse of Twinevent was still clear, probably above the worst of the disruption. "Okay."

They tried to keep up their communications, but once they started going around Hotwall the resonances died off. Might even be an inversion around the Vent area for a while; that will make long-distance talking hard and maybe smelly breathing, too.

She guided Bluntspear carefully, using echopings sparingly; despite the massive haulfin's stalwart presence, she knew it would be exceedingly unwise to draw attention to her presence here, alone and separated from a pod. The worldshake might make predators hide or lose interest. . . or might have put them to a fever-pitch of panic and hostility, prepared to defend territory or attack any threat without thought or care. She wasn't exactly a warrior – she was more interested in building things, exploring things, thinking things, and like Jetgrab had said, reading the Archives and understanding things – and this was a pretty scary situation.

At least I kept the catchbag! Hate to lose all those rockbites. The rockbites looked, and to a casual soundping even sounded, like chunks of rock, but inside was some of the best meat to be found on all of Hotwall, and she'd gotten lucky and found a whole bed of the creatures. Whenever she and any of the other midsters – children her age, not quite adults but old enough to do useful things – were out playing Earth Against Sky, or Orekath Chase, or anything else, it was expected they'd bring back something for the Pod, too. And the Archive-reading told me a trick for locating the rockbites without having to guess.

Heatwaver ahead. She could also hear the squeaky groaning of a vent, and warmer water buffeted her with the sharp tang of ventsmoke and feedfumes. Focused pings gave a return that told her it was a narrow band of waver, so she squeezed Bluntspear's top arm twice.

The big haulfin gathered himself, taking such a large volume of water in that she could feel his whole body expand, and then blasting it out behind him with such force that she was almost torn off by the roaring passage of water. For an instant there was a flare of heat and stinging, concentrated ventsmoke, and then they were through, much cooler water as they passed over the edge of Hotwall and into the open water beyond.

The water was much clearer here, a down-current from above clearing the turbulence away. She could see all of Bluntspear easily; in fact, if there had been anything within twenty spears she could've seen it clearly, and probably blurry images for another thirty spears or so. And it was clearing even more. She cut her own glow as much as possible and stroked Bluntspear, who immediately dimmed to an almost invisible ghost.

Of course, most hunters wouldn't rely on eyesight; skinsight, sensing the very motions and interplay of movement that was life, and soundsight that could pinpoint and track, those were the tools of the hunter. . . and the hunted. She didn't sense anything dangerous near, but this would be the most dangerous part of her trip – farthest from the Pod and the Seven Vents region that was guarded and watched, in open water away from easy shelter. She pressed closer to Bluntspear, alert and tense.

Suddenly she sensed. . . something. It hummed in her skin, a warm yet piercing sensation that was terribly faint, maybe a thousand spears off, but growing slowly closer.

From above. Falling, from thousands of spears above.

Falling, and singing as it fell.

What is that?

She focused all her attention in that direction, risked a quick set of pings.

Nothing! There were no returns, nothing coming back, yet still the singing, haunting skinsight dropped, with a fluttering like a speared flakefish settling to the bottom.

An involuntary flash of blue-green awe and dread lit the water around her. Dropping from the Sky…

But that was all stories. Steadyglow and most of the other Elders were clear on that. There were no demons in the ground, they said, and nothing beyond the sky. It was a game, something she and Jetgrab had been playing just a little while ago, one of the games all the people had played when they were young.

But she'd been raised with the old stories, read them carved on weedrecords in the Seven Vents' Archives, and what was drifting down towards her was like nothing the Elders had ever described.

Nothing again. . . no, wait. Something. Something tiny!

The skin-singing thing was barely trackable, something she'd be able to grip between two fingers, but though it was still a hundred spears away its skinsong was like an entire school of brightswimmers.

And now she could see it. A glow was descending in slow, graceful spiral towards her, a glow of pure white light such as she had never even imagined, something that even the best lightshapers in her Pod would have strained to replicate for even an instant. Yet it glowed perfectly, steadily, shimmering ever clearer and brighter as it swung this way, then that, pirouetted and turned.

From the Sky. A Skyspark. There wasn't any other explanation; this was no fish, it was no hunter, it was nothing anyone had ever seen or heard or sensed, not in all the Archives, not in all the tales, only in legends that her people had relegated to children's tales ages ago.

She urged Bluntspear forward and up. Her hearts were rippling in overdrive, and her breath came as quickly as though she had been sprinting away from some terrible threat, so much water passing through her that she had to counterbalance the slight thrust. But I can't miss this! I can't!

As she got closer, she could see it looked almost like an eye, a round gleaming orb held by . . . something. Another thrill of awe went through here. Straight lines like that. . . smoothness and echo of something like deepglass, touches of spearstuff. . . it looks. . . carved.

She reached out towards it, even as Bluntspear shied and slowed, uncertain.

Without warning the Skyspark blinked and vanished; it seemed to her that it had first compressed, collapsed into itself and then exploded, a perfect shockwave of light and sound and skinthrill achingly beautiful in its purity. She felt a stinging in her high ridgeline and tasted something sharp, alien, bitter in the ocean.

The Skyspark was gone, the last echoes of its mystery dying away. She reached back and felt along her ridgeline, found . . . something stuck there. She couldn't quite pull it out, but it didn't hurt much.

She looked back up, into the empty, black void from which it had descended, and wondered. But now she also sensed faint skin-echoes approaching from farther out, and knew the Skyspark's beautiful death had called other things to it, and she felt a spurt of fear. Orekath!

She turned Bluntspear and urged him homeward as fast as he could swim, casting one last glance behind and up towards the place from whence impossibility had come.

ii. Questions.

"Vuundi!" came her mother's voice. "Oh, thank the Seas you're all right."

She let her mother twine arms and fingers around her, and didn't even protest the use of her given name this time. For a moment she just lay there, letting herself pretend to be a child, and breathed a ripple of relief. The Seven Vents still stand, the pod's all right.

"Hmmm, yes," said Steadyglow, his massive form slowly catching up to Heatdancer – Blushpark's mother. "We were concerned, especially when young Hurunnda got here ahead of you."

"Jetgrab's here? Good." She extricated herself from her mother's grip. "Is. . . is everyone else okay? Was anyone hurt?"

Steadyglow pulsed reassuringly. "A few minor injuries, and the east netcage pulled apart, so we've lost part of the farmschool, and the Archives will have to be reinforced again. But no serious injuries." His colors rippled pensively. "But unless fortune of the Sky has echoed widely, I fear we shall hear worse news from other pods."

She fumbled at her side and pulled the catchbag off Bluntspear's harness. "Here, Elder. Thirty rockbites."

"Ho, now, well done, and much needed now. But. . . what do I smell on you, Vuundi? Your shining flickers oddly, and your voice is trembling. Were you attacked?"

She saw the quick flash of rose that gave her the nickname of Blushspark; it always happened when she was nervous and embarrassed around the elders, and sometimes around the other midsters. "Not really, though there were some hunting orekath close once. But…"

She turned her ridgeline towards Steadyglow. "Elder Pollesi," she said, being properly formal, "Something is stuck in my ridgeline, and I . . . don't want to say anything until you look at it, smell it, sense it. I'm. . . not sure what is real, right now."

There was a reason the Elder was called 'Steadyglow'; nothing fazed him, nothing surprised him, and he never acted in haste or without great forethought. She could see him recognize just how serious she was by the fact that she was never this formal, and that meant that she felt this was important enough to speak of even with the need to recover from the worldshake.

"Very well, Vuundi-Blushspark. Hold yourself still, then."

He drifted over to her and concentrated on her; she could feel as well as hear the vibrations as he directed his own soundsight upon her.

"Extraordinary," he said after long moments. "It is . . . an object, a fragment, of something, perhaps a finger's width and length. I have never sensed anything quite like it, and the smell that clings to it is…" he trailed off, then flickered a smile. "Unique. Sharp, deep, strange. It was driven into you with considerable force; you are fortunate indeed that it has done no real damage. I can see where it has penetrated and if you wish I will remove it."

"Let me do that, Elder," her mother said, to her relief. Steadyglow was wise and kind, but one of the things he wasn't was a trained healer, unlike Heatdancer. "Now hold still. Let me get out a stickyseal." She pulled one of the squashy blobs – squeezed from one of the creatures that lived right on the edges of the Vents – and held it in the fingers of one arm as she gently twined fingers of the second around the fragment of the Skyspark and then braced herself with her third arm and her tailgrips to give a quick pull. There was a spark of pain, echoed in her own light, and then the stickyseal was pressed down, stopping the bleeding and soothing the pain.

She didn't have to ask for the shard; her mother knew her well, and handed her the sharp-pointed thing, curved and white and strange.

Many of the others had gathered by now, and were staring in confusion at the tiny enigma. "You have a story to tell us, I think."

"Yes, I do." She breathed in and out, letting the water flutter around her, calming herself, remembering. Then she began to speak.

When she was done, even the less-excitable members of the Pod were flickering in rose and blue. "A Skyspark?" Steadyglow said finally, slowly. "A light that fell from the Sky?"

"I don't know what else to call it, Elder," she said. "It sang in light and skinsight. I can't even echo that light, really. It was something like this," she did the smallest, brightest, purest pulse she could, "but that's nothing, not even close, it's muddy and unclear and dull compared to what the Skyspark was like."

"Hmm, yes. May I see that . . . shard again?" He took the extended object, passed it near his sensing spiracles, down his own senseline, held it close to his eyes and shone light on it from all angles. "Blushspark, you have always been truthful, and this is indeed something beyond our knowledge. Yet. . . this thing looks to me as though it was made, though I cannot imagine of what, or how. It does not seem to be part of – if you will pardon me for speaking what is obviously in your mind – some ineffable creature from the Sky, that helped place our Middle World between the Earth and Sky."

She couldn't restrain the blush at all this time, and the water around her was rosy for a moment. "Sir, I –"

He laughed gently, pulsing in red and orange. "I am not making fun of you, Blushspark. Your description. . . was almost poetic, and you have gone through something indeed vastly stranger than I think any of us can understand, so it would be even more strange if thoughts of our legends did not come to you. But you yourself have sought understanding as much as any your age, delving into the histories, reading the Archives until your mother dragged you out on more than one occasion. What do you think?"

She smiled gratefully at the Elder. "I. . . don't know, Elder. Nothing I've read is anything like what I heard and felt. I just know it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I will hear that song forever. I want to know where it came from."

He sighed, a rippling flutter through the water. "As would we all, I am sure. But the Sky. . . you know it is not a safe journey. Often breath is short there, short and painful, for the feedfumes and ventsmoke accumulate in the high, until brought down by the great currents. And with this great worldshake, the predators will be agitated, in patrols for the injured and confused for some time.

"And you know of things that fall from the sky. Stones, usually, yes, but we also know that any who have sought their origin have never found anything. . . or, if they did, they never returned to tell what they had found."

She bobbed her understanding reluctantly. "You're saying. . . there's no point in looking."

"I hesitate to be so absolute about it, for this is no rock, that is certain. But we have much work to do for the Pod of Seven Vents, and surely you understand we can spare no people on a risky expedition to the Sky without some reason to believe there is more than this single mystery." He smiled gently. "If there truly is something there, something so wonderful, it will not disappear tomorrow, or the day after."

Blushspark's heart wanted to argue, but her mind knew the Elder was right; he usually was. Suddenly she felt exhaustion sweeping over her; terror, awe, and shock were taking their toll. "Yes, Elder. M. . . mother? Can I go rest?"

"Of course you can, Vuundi."

She found their weave-house and curled up on her perch; the memory of the pure, impossible song echoed through her mind even as sleep took her.

iii. Mysteries.

"Pull! Pull!"

Blushspark drew in as much water as she could and charged, gripping the braidrope as tightly as possible. It grew taut, fighting her and the other five midsters as they, in turn, fought to get to their anchor positions.

This time she just made it, clamping her tail gripper onto her designated anchor-rock in the shaping line.

Glancing back, she saw the others were also firmly locked down. The huge blade-shaped leaf of cultivated, pure spearweed, more than twenty spears long, curved now, bent into a half-circle. Elders, directed by Steadyglow, hooked their own lines on and began pulling slowly and steadily to bend it more.

This was a delicate operation, despite the massive strength of the spearweed; pulling it too far could cause it to snap rather than bend, which would be a terrible waste of such a fine leaf and could be dangerous to those nearby. But it had to be bent farther than the actual intended shape, or it would spring back too far. You could tether it into shape to some extent (and you usually did to give the support rib some resilience), but no one wanted a building that was trying to pull itself apart.

And as this was the main arch for reinforcing the Archives, it was especially important.

Blushspark kept her grip, though her arms were starting to ache from the fingers down. This was the last of the major repairs; a dozen cycles had gone by while the netcage had been painstakingly rewoven and restocked; some of the tame fish and other animals had stayed, a few more had been recaptured or wandered back, but catching enough more to support the Pod had taken the most time. Other minor damage remained, but overall the Seven Vents had taken the worldshock well.

As Elder Steadyglow had feared, some of the other pods had not been so lucky; over in the healing weavehouse, her mother was tending the three survivors of Linewall Pod; she'd heard part of the story the exhausted, terrified Elder Yiinimi had gasped out, that when the worldshake hit, the entire Linewall had split open and obliterated their whole valley in boiling ventwater; had the three of them not been on the ridge they would have died instantly, and even then they had been badly burned by the uprush of deadly liquid.

"Release!" came the command, and she gratefully let go. The spearweed uncoiled. . . but only to the limits of its restraining ties, and the tension they could hear when the ties were pulled showed it had accepted the shaping. A whistle of triumph echoed through the valley.

Able to relax finally, Blushspark took out the shard and looked at it again. The alien tang was fainter, but still there. No one she'd shown it to, not even the scouts and messengers who'd visited from the other Pods, had ever seen or sensed anything like it – except one scout who had been not too far from their valley, who thought he might have heard, very faintly, the song she described, or something like it. This had been just before the Skyspark had burst, because he also thought he'd heard something pop.

"We could go see if we could find any more pieces," Jetgrab said, drifting around in front of her to see the shard.

She blinked all three eyes in surprise and pleasure. "Would you? I mean, there's probably nothing to find, I was at least forty spears above the earth and I'm not exactly sure where. I mean, I'm pretty sure, but not exactly, if you know what I mean."

Jetgrab flickered rapid green amusement. "I know just what you mean, but hey, we've done our work and both old Steadyglow and Designer Turnwheel say we're free. And maybe the smell will lead us to them."

She saw the Elder passing by. "Elder? May we? Go look for more pieces of my Skyspark?"

Steadyglow rocked his body back and forth. "It was near the end of the Hotwall, hmm?" At her affirming bob, he flickered indecisively. "A bit dangerous for two midsters. But. . . all right. Take Bluntspear, and watch yourselves. I do not want you taking chances. The Pods have lost enough people in this last tragedy, none of us want to lose more; yet we know that to seek answers is one of the highest callings."

"We'll be careful, Elder Pollesi, I promise!" she said earnestly, using the old one's given name to show how seriously she took this.

"All right, then."

Getting Bluntspear from the grazing nets took only a short time, and then the two of them headed out of the valley towards the far end of Hotwall.

She felt her tension rising as they got closer – unreasonable and silly of me, she reminded herself. This was something that's never happened to anyone before; it won't happen to me again.

"Are we in the right spot?" Jetgrab murmured with the dimmest speech he could manage. They were mostly dark now, watching with skinsight and with sound for anything approaching.

"I'm. . . not sure." She tried to think back. There was a heatwaver. Very narrow, one I could get through rather than have to swim a hundred spears to get around. She listened and risked a few probe-pings.

There! On that ridge! The sound was right, and if it was in that direction then…

"Here. It was right about here that I saw it." She remembered the echo-navigation sights she'd gotten in those moments. "And I swam up to meet it there. So…"

"Hmph. I see what you mean. Lot of water for it to fall through in little pieces, and there'll be plenty of muck down here. Still, worth a try. I'd like to have a shard of my own, and if we get enough pieces we might even be able to put it together for the Archives."

They turned Bluntspear downward until he reached the bottom. "Somewhere along –"

Bluntspear shied abruptly, and at the same moment something lunged from what had seemed featureless mud.

"Miremaw!" Jetgrab hissed in dismay.

A sinuous, three-jawed monstrosity, the miremaw struck again, trying to catch either the slower Bluntspear or smaller midsters. Swimming fins extended from its ridges and while it could not match their jetting speed, it could turn and maneuver very quickly.

But she and Jetgrab were also warriors of the Seven Vents. We can't let it get Bluntspear! The stolid haulfin was one of the best workers of the Pod, and even if it wasn't, quite, able to think and talk, Blushspark thought of him as a friend.

Jetgrab, she could tell, had the same reaction, and they moved almost as one. The two midsters rippled back from the lunge, then twined arms around the bright spears and charged.

The miremaw was huge, twelve spears or more in length, the uncontested master of its stretch of ocean, and it was simply not ready for the smaller – scarce two spears in length – creatures coming towards it. In startlement it balked, and that was fatal. Jetgrab's speartip took it straight through one eye, and Blushspark rammed hers home directly into the gaping maw, digging into the dominant jaw's roof and striking into the brain from the other side.

The creature's convulsive death-throes shook the water, but it was dead in that moment. The two members of Seven Vents let themselves drift momentarily, shaking from reaction, before Jetgrab let loose a shaky yowl of triumph, one she echoed; they grasped arms and repeated the victory howl. "Skies," she gasped finally. "A miremaw. We just killed a miremaw."

"Yeah," Jetgrab said in a hushed voice. "And a monster. There's meat and bone in that for. . . well, a lot of people."

"Do you think Bluntspear can move it?"

"Maybe. Dragging even really big weights is what he does. But it'll be slow going. Look, you stay here with it and Bluntspear, I'll jet back to the Pod and bring help. Won't take me more than a little bit to get in safe calling range."

She thought for a moment. So much for our search, but this is so much more important for the Pod. "Okay, but be fast. You know scavengers. . . or worse. . . are going to pick up on the blood pretty fast."

"Yeah." He glanced around, hovering in the water nervously. "Okay, I'm gone."

To keep herself busy, she brought Bluntspear down and started to harness him to the body. Jetgrab would bring help but there was no reason not to prepare. And while she kept her senses on full alert, doing something helped keep her from getting more and more nervous; working on the black plain with the immense, monstrous form of the miremaw looming nearby would unsettle anyone, but just sitting there in the never-silent yet lonely black? Eww.

Thump.ThumpThumpThumpThumpTHUMP!

The quick, sharp sequence of sounds echoed faintly from overhead, with muffled, sharp overtones unlike anything she'd ever heard. It sounded almost like snapping sky inside woven padding, or like the hollow sound inside a tub being pounded from within. But there was something about that sound, the way it resonated – or didn't – that was simply . . . wrong.

Now there was more. . . a faint hissing, chiming, impacts of something falling, but it was falling and hitting things. Impacts with a solid surface, when there was no solid surface above her except. . .

The Sky.

She stared upward, knowing that somewhere far, far above, beyond where she'd ever been allowed to go, perhaps fifty thousand spears above, something was falling. Falling on the Sky.

But how could something fall on the SKY? She couldn't grasp it, except in the legends, those that said that there were gods, spirits, things beyond the Sky…

THUMP! THUMP!

Two more of the strange quick sounds, then three more just as something huge struck something else – several somethings, perhaps, but struck with an impossible sharpness that nothing falling through water could ever make. But what else is there to fall through? her mind demanded, almost running itself in circles trying to understand the incomprehensible, and then a slow hissing roar like a landslide, but that, too with the sharpness of impossibility.

Slowly the sounds diminished, faded to silence. She became aware that there were other figures around her, Steadyglow among them, all pointed upward, all staring into the enigmatic black that absorbed sightpings and returned nothing.

For several minutes all of them waited, listening. Aside from faint, faint traces of settling sky or stone, it was quiet from above. Finally, Steadyglow turned to her.

"It would seem," he said, "that the Sky is restless here." His tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement. . . or even fear. . . in it that shocked her, because the Elder never displayed such emotion. "This is the same place, hmmm?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hmmm." He studied her, even as the others began affixing their lines to the miremaw's body. "And both times the . . . events happen when you were present."

"What. . . are you. . .?"

"I do not know," he said, with a chagrined flash, red and blue-green and patterned like ripples. "But history is long and patterns are woven in it, woven ever and always, and running through them as a single long blade is that some people are those to whom things happen, who are chosen by . . . chance or perhaps something else to be given opportunity."

He looked at the body of the miremaw, and his customary control reasserted itself. "Of equal moment is that you and Jetgrab performed a hunt – albeit unplanned! – worthy of the finest Hunters. You are midsters. . . yet few Elders could have done better."

Her ruddy-bright namesake flashed out. "We didn't really think, we were just protecting Bluntspear."

"Defending one of our most faithful friends? Do not belittle that reflex. You leapt to the defense, you acted, you triumphed. You think fast, and act correctly. I can ask no more. And coming at this time, such a mighty kill is a great blessing; we have more refugees come today, and the ability to lay in many provisions. . . this is well."

She looked up again. "What should I. . . do, Elder?"

He stared into the darkness with her. "Let us wait a few cycles. See if more signs from the Sky come to us. If they do. . . it is your mystery, and your right, Blushspark. I will not prevent you from seeking it, if you dare."

She looked up and thought about fifty thousand spears of darkness, with nowhere to hide, no ridges to dodge around, open water where the Orekath ruled, cruising silently and invisibly until it drove at you in a rush of death.

Do I dare?

Do I dare not?

iv. Answers.

The first answer came only a feedcycle later; echoing, shrieking, the sound of an Orekath in fury, and then in shocked, disbelieving agony. Blushspark heard it only because she had swum high, very high, above the boundaries of even the highest peaks of Hotwall, feeling the shift of pressures within her, readying herself for a venture she was still not sure she dared take.

The high-pitched shriek, carried along with a deep undertone, was of a full-grown predator, not a youngster, not a dying aged creature. There were larger monsters, of course; the miremaw itself was larger, though it struck mostly from ambush, but there were others, vastly greater than the Orekath though far from as common. But such monsters, if they chose to attack one of the other predators, were not silent; they would first stun their opponent with a great shock of sound that would resound across many thousands of spears like doom.

She heard no other sound; just the angry attack and sudden scream of agony and flight.

And it came from far, far above. Towards the Sky.

"Something is there," Jetgrab said quietly, startling her.

She realized her senses had been so focused above that she had actually missed his approach. Stupid! Stupid midster! If I do that on the way through the great void, I'm dead. "Yes, something is. What are you doing all the way up here?"

He flickered oddly, a friendly yet nervous shimmer that was echoed in his skinsight resonance. He's nervous. "Wanted to know if you were really, really going. I. . ." He suddenly turned, curved away, rippled back. "I. . . don't want to. . ." Jetgrab's body rocked indecisively, then he sighed, a burbling sound that reflected his tension. "Blushspark, you know I . . . really like you."

Suddenly even the mystery of the Sky seemed almost irrelevant. Me? Is he saying. . .? "Jetgrab. . . you. . . we're just midsters."

He reached out hesitantly with his top arm, touched her own. "Not much longer, not now."

That's true. We completed that hunt. The Elder's letting me make a decision to go or stay. I guess that means we're going to be Elders soon. "You choose the least-warm setting for such a glow, Jet," she said fondly.

Her tone relaxed him, and he gripped her fingers a little tighter. "Needed more here." He looked up. "It's not my place to go with you unless we were paired, and we can't do that now. . . even if you do…?"

She laughed, letting the blush not just spark but flare long and bright. "Of course I do, Hurunnda," she said, using his real name. "I guess everyone's known we would, sooner or later."

They hung there for moments, resting atop Bluntspear, letting skinsense and sound intermingle as they hadn't ever quite done before. Finally, though, Jetgrab let go, slowly, reluctantly. "You're going, aren't you?"

"I have to, Jet. I have to know."

"You always have to know. The girl who spent all her time in the Archives because people got tired of answering your questions. You learned to read the weedrecords whole hands of cycles before most of us. You're probably going to be a Designer. Of course you have to know." He wavered, then bobbed forward and embraced her whole body for a second. "Just. . . come back, okay?"

She hugged back. "I will. And I'm not leaving quite yet. I need to get prepared." She looked up. "But now I know I will go."

The two returned to the Pod, and she found Steadyglow working with the Designers on new weavehouses; the Seven Vents were going to let all the refugees stay, and that meant expanding the whole village. "Blushspark Vuundi," Steadyglow said. "I've been expecting you."

"Elder Pollesi," she said formally. "I have heard a dying Orekath far above where nothing should be. That has decided me; I'm going."

He turned to face her fully, all three eyes focused upon her. "Hmmm, yes. I had no doubt you would. And on speaking with the Archivists, we are agreed that this is worth the risk to the Pod." He reached over and handed her a large weavebag; inside were several large, black, almost shapeless objects. "Four breathsponges. You are going to the top of the world, and often the water breathes foul there."

"Four?" She was astounded. Breathsponges, which accumulated. . . well, whatever it was that made breathing work inside of them, and could be peeled and squeezed to vent the good water within directly into the body, were rare, and usually kept for healers or for those on dangerous expeditions for the Pod, not for some midster on a crazy quest. "Elder, that's an eighth of our reserve. I can't –"

"We insist. Any venture to the Sky is dangerous, Blushspark. And these mysteries are ones the Pod would like answered, so it is within my discretion. Do not use them if you do not need them, of course. . . but we shall all feel better knowing that you will not be felled instantly because the water is foul."

She saw her mother hovering in the back, ripples of worry clearly visible. "All right, Elder. Then I can provision myself from the storehouse?"

"Of course."

She swam over to Heatdancer and embraced her. "I'll be okay, Mother."

"I . . . I know you will. But forgive me for being worried; your father was lost in the Dark, too."

"I'll come back."

Heatdancer's smile was sound and light. "Don't break that promise."

A cycle later she began the ascent. Bluntspear calmly swam up in a lazy spiral, letting their bodies adjust to the slowly falling pressure. There were some creatures, she knew, that couldn't survive the shift, and that could be an advantage if you realized it; run higher or lower and they could not follow. But her people could fly to the Sky or dive to the Deeps, and so could the haulfins.

Suddenly, from above, she heard a humming buzz, a sound like a pinched vent. But there are no vents in the Sky.

The sound went on for several spiral arcs, then stopped. But a few moments later, it started again, and lasted for about as long. The cycle repeated, again and again, and she felt a slow chill of awe or fear. It's. . . regular. . . it's not random.

Of course, many creatures could do regular actions; the careful, precise approach of an Orekath, criss-cross and close, criss-cross and close, the stalking of a ridgeclaw in three taps and a pause, and so on. But this sounded like a . . . a moving vent, and that made no sense at all.

At twenty thousand spears up she stopped, waiting, stretching her senses as far as she could. A few faint movements in the distance, but no sign that anything was tracking her or even noticing her and Bluntspear.

She ate, a twistmeal of shimmerleaf with miremaw meat, and gave a large chunk of the meat to Bluntspear. Then they started again.

Thirty thousand spears up. Forty thousand spears, and she was now closer to the Sky than anyone she had ever met, and even the sounds of the deep bottom were faint, faint, and she drifted in darkness almost absolute to sound, to eyes, to skinsight.

But. . . far, far above still. . . she suddenly caught a hint of song, a thrill in her skinsight. It's there!

There was no doubt; waiting there, just beneath the Sky, was something singing the song of the Skyspark.

She drove Bluntspear faster now, as fast as she dared ascend. Forty-five thousand spears high, and the song was louder and glorious, not one song but many, as though a hundred Skysparks were hovering, waiting. She felt a thrill of dread and awe, that she was approaching answers or death, or perhaps both.

Then the ocean boomed, a thrumming thunder that roared like a vent just opened, but more and different, a howl and rumble that went on and on and on, as though the Sky itself was about to erupt. She froze, pulled down, waited, wondering if this was the rage of those above the Sky, warning her to come no closer to the mystery dropped from above.

But the sound, awesome and terrible though it was, came no closer; it did not change or waver as she cautiously urged the now skittish haulfin higher. Whatever was happening, it did not seem to be directed at her.

And the Skysong was still calling to her, beyond the rumbling roar of the venting Sky.

She felt the cold of the Sky now, and the water smelled of old breath and feedwater and death. Yet. . . not so much as she had expected. There was movement above, the water . . . flowing toward the sky. . . and disappearing into the roaring whirl of sound.

Disappearing WHERE?

And then she saw it; the tiniest glimmer of pure white, shining through the water a hundred, two hundred spears above, and she knew that she was near the Sky, and near the answers she sought.

Slowly, slowly she rose, approaching to get a glimpse.

Something floated there, floated just below the Sky. It was larger than she was, larger even than Bluntspear, probably five spears or more long, massive, shining white and reflective as a fresh-hewn spear from the heart of its weed, other parts dark as muck, still others seeming made of solid water, clear to sight yet distorting faintly like heatshimmer.

And it shone, dozens of Skysparks set about it, singing in light and skinsight so beautifully that she felt her whole body rippling with the ache of her heart.

She backed off then, not sure what to do next. What is it? Is it. . . a Sky being? What will it do?

The thing was . . . strange. The overall lines were smooth, and she could see there was a clear front to the thing, with two arms extending from it – arms with strangely simple, almost crippled-looking hands, maybe four or five fingers on each. Along its sides were several round things that extended slightly below the main body, which hung at a steep angle from the Sky. There were no fins, and it seemed stiff and hard as stone. How can it move?

The thing had to be able to move; it hadn't been there all this time, someone would have found it thousands of cycles ago.

Gripping her spear tightly, she told Bluntspear to stay where he ways; the haulfin seemed quite content to get no closer. Slowly, slowly she approached the singing Sky-thing, swimming to one side. It seems to have anchor-tendrils, holding it to the Sky. That explained why it was staying in one place without fin or jet. She didn't approach the anchor yet; that would be a delicate maneuver and Blushspark had no idea what the thing's reaction would be. "Hello?" she said. "Do you understand me?"

The Sky-thing made no reply; whether that was because it could not reply, or did not deign to, she couldn't guess. She was no longer afraid, but she was puzzled. This thing sang like it was not merely alive but transcendent, yet it didn't feel alive. It didn't move like the living; right now, in fact, it wasn't moving at all; she couldn't figure out how something could sing that way without any motion of any kind. From . . . inside, she thought. . . she could sense other vibrations, again of a sort she'd never heard before, with that sharp overtone that was so utterly alien. She drifted down towards the area that had seemed clear as the water.

And something moved within, moved back as though startled.

Blushspark stared, fascinated. That moved like it lived. She remembered the rockbites. They, too, had a hard, unmoving shell, anchored themselves, and inside a moving, living creature.

It was a grotesque thing that seemed to face her. "Seemed to" because there were two round, moving dots in the generally circular part pointed towards her, dots that looked very much like eyes. Above these possible eyes was a mass of filaments, very fine filaments pulled back and away somehow, and below a part that opened and closed on occasion – a mouth? And the whole area around that possible-face seemed surrounded by another layer of that heat-shimmering solidity.

It was excessively eerie; the thing seemed to have no symmetry at all.

No. I'm wrong, she corrected herself, and smacked one arm against another reprovingly. It has two things on each side. Everything we know tends to have three sides, but this one has two.

Drawing up her courage, Blushspark took her gaze away from the strange thing within the shell, and drifted closer to the shell-thing itself, surrounded by that achingly pure singing light. She tapped the thing – oh, so very gently – with the spear; the spear rang as though it struck stone, with an undertone of bone.

There was a sort of oval area on one side, separated somehow from the rest, a line or crack running completely around it. She approached that, curious.

Vooom!

Without warning, the round black things all along the Sky-shell spun, whirring at stunning speed that caused the whole thing to lunge in the water. Blushspark instantly darted backwards, afraid she'd gone too far. But the spinning died down and the singing Sky-shell hung quiescent once more.

What was it doing?

It was a warning, obviously, she decided. That oval area must be sensitive, even though it didn't ping as any less hard than the rest of the thing. How did those spin? They looked like the crane-barrels, except there was nothing to make them turn. A crane needed someone to be able to grasp the handles on the outside and turn the barrel that was attached so it wound up, or let down, the braided line. Turned from inside the shell, then. She'd never heard of a creature that could spin things that way, but then no one had ever heard of anything like this at all.

She moved in again, back to the end that had seemed to have a face.

The face flashed at her with that pure white light. Blushspark jumped in the water, but held her location. Now it flashed again, and again. A pause, and now it flashed, flashed, flashed again. Another pause, flash, flash, flash, flash, all of them still clean and beautiful. A pause,and then a long, long blaze of that lovely light that went on for a heartbeat, two, three before it faded. A pause of several heartbeats, and then another flash.

What in the world is it doing? She watched the flickering as it repeated, and repeated again.

A chill struck her, as though she had driven herself straight into the sky. It's a pattern.

It's counting!

She was suddenly frightened, dashed back, back to the familiar, broad, solid form of Bluntspear. It's counting! Counting what? Why?

Slowly, the chill strengthened, along with a sense of wonder and awe. "Bluntspear," she said in a hushed voice, "I. . . I think it wants me to answer."

She took a long shuddering breath, letting masses of water pass through her, and felt her filters twitch at the foulness of the water, so diametrically opposite the purity of the thing she faced. Need a clear head. Reluctantly, she took one of the breathsponges, held it before her inlets and squeezed steadily while breathing in. The clean, strong scent of the bottom-water washed through. Blushspark got two, three good breaths out of the sponge and it reinvigorated her.

All right.

She rose up to face the strange thing again and concentrated. I hope you don't expect me to duplicate that light. She was nervous, trying to keep her hands from working in the water but failing. What will happen when I answer?

She swallowed water, then flashed once. Waited, flashed twice. Waited, flashed thrice, and now she saw the thing inside stiffen, move back, little mouth working, eyes almost seeming to widen, as she gave the series of four flashes and then ended with the long flare that – she hoped – meant "end".

The little thing inside hesitated. Then there was a single flash, a pause, and the long flash.

One. . . and end?

Counting, she reminded herself. She had to be right. She had to be right now. Hearts pounding faster than ever, she flashed twice, sent a long flare burning into the water.

Three brilliant flashes answered her, and Blushspark LAUGHED, looping through the water in joy. I understand! It understands! It thinks, it THINKS, it wants to talk with me! She sent her own understanding, counting up higher and higher, and suddenly she understood the real source of the joy within her.

This thing was no god, no spirit. But it was not one of the people, either. It was something new, something wonderful, yet somehow it was something like her. She knew it, somehow, just seeing the quick movement of the creature inside its shell. It was overjoyed to meet another thing to speak with, to know.

The shining Skyspark had not been a sign of the gods, or some impenetrable mystery. It had been something so much more. A sign that the answers were greater than the questions, that the people themselves were not alone.

Blushspark turned back, to see new patterns of shimmering light, new mysteries, and behind that she saw something familiar. For somehow, in the wideness of those eyes in the monstrous face, in the workings of the mouth and gesturing of strange-stiff appendages. . . she saw a reflection of the same joy.

Two flashes, and now the light took on a shape, two lines at right angles. Two more flashes, another shape like a spear-barb, and then four flashes.

What. . .?

That same strange pattern repeated several times, then stopped. Then one flash, the two crossed lines, two flashes, the spear-barb, three flashes. That repeated a few times, then another, two flashes, the crossed lines, three flashes, spear barb, five flashes.

The thing cycled through those patterns again. She tried to figure out how to replicate those shapes; the lines were clean and straight as spearshafts, a challenge since most patterns the people liked to use were curves and patterns of shadow. I think I can do it. But I'm not sure what it means –

All of a sudden she wanted to smack herself. Sky and Deeps, it's obvious! It's not counting now, that new symbol means addition. One plus two equals three!

She gave the long flash that meant "end", and the thing cut off, went dark. With careful concentration she inclined herself so her back would be easily visible, then sent a flash, made the crossed lines, then another flash. If I'm right. . . she made the spear-barb shape, and then added one and one to make two bright flashes.

The light flared out, one short, one long, a sign that seemed to shout yes! as loudly as her heart was beating. She couldn't restrain a spin of joy, and then to test her understanding, sent them three flashes, the crossed lines, and seven – followed by the long ending flash. Will it. . .

Instantly, it seemed, ten brilliant flares answered her. Blushspark flung her arms wide with exultation and felt the rosy blush cover her. She didn't care. This was something so wonderfully strange, and so special, there was no chance of embarrassment.

But now the thing inside was doing something else. She couldn't make it out.

Then it used the manipulator branches that seemed attached to the moving inside parts to put. . . something else in front of it.

A three-sided thing that looked like a child's doll, like one of the woven charm-dolls most children got shortly after they hatched.

What. . .?

She stared at it, wondering. Is it imitating me somehow? Why?

Then something else, long and cylindrical, with round things spaced along it, bent objects attatched to the front, placed with the rear facing the doll.

She knew the thing was trying to say something, and she felt so stupid. What does it mean?

And suddenly she found herself sinking as revelation burst in. That cylinder thing with the round objects. . . it's representing ITSELF.

And that means . . .

She streaked back up, reached out a finger, touching the smooth heat-shimmer solid as close to the charm-doll as she could. Then she extended her arms, gesturing to all of herself. Repeated it, and the Sky-thing blazed out YES. She pointed to the other object, and to the Sky-thing, and again it blazed YES.

But there was more. Two more models, a giant charm-doll and something tiny, something that fit inside the Sky-thing doll. With a jolt, she realized the tiny thing looked like the moving part within the Sky-thing.

And then it all suddenly fit. This is not a shell. This is a riding. . . something. The moving thing inside is what's talking to me!

Shaking with nervousness, Blushspark reached out, pointed to the little creature inside and to herself, and then from the big shell-thing to Bluntspear far below.

YES, blazed the Skyspark-light. Yes, yes, yes.

Amazing, she thought, and spun herself around with the joy of having more mysteries in the answers. How do you ride inside something without it eating you? Or. . . She touched it again, drifted around. It is as solid as spears. Could it be. . . a spear? An object, something made? But then how. . .?

She looked more carefully inside. There are. . . other things in there with this one. Objects, tools. That's how it made the dolls. Looking closely, she saw there were several such objects hanging on the walls of the shell… and despite the distortion of the transparent material, one of them had curved and straight lines that looked familiar. The first Skyspark… it was a tool. Something they dropped. But those are inside. The creatures are inside. How could they drop. . . ?

Drifting farther, she felt heat radiating from two fins on the thing's back – heat so great that it seemed the thing must have a deep-vent within. Yet the rest of it was cool. The arms, too, were hard, solid things, no sign of life. She saw, now, another of the two-sided moving creatures inside, this one in the front of the riding. . . object?

She was close, now, to the Sky, so close she reached out a finger and drew it along the smooth coldness. Water flowed past her, rumbling along the ice and away into that impossible roaring something only a dozen spears distant.

This close, she could see how the riding-object was anchored to the Sky, and for a moment her hearts seemed to stop.

For this was not an anchor of a living thing. It was not even a permanent anchor at all.

A loop of cable – not braidline, but something similar – stretched through a round eye-support, for all the world like something suspended from one of the Pod's cranes.

But the cable, stretched taut as her nerves, went into the Sky.

She heard taps, raps, bangs through the Sky above her. And though it was impossible, she thought, at last, that she understood.

Blushspark streaked back down, got the attention of the creature inside, and gestured to herself. Pointed into the depths. Then she pointed to the creature –

And pushed upward on the Sky-thing, making it bob upward towards the Sky.

For a moment she thought she had somehow understood things wrongly, for there was no immediate reply. But the second time she repeated it, the blaze of YES eradicated the darkness.

And if that's true. . .

She went up to the Sky, spread her arms wide, sensed as hard as she could.

Movement. A faint singing above, a light I can sense just barely there.

Hammering on the Sky.

Hammering from above the Sky.

She was suddenly absolutely sure of the impossible truth. This was a Sky being – one from beyond the Sky – and it had fallen through the Sky . . . along with something, a tool, perhaps. . . that had continued to fall until she saw it come singing into view. Above. . . above the Sky were more…

Blushspark knew, now, that this was bigger than she was. This was bigger maybe than the whole Pod of Seven Vents. She gestured to the creature, trying to tell it that she understood, that she was going back, that she'd be back with more people.

As she dove down and landed on Bluntspear, urging him to dive, dive, she didn't know if the Sky-creature had understood yet.

But it would, when they came back.

Blushspark smiled, shimmering and tingling with awe, and drove for home.

And the song of the Skyspark followed her. . . within.

Ryk E. Spoor is the coauthor, with Eric Flint, of Boundary, Threshold, and Portal. All are part of the Boundary SF series, as is the preceding short story. Ryk (pronounced “Rike”) is also the author of solo novels Digital Knight, Grand Central Arena, Phoenix Rising, and upcoming Grand Central Arena sequel, Spheres of Influence.

The Krumhorn and Misericorde

by Dave Freer

Ferrara, 1523 AD

This was going to be difficult. There really wasn’t any easy way into the walled city of Ferrara, or, now that it was too late, even a chance to get out of the queue to enter the Porta di Leoni. All that young Antimo Bartelozzi could do was be his normal assassin self – in other words, try to be invisible, or at least un-noticed. It didn’t help that eight out of every ten people heading through the crenellated city gate were female, and the gate-guards were searching and questioning all the males. Antimo could do a good job of passing for a woman. It did cause complications when the soldiers tried to get his skirts up and rape him, though.

That was too common a problem here in the fractured and squabbling city-states of Italy to make that disguise worthwhile, in general. Antimo’s task was to kill the ruler of this city, not to stab its soldiery. Of the various tasks his master had sent him to do, it looked likely to be the hardest yet. And he had a bare five weeks to return. Part of the time he had been given was lost to travel and preparation. He had four weeks and five days, now.

It was something of an unsavoury challenge, but he did what he had to do.

The queue nudged forward, and then again. Antimo arrived at the guards. “Good day, masters,” he said servilely. The sergeant in the iron-bound leather cap looked at him disinterestedly. Didn’t bother to greet him. That was good. Then the sergeant said, jerking a thumb at the watch-room, “Bring him in and search him.”

That wasn’t good. And it was more than the man with the donkey carrying wicker panniers just ahead had got.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” said Antimo in a slightly fearful whine as he walked into the small stone-walled room. The fear in his voice was not entirely false, either.

“Yet,” said the soldier. “Off with the pack. Let’s see what you’ve got in it.”

Antimo shed the rough hemp bag with its simple rawhide drawstring and straps onto the table, looking scared. That too wasn’t hard.

There was open suspicion in the soldier’s face by now. He cut the drawstring, not bothering to untie it. Poured out the contents. A spare shirt, patched and frayed, considerably worse for wear than the one he wore, a small roll of canvas, and a coarse-weave woollen blanket fell out of the bag, along with a leather bottle, a loaf of bread, and a small bag. The blanket-roll landed with a suggestive thump. Suspicious eyed, the sergeant unrolled it with a jerk.

“Careful!” said Antimo, reaching forward.

“Back off… oh.”

It was no hidden weapon or contraband.

“Sorry sir. My krumhorn is all I have to earn my bread,” said Antimo, looking at the object. As musical instruments went, it was plainly old and well-used.

“Ah,” said the guard. “A musician, are you?”

Antimo nodded eagerly, smiling as if vastly relieved that this deadly secret had been revealed. “Yes. I play the lute and the sackbut too. But we were robbed just north of Cantia. Mario and Nico went home. Nico has a broken head, and Mario would not let him go alone. I… I came on, on my own, for the Palio. I have never been to such a big place. We played in the villages around our home.”

The soldier snorted. But his suspicions had been eased. “Ferrara is safer than most. Our Duke keeps it well patrolled, especially over the Palio. There are still thieves and cut-throats about, of course, but it’s a good town. You wouldn’t last a day in Venice or Milan. And where is your home?”

“Milcantone, Sir.” That was still, technically, within the demesne of Duke Enrico Dell’este. A little close to the flexible border, but far off enough not to make it likely that the guard would know anyone there. Far enough to off to explain a slight difference in accent, Antimo hoped. He was a natural mimic, give him three days here, and he should pass for a local.

“Huh. Who is your podesta?”

Antimo knew the answer to that, and gave it. He knew the local priest, and the names of several prominent land-owners too. After his first mission, which had nearly ended in his imprisonment, he had learned the value of good preparation.

“It’s an unusual instrument,” said the guard, not quite ready to let him go.

“My father taught me how to play it. He was a soldier, before he was injured,” said Anitmo proudly. There was a value in truth, as well getting some sympathy from the guard. His father had been a Swiss mercenary, and had taught him a thing or two. Not the bass krumhorn in the blanket-roll, but about the knife.

The guard didn’t ask why Antimo had not followed his father’s path. His clothes and stature told that story. He was small, and plainly, whoever his mother had been, she’d been a mere peasant, by the boy’s dress. That was the wrong conclusion too, but Antimo wasn’t going to point it out. Instead, once his meagre pouch with its scanty handful of coppers had been inspected, and his short little knife, essential for eating and not much use for cutting anything more than bread, had been sneered at, he packed up his bag as directed. He muttered a bit about the cut thong, and got a cuff around the ear for his temerity, behaving just as a one-step-above-a-peasant musician would. He had to give his name and profession to the bored clerk, who scratched them down and shooed him away, as he stopped to peer at the writing as if he never seen it done before.

Expected, normal behavior: It let him walk off into the city’s winding streets.

It would have been better to enter the city as part of a consort of krumhorn players, of more obvious success and ability, and gone to play in the homes of the nobility and gentry. That would have given Antimo easier access to his target. It would also have required that he could play the instrument reasonably well, and had a compliant musicians consort. Neither held true. He could play, possibly well enough to be the weakest member of the group of village players. He could have shown the guard that much skill. But the misericorde secreted inside it would have made it sound very strange, so it was just as well it hadn’t come to that. And trusting others was not something Antimo wanted to have to do again.

After all: That was how he’d ended up having to do what he did now. He walked on, making sure he was out of sight of the gatehouse before he stopped to mop his brow, and permit himself a brief half-smile. He did enjoy fooling people, it was true. He did know he was being followed, but that too was to be expected. Spies and intrigue were normal to the city states. It helped to keep the level of robbery and murder down, employing some of the rogues for the work. Most of them weren’t very good at it. They’d follow any new-comer for a while to see if he behaved normally, and then give up. There weren’t that many strangers in Ferrara, but around the horse races, the Palio di Ferrara, there were more than usual. The most likely spies and assassins would be posing as more wealthy travellers, and they’d get more attention. The poor were too limited in access to be feared, the fools thought.

It was true, of course, that he’d have had more flexibility masquerading as one of those wealthy ones, but he also would have had more and better watchers. So he went about the normal business of a poor musician – buying a hot ciupéta from the baker, and parting with a copper to dip it into the simmering pot of tripe outside the butchers shop, which also had a rumor of salume cooked in it. He found a place to sit and eat, and then polished his krumhorn, which gave him a chance to slip the long slim knife out of it, and into his boot, before playing for coins from passers-by, and being chased off by the well-fed butcher’s boy. “Go make your buzzing noise elsewhere, you little rat.”

The little rat went to look for a little rat-hole. He found one in a scruffy tavern, popular with coal-men. He played there, and though he was too poor to share a bed, as the others did, he did find shelter in the stable. For the next week he was the model of a moderately unsuccessful musician, as the town filled up for the Palio with its parades, flag-squads, horse and donkey racers, and even women’s races. The streets were thick with jugglers, magicians -- some possibly real, some obviously frauds — sellers of pastries, other better musicians, sellers of magic charms and saint’s relics, and a few pickpockets, and Antimo quietly fitted in. As much as it annoyed Antimo, he even let a man slit his pouch. He was tempted to slit his throat in exchange. But he wasn’t here for the copper coins. And he had some spare money, hidden.

* * *

Duke Enrico Dell’este, already known for his strategy and cunning, was feeling neither clever nor in control of the strategic factors of his life. The spymaster looked nervously at the mailed duke, who thumped his fist into his palm. The huge, grizzled Alpine mastiff lying at the door picked it head up at the sound. “Lorendana and now this. Are you sure there are no more leads?”

“Just that he came from Breno. On the orders of Marquis Michael Benzoni, Your Grace.”

“Cousins betray me, daughters desert me!” The duke sighed. “No description, no method, or what he plans?”

“He is apparently quite young, and very plain. An ordinary looking man. It was said that his other three victims died by the knife, Your Grace. He is supposed to be very good at his work. He kills where many others have failed. His skill seems magical. That is why I asked about magical protection.”

The duke paced. “What magic we have is tied to iron. Such protections as I can invoke, have been, for years. Now… I am tempted to let him succeed,” he said wearily.

“We need you, Your Grace,” said the man.

That was not said out of courtly manners, because the spymaster, Marco Albruzzo had none. The worst of it was that the duke knew it to be true. Ferrara had been in a desperate situation, surrounded by bigger, hungry states, with little land, and no security, when Duke Niccolo -- the man who could have been his father -- had died. Duke Enrico had never known his mother. She’d been executed shortly after his birth. The other man, who could possibly have been his father, Ugo, or his older step-brother, had been executed seven months earlier. Only pregnancy had saved his mother from the headsman until his birth. She had been nineteen, and married to Duke Niccolo for five childless years.

It had colored the way that Enrico treated his own late wife’s children, and surviving wayward daughter, and had shaped him, Enrico knew. His father certainly had not loved him for the scandal of doubt that surrounded his birth, and that had driven Enrico to the guidance of the man who had loved him and shaped him, just as he had worked iron’s shape to his will. The young Enrico was introduced to the master swordsmith Eldo Villacastin when he was just seven. The lords of Ferrara had ancient ties to the iron-workers, and the dukes were expected to pay some lip service to working in iron themselves. When his tutor took him to the forge, Master Eldo set him to working the bellows for a few minutes to amuse him. Enrico had stayed, because even then he’d learned both to spot the danger signs in his father, and to be as cunning as a little fox, hunted by something far bigger and nastier. He did not have to go to the swordsmith, every day. But it was a place that was safe from his father’s drunken rages, and where he had found a family of a sort, and learned… everything that was important. He’d never be a swordsmith like the master, or the master’s sons. But they and theirs, and the city… they needed him. They also needed the fox to enable them to survive the bigger predators who would sack or destroy their home city. Even the spymaster was one of the smiths. The journeymen travelled, and that had been the start of his spy network, which had helped him survive, and had helped him win against the odds.

The network had grown since then, as Enrico had fought to recapture the lands his father and grandfather lost. He’d learned to be as cunning as a fox, because he had neither the troops nor money to win by other means.

Yes. They needed him. And he needed his strong-headed, wild daughter. He missed her fiercely, although they had, neither of them, been any good at saying so. Right now there was not much he could do about Lorendana or her Montagnard… meddling, except to pray that she did not get killed. She meddled, he knew, partly to infuriate him.

“After the Palio… I want the city cleared of those that we do not have absolute certainty of. The man may have a good cover story, but if we get rid of some of the dross, we can see the color of the metal.”

The spymaster nodded. “There’s a fair amount of dross. Mind you, there are enough people we can’t touch, Your Grace.”

“The gentry will be my problem. But I can winnow down my contact with those.”

“We have a list from the gates,” said the spymaster. “The day after the Palio finishes, we’ll sweep the streets of them.”

“I expect he will try before then,” said Duke Enrico. “But we can do nothing before, but watch. The Palio is too popular to stop.”

“Wear armor, Your Grace.” Marco jerked a thumb at Molto, the snoring mastiff across the doorway. He and the dog had a very wary relationship. “Keep the dog with you. And change your pattern of living.”

“I need to beat iron, and to scratch sometimes,” said the duke, slightly plaintive.

The spymaster had summonsed a smile. “You’d be safe enough in the forge to do both, I reckon, Your Grace.”

* * *

Antimo readied himself, storing food, and drink in the tiny hidey-hole he had established for it. It was too small to hold a man, between the boards, but enough for his stock. A night journey, when he was sure he was unobserved and half the town was drunk, had brought him the rope that he would use to leave over the city wall. Other than that, he already had all he would need, food, drink, a pot to relieve himself, and patience. A book, or even several would have been a luxury, but reading was something he had learned to accept could not be a part of his role. He would pass the time, as he had before, drawing, numbering and counting things.

On the final day of the Palio, when the cobbled streets were loud with martial music, drum and sackbut, and the competitions between the contrade were at their noisy height, Antimo slipped into the rafters of the tavern stable. That building was only separated by a few bricks from the coal-yard next door, and its coal-wains, waiting to be filled. Antimo went from being a musician… to a wastrel sleeping on a pile of coal, with a shovel and an empty jar of cheap wine, some of which he poured onto himself, before rolling in the coal dust. The krumhorn he dropped down the tavern well. It could only make the water better.

They would search hard for a musician, trying to hide. Not for a drunk lying openly in the coal-yard. No-one would come to load coal until the city got back to work, and if anyone came… he’d load coal. They’d look for a skulking rogue, hiding, behaving suspiciously. Their eyes drifted unseeing over folk doing what they thought they were supposed to be doing. Yes, they might not recognize him, but it wasn’t a job people lasted long at.

Antimo heard the guards searching and yelling, by late the next afternoon. One of the town’s soldiery even looked in the gate of the coal-yard at him. Coal was uncomfortable, but it was May and the blanket under him helped. Eventually, someone opened the gate to the coal-yard and two soldiers came and looked in the shed. He opened his eyes and looked blearily at them. “When is the Palio race? I’ve got a silver grosh bet on Bario…”

The guards laughed. “Go back to sleep. You’ve lost your money,” said the taller guard.

“Have you seen -- ” started the other.

The taller fellow interrupted him with a snort. “Look at him. He hasn’t seen anything for two days, I reckon.”

They left, and Antimo waited some more. He was good at waiting.

* * *

“He gave his name as Phillipo, and claimed to have come from Milcantone,” said Ferrara’s spymaster, Marco Albruzzo. “I questioned the guard myself. All he remembers about the fellow was the krumhorn. All else he could tell us was that he was quite young and poor and ordinary. He was followed and seen playing it, and he was cadging money and sleeping in the stable at the taverna Molcando,” said the spymaster. “The stable-boy was given a few coppers to ignore him. He’s not there now, though. No one saw him leave. No one has seen him since last night, when he was whining about his pouch being slit, showing them the cut. The krumhorn is all most people remember.”

The duke drew breath in a hiss across teeth. Nodded. “He is the one we were looking for. I can smell it in the neat piece of distraction he used. Something unusual to draw the attention, so they didn’t notice him, but it. He is a skilled operator,” said the duke.

“So where is he now, Your Grace?” asked Marco.

“Sleeping comfortably in some disaffected minor noble’s house, I would guess,” said Enrico. “We will need a little careful questioning of some servants, and to keep some under observation. I will compile a list.”

In answer his spymaster handed him one. The duke raised an eyebrow, read it, and added two names to it. “If you find signs, we’ll take steps.” They both knew what that would mean.

The spymaster nodded. “It could be a false trail, Your Grace. The poor fellow could be dead in a well, and be nothing more than a krumhorn player who got robbed.”

“If people fall sick around the tavern, I suppose we’ll have the well drained and send someone down,” said the Duke. “But I don’t think so. That krumhorn…”

“Maybe the horses will fall sick. The people around there don’t drink well-water.”

A week passed. The home of a newly wealthy merchant was raided, but all that yielded was a man skilled in adulterating silver coinage. Enrico let time dull the watchfulness. He knew that could be what the assassin intended. It could however be that -- not for the first time -- information received was not accurate. He had other, pressing matters to concentrate on.

* * *

Antimo waited two weeks. It was not much, against the life of a man. The marquis had given him five weeks, which Antimo had considered too little time. As usual, the waiting gave him too much time for thought. It was time spent -- except in the small hours when he would exit the little door just under the eaves of the tavern to swing onto the roof and stretch his legs -- quietly, not moving much, waiting and sleeping. The little attic had, of course, been searched when they’d originally looked for him, and showed no sign that anyone had used its cramped junk-space for years. It was too much trouble to get to for the owners to bother with. But that was then. Antimo had added some straw from the stable, to make himself comfortable, and whiled the time away drawing maps and even a portrait or two in charcoal on the floor. He drew by the light of a shifted tile that kept it from being too hot to live so close under the roof. By opening the eave-door a crack, he was also able to keep the duke’s tower in sight, and watch the smoke from the foundry. Smoke revealed a great deal to him, once he had realized that it was not all the same. The heat and the fuel used made it come out differently from the chimneys. The swordsmiths here had their tricks or their magic, Antimo had been informed. And one of them involved using something in their furnaces that did not produce much smoke at all – and that was when the duke was there.

The foundry bought coal. Antimo had established that fact before he even came to Ferrara. This was a place that had neither iron nor coal of its own and yet was one of the centers of steel-craft in Northern Italy, renowned for the craftsmanship of its smiths. Especially its swordsmiths, who held a ducal charter, and plied their trade just across the moat from Duke Enrico’s Lion tower. It was unusual, and had been enough to start Antimo thinking about how to kill the duke, when the marquis had told him that that would be his target.

The fact that the duke went there every day that he was in the city, was enough to finalize Antimo’s plan.

Swordsmiths needed iron, and they always needed coal delivered. And the coal-seller’s wain needed a man with a shovel. The late afternoon often saw that man very drunk, especially as his supply of cheap wine mysteriously increased. Antimo had actually been to the foundry twice before the chance arose to get close to the duke.

The forge-masters allowed the duke the space to be alone with the hot iron. To strip off to his shirt-sleeves and allow the muscles on that solid, stocky body to be used. To lose himself in the rhythms of working iron. It was respect. It was also very dangerous.

Antimo moved like a ghost. It was one of his real skills, unlike playing the krumhorn, he knew. He could pass, silent and unseen, or at least un-noticed. The lounging guards had assumed he was just there to shovel coal into the furnace, so allowed the coal-blackened man and his barrow to pass.

The duke was bent over his work at the anvil. The furnace was bright and the duke had two lanterns there, each with shutters and mirrors to help the light shine precisely where it was wanted, to help him see work clearly. Outside the dusk was already fading into night, and deep shadows hung around the feet of the silhouetted iron-worker, and the rhythmic hammer-blows ceased as he leaned forward, and Antimo moved in for the kill.

Fast, silent and deadly…

To be obstructed by the huge dog that stood up from the shadows behind his master.

The dog was almost as big as Antimo, but the assassin was not afraid of that. The dog had growled no warning, nor did it lunge towards him.

Dogs never did, to Antimo. They liked him, nuzzled him, came to him, even the savage ones. But the mastiff was in his way… and he’d seen his father’s dog pine and die. It made him pause for just that second before killing the dog’s master…

But the task had to be done.

He could have killed the dog, but instead, stepped left, delaying the deadly stroke by a second or two.

The moment had been enough, and something must have warned his target.

And now the target held a hammer in his hand.

Antimo felt it hit him, as he tried to step past the dog.

It hit him just like a hammer thrown by smith-hard muscles would, but not squarely, merely glancing off his temple.

Antimo did not know that.

* * *

The guards stood alert and watchful now, a spear-point at the throat of the felled assassin. Lorendana’s dog, however stood over the man. Enrico Dell’este looked at the animal in puzzlement. “It’s more like Moro is guarding him than guarding me. “

“He at least gave you warning, Your Grace,” said the sergeant-of-the-guard.

“The reflection in the blade I was working on did that, Luco,” said the Duke shaking his head. “I think it was the magic in the iron working for me. The dog just got in his way, I think. Still, it gave me a second or two to act. I would have been spitted otherwise. He was very quiet and very fast.”

“What do we do with him, Your Grace?” asked the guard, looking at the unconscious man. He was breathing… for now, bloody as a head-wound can make a man. It was hard to tell how bad the wound was, merely by the blood. “Kill him or save him for the headsman’s axe?”

“Take him to the cells. If he lives through that blow, he may tell us about who sent him, and just how he got so close,” said Enrico, grimly. “Then… I’ll see. In the meanwhile I want Marco Albruzzo sent to me. We will follow up as much as we can, just in case he does die before talking. We will start with a check on the coal-merchants.”

* * *

When Antimo next remembered anything, he was lying down, under a blanket, on a bed in a dim room. He blinked his eyes, looking at the stone walls, and the large man lounging in the chair against the wall. “Ah. The canary is awake,” said the man in a gravelly voice. “How many fingers am I holding up, signor?”

“Three,” said Antimo, before he realized he that he should perhaps have said five or two. But he felt too weak to think, let alone come up with quick lies, just then. Still, from under half-lidded eyes he took in the details of the place, instinctively. It could only be a dungeon room that he was in. The door was heavy, and had a tiny barred grille near the top. The only light came from a tiny slit window, high on the wall.

“Good,” said the man, standing up. “The physician said you’d either get it right the next time you came to, or your wits would be permanently addled.” Antimo closed his eyes. It was still too much to think properly. He heard the door close.

A little later, a creak alerted him, made him open his eyes again, as the door to the dungeon room opened, to admit none other than the man Antimo had sought to kill. “My people tell me you are awake,” said Duke Enrico Dell’este.

The duke was followed by same huge dog that had thwarted the assassin’s killing knife-stroke. Antimo wondered if the duke realized the animal was no defense against him, but had saved his master simply because the assassin could not bring himself to kill the dog first. The dog walked closer, and sniffed at him, curiously. “Yes, Duke Enrico,” said Antimo. He knew what he had coming to him: torture, questioning and then death. That was the captured assassin’s lot. He weighed his chances of escape through the open door, or his chances of success in killing the Duke. Neither were good. The best would be to play for time. “I am conscious, Your Grace. Forgive me for not getting up to show my respects, but I am very weak.”

“You are fortunate to be alive, Signor Bartelozzi,” said the Duke, with just faintest of smiles.

The duke intended to discomfort him, to frighten him. And he did. How did the Duke of Ferrara know his name? “What am I doing here?” asked Antimo. There was not much chance that a pretence of amnesia would fool anyone, but he might win some more time.

“At the moment, recovering from being knocked senseless by a glancing blow from my set-hammer,” said the Duke. “I was correct it seems. It appears my daughter’s dog does like you. How odd.”

Antimo realized that, without thinking, he’d been gently scratching the spot behind the dog’s ear. He stopped, and the big mastiff nudged his hand again with its large nose. “Dogs like me, Your Grace.”

“That must be useful in your trade,” it was neutrally said, with no hint of animosity.

Antimo began to wonder what this led to. Was this man hinting that instead of torture and death… he might be spared? Not "must have been" useful. Maybe he needed an assassin himself. All the Italian lords used them, some, like Venice, more than others. It would take a very cool and calculating man to employ someone who had barely failed to kill himself for such work. But it was an opening. Except of course… “Your dog caused me to fail this time, Your Grace. I like him too.”

“So he did,” said the Duke. “Old Molto is actually my daughter’s dog, and she was the one that insisted he be allowed everywhere with her. He has merely transferred that habit to me, in her absence.”

Antimo did not say that if he had known that, the duke would have been dead, or that he knew, now, that the duke was wrong, and the dog knew its master and loved him. He was silent. So the duke continued.

“By the way, you are quite a skilled artist. My men found your hiding place, and I have been to see it. Had you chosen another profession, you could have had great success as a cartographer. You could have drawn my tower larger though. It is the most important building in the city. Not the basilica.”

Anitmo had the feeling he was being played – not quite as a cat might with a mouse, but as a professional player of dice did with a green novice he planned to fleece. And while tact might have suggested he admit that he got it wrong, he had a feeling that too could be a trap of some kind. “I counted the paces, Your Grace. Artists need to get the scale right.”

That was definitely a slight, tigerish smile on the duke’s face. “Artists are not so precise, Bartelozzi. They flatter. But you were apprenticed as a scribe, not an artist... or an assassin.”

There was no point in denying it. Antimo had no idea what the duke knew, or quite where he’d got the information from. It was fishing he was sure… well, almost sure. “I suppose scribes are required to be more precise. We only copy, much of the time, Your Grace.”

“Still, it is an unusual profession for a young man who has developed such a propensity for knives and their use. But I gather you had that from your father.”

He was definitely being played, and skillfully at that. And perhaps there was an element of cat-and-mouse toying there. “Yes, Your Grace. I was something of a disappointment to him.”

“One often is. But rarely to one’s mother, it would seem. That was something I never got to experience.”

Antimo, like most of Northern Italy, knew the story of Enrico’s parentage. It fitted too, with Marquis Benzoni’s claim on the city. He was surprised to hear the duke speak of it though. But there was no further avoiding of his deeper fear: “Your Grace. How long have I been insensible?”

“Oh, you have been awake before. But your wits were begging the first twice, and not much better the last time,” said the duke. “But it has been something over two weeks, Signor Bartelozzi.”

Antimo knew his face betrayed him. He swallowed. And then said, “So long.” He swallowed again. There was nothing he could do then. He had his life to play for, and that was all. The five weeks had passed. There was no point in going back, except to mourn.

“Yes,” said the duke, “but you’ve come and gone from us. I believe you once killed three soldiers in Breno before the priest hit you over the head.”

Was there anything this man did not know? Had he told them himself? People did such things when their wits were wandering. “They had killed my master, and they followed my mother into the Chapel of St. Philip to rape her and kill me,” said Antimo, as calmly as he could. “We thought to find sanctuary in the church. My mother was already injured. It was a mistake to trust the priest.”

“I had wondered just what had happened to your master,” said the Duke. “He was a spy, you know.”

“It’s a lie. He was a good, kindly old man. They thought he was magician because he could write,” said Antimo, surprised that he could still be angry about it, even now. “The marquis' mercenaries tortured him. Called him a Jew and tortured him to find his treasure.” Antimo had killed four of them too. They had not seen him coming.

“Oddly, they were right, but I am sure, it was merely by accident,” said the duke, calmly. “I should know that he was a spy. He was one of mine. I paid him, read his reports. I believe he was Jew too, but had somewhat lapsed in the observance of his beliefs. Neither of these things mean that he was not a good man. He even suggested that you might have potential, when you were older.”

Antimo was silenced. He just stared.

“It happens to spies, boy. And to assassins,” said Duke Enrico Dell’ Este. “You called out to him a number of times while your wits were wandering. One of my agents was watching you, in case you said something useful. He was… surprised.”

So was Antimo, although, thinking about it, he should not have been. The old scribe he’d been apprenticed to after his father’s death had had his round of villages and small towns, travelling far, by the standards of the Italian peasantry. Antimo had loved the travel, the seeing new places. The scribe could write, number, and was privy to all sorts of contracts and agreements. He would not have been sitting in at the councils of the rich and powerful – they had scribes of their own, or could read and write themselves, or used their priests. But even in his role as a copyist, Antimo had learned there were few big secrets well-hidden in the country. And one could often join the disparate facts. “I killed the men who had tortured him, Your Grace. Even if he had told them anything… they could not have passed it on. He died bravely.” Antimo did not say, "in my arms, and I kissed the old man’s face and closed his eyes, before I ran to find my mother to protect her. And if I had not stayed with him… I might have been in time for her." But not for the first time, he thought it.

“I had assumed he’d killed those who attacked him,” said the Duke. “I did get informed, after the sack of Breno, that he was dead, and had been found with the bodies. So: it was seven, not three. Still, it surprises me that my cousin, Marquis Benzoni, was that astute that he saw the value in you, Antimo Bartelozzi.”

“My mother pleaded for my life, Your Grace. She was a merchant’s daughter before she ran off with my father. She… bargains.” Antimo could not bring himself to say "bargained." She would be dead by now. He could only hope that it had been quick. That had been his bargain. That had been the bastard testa di cazzo Marquis’s hold over him and the price. Her safety. Her life, in exchange for the lives of the targets. She’d given so much for Antimo, and he knew it. If he ever got free… and he had to admit there seemed a small chance of it now, even with this strange nobleman. Duke Enrico was odd, a noble who worked iron as a commoner might. Perhaps that was why he seemed so calm and knew far too much. Perhaps he would understand and allow Antimo Bartelozzi to call on the marquis with deadly intent. It was a faint hope, small fuel for that spark of vengeance.

“Aha,” said the duke, nodding. “I like things explained. If you understand how they work… you can predict, sometimes, what will happen in future, and how prevent it. For example, I gathered from your ramblings when you were not with your wits that you’d noticed when we use coal that has been burned without air, much as one does for charcoal burning, merely by the smoke and realized that it meant I might be working there. That is a secret that my forge-masters need to hide better, and I would have you be silent about. It is not something we need our enemies or competitors discovering. You’re observant, and I like explanations. They are useful in war, and in statecraft. I had wondered if I had missed something in my cousin. I am glad to have that, too, explained.” He tilted his head slightly. “It may interest you to know that Marquis Michael Benzoni, who I believe stood second in the line of the heritors to my demesne, had a tragic accident recently. He fell off a balcony, poor man,” said Enrico Dell’este, his expression and tone in sharp contrast to his words. “I think he was rather surprised to see me, at that time of night, and took a careless step backwards. There was a sharp spiked iron-work fence below the balcony. Ferrara wrought-iron work. It did seem... appropriate.”

“My mother…” blurted Antimo.

Now the duke smiled, properly. “I quite understand how she talked that fool into it. Your mother is very eloquent in your defense and in pleading for you too. She values you very highly, young man. I know a great deal about your intelligence, ability and courage. And about your upbringing. In the light of what I have seen, some of it may even be true.”

“You… you were in time to stop him from killing her? Your Grace, she had nothing to do with all of this. She was just a hostage. Punish me, not her.”

“I am aware of that, Antimo Bartelozzi. That is why I brought her back here with me. She’s been fussing over you, and defending you, vocally and often. It was pure chance that Leopoldo was watching you when you came to your senses, and not your mother. She has spent many hours with you. She is asleep now, but I will send her down later.” The duke gave him the benefit of a twisted smile. “It will stop her worry and her bargaining, which was not needed. Both you and she do not understand that it is not a sword, a knife or a harquebus that is dangerous. It is the man using it and his purpose that make it deadly. You were Benzoni’s blade, and he is dead now.” Leaning down Duke Enrico took the misericorde out of his boot, and handed it, hilt first to Antimo.

Antimo nearly dropped it. “Your Grace… what do you mean by this?” he asked warily, holding the long thin-bladed knife, as if it were possibly a trap, or about to magically transform into a snake. “And… my my mother, what do you plan to do with her?”

The duke shrugged. “Nothing. I do not make war on women. I would scorn to use such a lever.” Antimo could see a slight straightening of the iron-working duke’s spine as he said this, with a twist of his lips. “Actually, some money was owing to your old master. I am perpetually short of funds, but as it happens there is a silversmith’s house and shop which, owing to its previous owner’s attempt to debase my coin, is in my gift. I believe she was your master’s leman, her bargain to get him to take you as an apprentice. He died in my service, and I would think that some recompense for it. What do you think?”

Antimo thought the man was possibly mad, but did not say so, in case he changed his mind. Instead he took a deep breath and asked the question directly. “Do you mean me to be your assassin, Your Grace?” If that was what it took, he could do it, as little as he wanted to.

Duke Enrico shook his head. “I have very little use for assassins. If that is your chosen trade, try Venice or Milan. I cannot do that better than they do, and rather than try to beat them at their own game I work in my own way. For that I do, however, value loyalty, and the ability to make maps that are correct and to scale. It appears to me that you can be very loyal, and I was impressed by the map you had drawn. You paid fine attention to details other miss. You understand how to mislead and go to hostile places. And you can write and think. Those could all be useful to me.

Antimo struggled out of the bed, using, without thinking, the big mastiff as a leaning post. The dog did not appear to mind. Antimo knelt in front of the Duke. “Your Grace… I would be your man. If you can trust me. I tried to kill you.”

“Put the knife away before you fall over onto it,” said the Duke, helping him up. “I do not wish to explain that to your mother. Lie down, before you fall down. The dog trusts you, and he is a better judge than most. Oddly, it stopped me from killing you in the heat of the moment. He stood over you, almost as if he was guarding you, not me. I took it as a sign of sorts. Now, I must go. I have work to do, reports from my spies to read. A summer campaign to plan. I’ll send your mother with some food and drink. When you are stronger, my people will bring you to me.”

Antimo’s mind was in a turmoil. And getting up had made him very giddy. But he knew that sparing the dog had been its own reward, many times over. “The knife… they will not like me having that in the dungeon.”

“Dungeon?” asked the Duke, pausing.

“Er. This place… where murderers and assassins are kept.”

The Duke gave a crack of laughter. “My dungeons are reported to be cleaner and drier than some others. But this is merely a room in the tower di Leone. I wonder if you will make a good spy after all. I had believed you have an eye for detail, Antimo Bartelozzi. Few dungeons have a bar on the inside of the door.”

Dave Freer is the author or coauthor of a host of books, novellas and short stories for Baen and beyond. His latest is high fantasy Dog and Dragon . Dave is also the coauthor of books in several series with Eric Flint and Mercedes Lackey, including the Heirs of Alexandria series, with newest entry, Burdens of the Dead [LINK]. This story is part of the Heirs of Alexandria universe.

Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden

by Wen Spencer

"Welcome to Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden. Today, we're tackling a common garden pest, the strangle vine." Hal Rogers grinned at Jane Kryskill's camera and motioned for her to pan right with the slightest tilt of his pith helmet.

"No way in hell," Jane murmured. She did not need five years experience of filming in Pittsburgh to know that a half-eaten deer did not make good ratings. It might be sensational news on Earth. It was, however, a fairly typical outcome when an Earth animal met any number of Elfhome carnivorous plants. Eighty percent of their Pittsburgh viewers would not be impressed, and the other twenty would call the studio the next day, pissed off that their dinner had been ruined by the sight.

Hal's grin tightened slightly as he continued. "The strangle vine is a dangerous plant to deal with as it’s a master of disguise. It can produce up to five different types of foliage, depending on the type of anchor it attaches itself to. It makes safely identifying this plant very tricky. Thus, it's best to investigate any possible outbreak with weapon in hand. Some people like a machete. Others: an axe. Personally, I like a flamethrower."

He whipped up the wand and gave his signature evil laugh. The cackle inspired the rumors that he had accidentally killed someone on his previous show and thus his backslide to obscurity. She'd seen the videos. The only thing he'd killed was the ratings; he'd been bored silly doing curbside appeal remodels and it showed.

"This is a Red Dragon Flamethrower. You can get it at Wollertons on the South Side." Other places in town sold the same flamethrower, but they weren't sponsors of the show. "It comes with this wand with a squeeze trigger and this propane tank backpack."

Hal turned around to show off the ten-pound tank strapped to his back. "Simply turn this valve to on." He turned back, his grin widening with glee. "And apply a spark!"

Others might see Pittsburgh as a demotion, but Jane knew that Hal truly loved any excuse to wreak massive destruction. Where else could he routinely play with sticks of dynamite? Of course there was the small matter that his judgment was poor, hence the reason Jane had her job. She had been hired on originally to be nothing more than a glorified gofer. Hal had ignored, shot, or run over (figuratively and literally) everyone else assigned to the show until it was just Jane and her elfhound, Chesty.

Hal nearly took off his eyebrows applying the spark and blackened the rim of his pith helmet. It smoldered as he continued. "The six types of anchor plants that the strangle vine uses are the Elfhome Maple and Beech, the Wind Oak, the Silver Ash, Iron Wood saplings, and root-bound Black Willows. For this reason, we advise viewers to clear these native trees from their yards if possible. Strangle vines will use Earth trees for anchors but can't mimic their leaves, which makes them easier to spot."

The yard was filled with native plants, thus Jane didn't notice the vine creeping closer to Hal until Chesty growled a warning.

"Check." Jane silenced the big dog by acknowledging the threat. She pointed at the vine attempting to snag Hal's ankle. "Careful."

"See you!" Hal cried and let loose an arc of flame at the tendril. It recoiled at stunning speed. He laughed again, sounding slightly demented.

Jane's camera chimed quietly as Hal chased the retreating vine across the yard. Locking the focus and the microphone on Hal, she tapped the phone icon. "Hm?"

"You do remember what happens after every Shutdown?" Dmitri Vassiliev, station manager of WQED, asked dryly.

"We all waste our time in a staff meeting as Hal derails brainstorming for new story ideas with suggestions on blowing things up."

There was a moment of silence as Dmitri came as close as he would to acknowledging that she was right.

She continued on with what probably happened at the WQED studios that morning while she and Hal played hooky to film a new episode. "I figure that network just about shit themselves with last month's stories that you dumped on them yesterday and spent all last night flooding our servers with conflicting demands because they couldn't do anything as logical as actually reading your summary first. I also figure that they had ignorant questions like 'why didn't we get any video of the royal wedding' or 'where were the still shots of the new princess in her wedding gown' and 'why did we send them a hundred photos of hoverbike racers covered in mud instead.'"

The answer was that there been no "wedding" per se as elves apparently didn't go in for that kind of thing and the only photos of the bride were of her racing. They couldn't find a single picture where Tinker wasn't covered in mud, so they just sent them all.

"Someone did figure that out. Eventually." Which meant there probably had been several dozen patiently ignored emails before the light bulb went on at Network.

Jane laughed bitterly. "This is a large strangle vine in the backyard of an EIA desk jockey who has two little kids. He called his supervisor asking what to do about the half-buried deer under his tree, and his boss called Hal."

Dmitri huffed out as he realized all the vectors of the situation. The United Nations for some reason thought that clerical employees wouldn't encounter Elfhome's hazardous wildlife, so they provided no training on how to recognize lethal situations. The supervisor probably knew that there were professional exterminators to handle things like strangle vines, but decided to ask Hal for help. For all his love of explosives, Hal was a political creature, honed by years of clawing through the ranks of network television to achieve in-front-of-the-camera status. That he insisted that they tackle the strangle vine at dawn meant that the EIA manager was worth currying favors for – plus Hal would get to use his flamethrower. Lastly was that the lowly EIA employee wouldn't know to keep his children out of the yard until it was safe.

"How soon do you wrap up there?" Dmitri obviously was trying to sound causal while his blood pressure spiked through the roof. The meeting was long over, and Dmitri rarely reamed them out for anything short of setting someone on fire – which they hadn't done yet today -- so why was he calling now?

"What else did Network drop on us?"

There was a too-long silence that meant she was going to hate what Dmitri said next. "Network wants us to provide a 'native guide' for a crew filming on Elfhome…"

"You want me to play babysitter?"

"No, they asked for a guide, they're getting you as a producer, and you're going to keep them out of trouble even if you need to hogtie them, which I know you're fully capable of."

"I don't do babysitting!"

"It's not babysitting, and you're very good at it, otherwise Hal wouldn't be alive now."

Chesty went to point on a strangle vine staging a surprise rear attack. Jane sighed. When was Hal ever going to learn that these things were more like octopuses than snakes? "That is debatable," she said as Hal went down with a yelp.

"Ouch. Is he going to be okay?"

"Probably." Jane backed up to where she had the tripod set up and a small arsenal of garden weapons and a fire extinguisher.

Hal rolled, trying to bring the flamethrower to bear on the vine that had him by the ankle, cackling wildly. Unfortunately, the plant was much larger than the homeowner had led them to believe. It jerked Hal up into the air even as he squeezed the trigger. He went flying into the tree, leaving a contrail of flame behind him.

"Shit." Jane grabbed the chainsaw.

"Oh the viewers are going to love this one." Dmitri said and hung up, hopefully to call the fire department.

#

After Hal was packed off in the ambulance, Jane stopped in the Strip District to pick up supplies for the month. After a morning of fighting a giant man-eating plant with a chainsaw, she didn't want to talk to anyone, and certainly not Dmitri about some stupid babysitting job to some stuck-up New York City network idiots. It was going to be twenty-eight days of useless fighting back and forth until the next Shutdown proclaimed one of them a winner.

She silently loaded her cart with fifty-pound bags of rice, dried beans, coffee, and dog food while considering her choice in career. This wasn't what she thought she was going to do when growing up, but really she had stopped thinking about having a life when she was sixteen.

True, she had always loved making videos, but it had never occurred to her that she could make money doing it. She had graduated from high school without a plan, vaguely thinking she'd do something like join the Pittsburgh Police force or Fire Department or open a daycare. She lucked into the job at WQED and collided with Hal.

He'd pitched Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden to Dmitri as a remake of his hit lawn makeover show on a shoestring budget. In truth, though, it had been Hal's way to flee an avalanche of failure on Earth. The early episodes were boring, mundane and ultimately of no use to anyone. Hal zombie-walked through the episodes, sliding toward alcoholism. Jane had been assigned to be Hal's "production assistant" but what she'd really been hired to do was head off his self-destructive tendencies brought on by boredom.

Jane saw the need for change in the show – for Pittsburgh's sake and Hal's. Together they shifted it toward addressing the dangerous species of flora and fauna that crept into people's homes. It was important work. They saved lives at the risk of their own.

Of course they'd had to steamroll over their producer to do it. An imported New York City talent, the man just didn't understand Pittsburgh or how to stay in control of his minions. Her little brothers would have eaten him alive.

After they chewed through two more imported producers, Dmitri had promoted her into the slot. That was four years ago – and all four years they'd been the top show of Pittsburgh.

The checkout girl eyed the sawdust still clinging to Jane's blue jeans, the soot on her face, and the one lone leaf stuck in her braid. "Strangle vine, eh? They're bitches. Gave me nightmares as a kid. You know what Mr. Rogers says on PB&G?" She pulled a pair of pruning shears out of her back pocket. "Never go out unarmed."

PB&G was the locals' affectionate way of referring to Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden. The station ran with the nickname and changed their logo to look like a PB&J sandwich. The line was actually Jane's favorite saying that Hal stole for the show. It reflected what growing up in Pittsburgh had taught her. None of the New York imports had ever been able to wrap their brains around that. They used to mock her – quietly – for always having a variety of weapons near at hand.

No way she was going back to that.

#

WQED was one of the three channels still in Pittsburgh, one time proud home to Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, which made Hal's last name of Rogers faintly ironic. Originally part of the PBS system, they lost their funding when the United Nations took control of the city, which was a bunch of bullshit as a great deal of the population considered themselves "Americans." However, since Pittsburgh was now under UN jurisdiction, the residents only paid city taxes, not state or federal. WQED currently was affiliated with NBC since the local NBC station had been wiped out in the first Shutdown. The other two local TV stations hadn't fared much better; all three stations were on equal footing. It was a lose-lose situation for the television viewers.

As it was, the WQED studio in Oakland was nearly razed by the Rim as it cut its way through parallel universes. From space, the Rim looked like a perfect fifty-mile diameter circle punched through reality. At street level, the line wobbled oddly so you couldn't actually use map and compass to plot its course. She wasn't sure if it was because the orbital gate shifted over time or if the Rim varied in thickness at different points. Whatever the reason, WQED no longer sat deep within the confines of city, but at the edge of the mile wide field that was alternately used as a pasture, fairgrounds, or airfield for the big living airships. One of the massive creatures currently floated above the grass, announcing that the Viceroy was in town.

"No damage today." She told the studio's motor pool mechanic Juergen Affenzeller as he came out to greet her in the parking lot. She backed the production truck into its assigned space.

"Hey Jane!" Juergen leaned in the passenger side to pat Chesty. Since he'd been introduced as a friend to the elfhound, he didn't get his face ripped off. "Saw the show. That was epic."

"Really?" He couldn't have seen today filming but last week's show had been fairly tame for them. They tackled Earth's common poison ivy, oak, and sumac and Elfhome's death crown and bloodied lace, which were both deadly in a very sedate way.

"It was totally awesome! Yoyo Hal!" Juergen bounced up and down as an upright version of Hal falling repeatedly out of the tall wind oak only to be recaught and dragged upwards because he insisted on doing commentary in calm even tones. "It's important to note that a strangle vine can have as many as thirty-seven snare vines. Gak! You need to strike the base of the plant, its nerve center, to kill the strangle vine. Fuck! Never tackle one of these alone. Jane!"

She stared at Juergen in dismay. He'd seen all that? Live? Unedited? With all the embarrassing parts still intact? How?

The mechanic continued to act today's filming. "And you. Rawr!" He mimed the chainsaw. "That rocked! And then Brian! 'Don't try this at home, hire a professional pest control contractor.'" Brian was Brian Scroggins, Pittsburgh Fire Marshal and accidental guest co-host on a regular basis. "Just epic." She fled the embarrassing recount, ignoring the belated, "So how is Hal?"

Dmitri was in the break room, stealing all the coffee. Jane would have avoided him otherwise.

"I need some of that." She leaned against the doorway, waiting for the coffee and the questions.

He started a new pot of coffee brewing. "So?"

It was his way of asking all possible questions at once.

"The fire is out. Brian isn't going to press charges. Hal has a broken nose, a dislocated left hip, probably a mild concussion – once again that damn pith helmet saved him from anything serious -- and third degrees burns on his foot after his boot caught on fire. Nothing major but we're still out of production until his face heals."

Dmitri picked up the insulated pitcher full of coffee and tilted his head in a "follow me" signal. "Oh, didn't know you could dislocate a hip."

"It takes talent." Jane growled as she followed him through the studio. It would get her coffee faster.

The office area was a kicked anthill of activity with people on the phone and gesturing at each other madly. Still as Jane passed, people would nod and sometimes cover their headsets to murmur "Great job, Jane" or "Great show, Jane."

"What? Was everyone in production with you?" She clung to anger to tamp down on the hot blush of embarrassment burning at her collar line, trying to climb higher. She hated it when she ended up on camera. It meant she lost control of Hal, which was quickly followed by nearly losing Hal.

Dmitri snatched up the morning Post-Gazette and waved it toward her. "Princess Tinker came home last night with the Viceroy."

"I saw his gossamer out on the fair ground."

"Well, she just tore the living hell out of Perrysville North, beyond the rim."

"She what?"

"She strong-armed the EIA into providing bulldozers and dump trucks and started to build something."

"And we don't know what?"

"We sent Mark's crew out to the building site to see what they could find out." Mark Webster was WQED's reporter most fluent in Elvish. "The elves have not a clue; they're just blindly following orders. Apparently asking questions never occurs to them. One of humans Mark interviewed claimed that they were building windmills out of pickup trucks. Ford F-250s. Another claimed that they're building some kind of super computer running on magic. A third said that Tinker kept saying it was something that sounded like 'infrastructure' but he's not sure he was hearing her correctly."

"So, we still don't know."

"We were reviewing the video, trying to guess." Which meant everyone was in production with him and had seen the live feed from her camera. Juergen was probably included because of the windmill/pickup truck angle. The entire office had seen her rescue Hal with the chainsaw.

Jane cursed slightly as the hot burn threatened to climb higher.

"You did a good job, Jane." Dmitri flung the newspaper onto another desk as they passed. "Tinker invented hoverbikes that use magic to fly when she was twelve..."

"Thirteen," someone corrected him.

"Twelve! Thirteen! Who cares? The point is that she's a little mad scientist and the Viceroy just gave her complete control of the city because he's in love."

Dmitri opened the door and gestured that she was to go in. He'd successfully distracted her enough that she'd forgotten about the "network surprise" until she was five steps into the office. There were two strangers sitting on his leather couch. Empty cups waited on the coffee table, explaining why he'd stolen all the coffee from the break room.

"I found the coffee, and your new producer." Dmitri shut the door firmly behind him.

"What?" Jane whispered fiercely. She had assumed that the "network surprise" was in the way of a memo, warning of a film crew's arrival during the following Shutdown. She didn't think that they were already in Pittsburgh.

The two network men were polar opposites. One was a middle-aged Peter Pan, a schoolboy that never grew up, fair-haired, wiry build, and all grins. The other was a brooding wild man of dark hair beefcake. Host and cameraman, probably in that order.

"This is Nigel Reid and -- Taggart." Dmitri frowned as he realized that he didn't have a first name to stick on wild man. "They arrived late last night during Shutdown. Apparently they had visa problems at the border and were delayed. Almost didn't make it."

"Came across just before midnight, minutes to spare, like Cinderella." Nigel had a slight Scottish burr to his baritone voice. He beamed with the charisma that the camera loved but was pure hell to contain. People like him were sure that if they could just talk long enough, they could persuade anyone into anything. And, normally, they were right.

"Apparently our news stories to the network preempted their attention as we didn't hear about your arrival until this morning." Dmitri found a stray cup, inspected it to see if it was clean, and then poured coffee for Jane.

Taggart was obviously the behind the camera guy, from his unkempt black mane to heavy five o'clock shadow. His black muscle shirt, worn blue jeans and hiking boots indicated he expected to hit Pittsburgh running and be out filming shortly after arrival yesterday, not holding down a chair in an office today. "We were warned that last Shutdown the Viceroy had been attacked and was missing and that we might be walking into a war zone."

Jane snorted at the ancient news.

"It's complicated," Dmitri temporized. "Things are a lot more edgy here but so far, we're not at war with the elves, and we want to keep it that way." He indicated the spare guest chair, meaning he wanted Jane to sit. "This is Jane Kryskill, the producer of our top show, Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden."

"Backyard and garden?" Taggart leaned back, body language full of defensiveness that made lie to the vague query in his voice. Hopefully he didn't play poker with that many tells. "Nigel and I do award-winning nature documentaries all over the world. We've been a team for six years. I'd rather not add a third wheel to our machine."

Jane started to protest that the most dangerous places on Earth wouldn't prepare a crew for Elfhome and then caught herself. If they turned her down, she was free. She spread her hands in a "what can I say" motion to Dmitri. "I'd be a third wheel."

Dmitri gave her a stern look. "They're yours, keep them out of trouble."

"Excuse me," Taggart started. "I thought I made it clear…"

"No, let me make it clear. You're going to be driving around with a great big truck that says you are our responsibility. The elves might not speak English but that NBC logo is fairly universal. If you screw up, every human in this building becomes a target. You've been dumped in my lap without any warning, so you will play by my rules, or so help me god, I'll have the EIA lock you up until the next Shutdown and boot you back to Earth with no chance for a visa approved ever again, understand?"

"I say, I don't think there's any need to…" Nigel started to bring his charisma to bear.

Dmitri stabbed a finger at him. "Shut up! The only thing I want to hear from you is 'yes, sir' and 'thank you, sir.' From now on, Jane is not just your producer, she is your god. You will not go anywhere or do anything without her knowledge and you will do what she tells you to. If you even try to fight with me over this, I will have you locked up until you realize that this is Pittsburgh, and you can't do anything you damn well please."

There was a knock at the door and Michelle Baker leaned in. "Jane, Hal is – calling you." When Jane started to take out her phone, Michelle shook her head. "He's got your camera and he's broadcasting live."

"Oh shit!" Jane leapt to her feet.

"Jane!" Dmitri snapped to keep her from bolting. "They're yours." He pointed at the two men. "Keep them out of trouble."

She cursed and went. Maddeningly, they followed. At least Nigel had the intelligence to wait until they were in the hall to ask in a very quiet voice, "Would he really have us locked up?"

"In a heartbeat." Jane said. She considered telling them about what had happened to the last person who hadn't taken Dmitri seriously. Then she realized that if they were locked up, they'd no longer be her responsibility.

#

Hal's mark of bruises had darkened to solid black purple from ear to ear. They hadn't cleaned the sap out of his fine blonde hair, thus it stood up in wild spikes. He looked totally demented, making a great first impression on the two New Yorkers.

"What the hell, Hal!" Jane cried over the link. "How did you get my camera?"

"I told Johnnie Be Good the code to the truck's locker."

Johnnie Be Good was the slimeball of an EMT who had responded to the 911 call. She didn't trust him near her drinks at parties and she didn't trust him not to be stealing things off her truck.

"Hal! Damn it! Not again! Don't tell people that shit! You know what we have to do to change the fricking codes!" Actually it wasn't that hard, but she made up stuff so he wouldn't do exactly this. She continued while emailing a change order to Juergen, "And on top of everything, I'm going to have to come to the hospital and get the camera so no one steals it. You got me out of bed at 4:00 a.m. this morning, Hal. I want to go home, feed Chesty, and go to sleep! It's been a shitty, shitty day."

"They said I could leave if you came and picked me up." He dropped his voice to a whisper and pulled the camera closer. His pupils were blown wide, almost touching the rims of his irises. "The angry penguins scare me."

Jane pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off a headache. "They've given you pain medicine, haven't they?"

"My state of medication does not make them any less scary. Tiny, angry, little birds."

He was talking about the ancient Catholic nuns of Mercy Hospital. They were one of the few things on the planet that actually frightened Hal. She suspected he would be even more cavalier about getting hurt if there was a hospital other than Mercy to go to in Pittsburgh.

"Please, please, please, please, please, please." Hal whimpered. "You've got the Fortress of Solitude. All those empty beds! Please!"

"Fine. You can stay at my place. I'll come get you." She slapped down her hand, cutting the feed.

The two men were staring at the display with surprise and amusement.

"Who was that unfortunate fellow?" Nigel asked.

"That's – that's the host of Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden, Hal Rogers. We had a rough shoot this morning."

Taggart was clearly confused by the answer. Obviously he thought PB&G was a simple landscape show.

Nigel raised a finger in question. "Speaking of beds, where are we staying?"

#

The two men trailed Jane to Ginnilee Berger's desk, which was alarmingly clean, as in not only was the desktop cleared of every yellow post-it note, all the pictures of England and peaches-and-cream complexion people were missing from the cubicle walls.

Jane caught hold of Louis Robinson, the station engineer. "Was Ginnilee fired?"

"No, she's on pregnancy leave. Has been for a month."

"She was pregnant?"

Louis stared at her a moment and then said, "Vespers."

She shuddered as unwanted memories tried to surface. "What?"

"You and Hal were off doing that show on vespers when we had the party for her. Yeah, she was like five months pregnant and planned to have the baby here so it would have Pittsburgh citizenship, but her ultrasound came back showing that the baby was breach. She had to go home; Mercy won't handle high risk pregnancies for people with visas."

"Home? To England?"

"Yes. England. She'll be back – if she can work out a visa for the baby. She's hoping for a joint citizenship, England and Pittsburgh, but it's unlikely."

"But who is doing her job until she gets back?"

"The intern."

"Where's the intern?"

"I think he went home too; it's summer break at the University."

"So who is doing the housing?"

Louis shrugged and backed away. "Not me."

Nigel looked slightly confused and concerned but Taggart immediately grasped the situation.

"So we don't have any place to stay?" Taggart asked. "Network said you would handle our accommodations."

"We would have if we had more than," she checked her watch, "fifteen minutes warning that Network didn't do shit about preparing for your trip. Just to be clear, that includes not letting us know last Shutdown to prepare for you showing up yesterday."

Nigel jumped in to prevent a fight. "We tried checking into a hotel last night after we crossed the border."

"No luck huh? Welcome to Pittsburgh. Strange thing about disappearing to another planet for a month at a time; really kills the tourist trade." What few hotels remained were booked solid in the summer months.

"We've just spent the last," Taggart paused to count back hours, "seventy-four hours in our truck, sitting in traffic, taking turns sleeping, pissing into a bottle. Three days."

She'd heard that getting across the border was hell on Shutdown. At least it wasn't winter. Taggart certainly looked like he'd slept in his clothes for three days. Nigel must have had a splash bath in the offices men's room and put on clean clothes.

"Doesn't the University and the EIA have people that stay just for the month?" Taggart asked with desperation in his voice. The man probably just wanted to fall over and sleep in a real bed.

"They have dorms," Jane said. She wondered if their morning of positive karma with the EIA could allow her dumping the two onto them.

"We can stay with you!" Nigel cried with the delight of a nine year old being told they were having a sleepover. "Your – your raccoon fellow says you have lots of beds. And we're going to be working together. It would be so convenient!"

Taggart merely watched, knowing the persuasive powers of a TV host. He couldn't keep the smirk out of his chocolate-colored eyes. She really needed to get him into a high stakes poker game.

"I have a really big dog," Jane said.

"Oh, I love dogs!" Nigel said with all sincerity. "And dogs love Taggart. It's his special talent."

Which apparently annoyed Taggart to all end judging by the wince.

Housing was plentiful in Pittsburgh but not necessarily safe. They could pick any empty house and squat. Finding a safe place before nightfall would be tricky. She knew better than anyone what could be hiding in an abandoned space. The memory of vespers pushed into her mind and she shivered again.

"Okay, fine, but only for one night. Tomorrow we find you someplace to live."

#

She'd missed their production truck earlier because Jeurgen had it in the garage on some pretense so he could climb all over it and drool. Taggart had state of the art cameras to go with it. Everything from battery life to resolution was all a hundred times greater than her camera. It put her ancient truck and ten year old gear to shame. Sheer jealousy made her want to kick the truck or something. She could see why, though, Dmitri assumed that they'd be driving the network vehicle all over Pittsburgh: her truck was too old to support their cameras.

The thing had a giant-sized logo of their affiliated network painted on its side as well as "Chased by Monsters," which apparently was the name of their show.

"Award winning nature documentaries?" Jane pointed to the show's sharp-toothed logo.

"It wasn't our first choice of names." Taggart obviously hated it.

Nigel, however, was a half-full kind of person. "The name isn't important, it's what we film that is. It's kind of catchy though."

Jane didn't want to agree. She hated this sense of being railroaded into babysitting. It opened old wounds. She was going to have nightmares tonight for sure. "I have supplies in my truck that need to be moved to my SUV."

That required a careful introduction of Chesty. He was too well-mannered to growl at them but he gave the men a look that let them know he would cheerfully tear their face off if Jane asked him to.

Nigel clapped his hands together in sheer joy. "An elfhound! Oh how wonderful. They're on our list."

"This is Chesty. Don't move while I'm getting him used to you."

"Chesty? As in Lt. General Chesty Puller?" Taggart got points for seeming unfazed by having something the size of a bear sniff him over. Even the most avid dog lovers were unnerved by Chesty's size.

"Yeah. My dad was a Marine." He had been a scout sniper to be exact, but she'd found men to be unnerved by the fact. Actually, almost everything in Jane's life unsettled strangers.

Nigel obviously was restraining himself from a petting orgy. "He's a beautiful animal. How old is he?"

"He's seven. The elves say that he'll live to be about a hundred, but he's full grown." She took Nigel's hand and let Chesty know he was to suffer the touch. "Just because he knows you, doesn't mean he trusts you. You have to earn his trust."

"Like his owner?" Taggart asked.

"I doubt you'll be here long enough for either one of us," she told them bluntly, but for some reason, it only made Taggart grin.

#

Much to Chesty and Taggart's dismay, she had the cameraman ride with her and Nigel follow in their truck. She had to keep them separated if she was going to keep them from running off and trying to film without her. From what she'd been able to observe, Taggart was the practical details person of the team.

Taggart put his back to the passenger door; either to keep an eye on Chesty in the backseat or to make sure Nigel was staying behind them. Both denoted a cautious outlook, which Jane approved of. It would make her job easier if Taggart was used to keeping Nigel in check.

"We'll see about getting you a place to live tomorrow," Jane said. "Any house that's unoccupied is free to anyone who is willing to take care of it. It's July, you won't have to worry about heating. The station can pull some strings to get you water and power. We watch each other's backs here." Hence the entire show this morning. They do a favor for EIA, and somewhere down the road, they could reasonably call in a return favor. "We're not going to let you screw things up and then drive away next Shutdown. We have to live here."

"Fine," Taggart growled as if it cost him to agree. "But it would be helpful to be caught up to speed. 'It's complicated' is bullshit."

It took her a moment to track back through the morning to find Dmitri's explanation of the current political situation in Pittsburgh. Okay, admittedly it was fairly sketchy.

"Okay, I'll catch you up but you'll have to be patient because it isn't simple."

She waited until he nodded in agreement before starting. She wanted to start laying ground rules of asking for cooperation and getting it. "Earth and Elfhome are parallel universes, mirror reflections with minor differences, the main one is that Elfhome has magic. Geographically they're identical. Recently the elves admitted that they could travel from Elfhome to Earth via a pathway through large cave systems."

"Yeah, we've always suspected something like that. All the legends we have of fae living under the hills."

"Lying is considered a major crime by elves, but not answering the question is an art form that they carefully cultivate."

"And apparently it rubs off," Taggart complained.

Jane ignored him. She'd scripted enough "how-to" bits that she knew that the key to understanding something complex required starting at the important facts that might seem basic but on which all understanding pivoted. "What magic does to the equation is that it superloads the DNA of all the native species. Basically everything on Elfhome could beat the snot out of its Earth cousin. We're genetically close enough to elves that we can interbreed, but they're taller, stronger and immortal. Chesty here will live almost twenty times longer than any Earth breed of his size."

"Do you mind starting with something I don't know? Like if the Viceroy is dead or alive? And why he went missing?"

Jane plowed on with her explanation. "There's a third parallel universe, with yet another mirror world, named Onihida, and it has magic. Its people are the oni."

He didn't startle as much as she expected and his next question explained why. "Whose theory is this?"

She dropped the big bomb. "Twenty-eight days ago, the oni made a very serious attempt at killing the Viceroy."

"Wait!" There was the reaction she was expecting. He stared at her eyes wide. Pure cameraman, though, that was the only body reaction to his surprise. Thankfully his voice made it worth everything, his normal rich near bass went all squeaky. "You mean they're here? In Pittsburgh?"

"Yes. Number unknown but possibly in the hundreds, if not thousands. Goal unknown, but obviously hostile to the elves. The elves have reluctantly also admitted that they had a running skirmish with the oni several hundred years ago. It started on Onihida, went across parts of China, and ended in the cave systems that lead to Elfhome. Or used to lead. The oni so scared the shit out of the elves that they blasted the pathways between Elfhome and Earth shut."

Taggart gazed out the SUV's windows at the city streets. Mercy Hospital was in one of the better areas of town since it lay protected on two sides by the river. All the windows had glass in them, the sidewalks were clear of weeds, and no wild animals were scurrying for cover. It could be any street in America. "I thought if the EIA was allowing people in, that the trouble had blown over."

Pittsburgh desperately needed supplies from Earth once a month. There simply were too many people and too little farmland for the city to feed itself, even in the summer months. It would have gridlocked incoming traffic completely if the EIA had tried to turn back everyone not transporting food.

Jane didn't point out that they'd downloaded all the information to Earth at midnight yesterday. The network had twenty-four hours to realize they were sending their people into a war zone and call them back.

#

Hal normally was excitable with a quirky sense of humor. On painkillers, he was manic loopy. Most people thought Hal was funnier with all politically correct safeguards brakes stripped off and the engine running at full. The nuns of Mercy Hospital, however, were not among that number. If anything, "loathe" was probably an accurate word to how they felt about him. Over the years, they had abandoned all "family only" rules for Jane in order to facilitate her taking him away. As far away as possible. They had hinted that his returning to Earth – permanently – would be a good thing for everyone.

Today was no exception.

Mother Superior of the Sisters of Mercy herself was lying in wait for Jane at the foyer. "You have to keep in mind we only can restock our supplies once a month. Frankly, it always stresses our supplies of medications when Mr. Rogers is having a streak of bad luck. With fighting breaking out right and left..."

"Mother Superior, this is Nigel Reid. Nigel, Mother Superior is head of the nuns that oversee this hospital. Anyone attacked by a monster is brought here to be treated."

Which of course was all that took. TV hosts were kind of like napalm. You threw them at any major infestation and they cleaned out the area of all hostiles.

Nigel lit up as if introduced to Santa Claus. "Oh, how simply wonderful to meet you!"

Taggart caught what she had done and his eyes glittered with his smile. "That was pure evil."

"Judicial use of resources is always appropriate."

For reasons that she could never understand, they always put Hal in pediatrics, as far from the nurses' station as possible. It was possibly because it was usually the least occupied floor, or perhaps it was a statement on what they thought his mental age was.

He was standing on the window ledge, hospital gown flapping open in the back, as he waved her camera around.

"Hal! What the frick are you doing with my camera? Get down! And don't you dare break my camera!"

"Jane?" Hal glanced over his shoulder. His two black eyes made him look like a startled raccoon. "Jane!" He cried with joy and then realized he was holding evidence of his crime. "Jane!" And that he was currently mooning her. "Jane!" And in trying to hide the evidence while pinning the flaps of the hospital gown, together, he started to wobble dangerously on the window ledge. "Jane!"

Cursing, Jane caught the wrist of the hand holding the camera and jerked him toward her. In what was an unfortunately well-practiced move, she pulled him into a fireman carry over her shoulder. "I swear, Hal, I'm going to tell them to tie you into the bed if you pull this shit again!"

She delivered him to said bed.

"But there was this huge bird! It was bigger than me! Black like a crow! Wings this big!" He was attempting to show her by spreading his arms. She, however, was prying her camera free. "Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"You break my camera, and we can't shoot for two months. I break your hand, we can still shoot tomorrow."

"Letting go!" Hal cried. "Letting go!"

She checked the lens for scratches. Camera parts needed to be ordered from Earth. They have to wait until next Shutdown to order replacements and then another month for the lens to arrive. If he's screwed up her camera, she was so going to kill him.

"I was just sitting here when this freaking huge bird came swooping out of nowhere." Hal was attempting to use his charisma to talk his way out of trouble, only because he was on drugs, he derailed quickly into incoherence. "At least I think it was a bird. Might have been a superhero. I am Batman! Only more like Hawkman – without the goofy cow." He meant cowl. He put his fingers to his head to make odd points on Hawkman's cowl. Obviously he hadn't seen himself in the mirror yet; he already was masked by deep purple bruises. "Cow. Cow. Mooo." He noticed Taggart for the first time and he went wide-eyed. He tilted his head, still making horns. "My god! You're Taggart with the unpronounceable first name."

"Yes, I am." Taggart rubbed at his face to cover a smile. "And you're Hal Rogers from Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden."

"I am." Hal slowly frowned as he tried to think through the confusion of the painkillers. He glanced about the familiar hospital room, the Boulevard of the Allies just outside his window with the Monongahela River beyond the steep cliff. "This is Pittsburgh. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm wondering myself." Taggart said.

Hal suddenly lunged at Jane and wrapped both arms around her. "No. You can't have her!" He hissed like snake. "Jane is mine!"

Normally she didn't think of Hal as a small man. His personality could fill a room to claustrophobic level, making him seem seven feet tall. In truth, however, he came right to boob-level on her.

"Hal!" Jane worked at prying him off her. "If you want to get out of here, you better get dressed, because I'm not taking you out of here with your ass flapping in the wind."

"What's he doing here?" Hal whispered fiercely.

"Get dressed!" She gave him a shove and turned around so she wouldn't be flashed as well as mooned. Although after five years working together – and all various plant assisted disrobing and the subsequent ambulance rides -- she'd seen the entire package more times than she could count.

"Does Dmitri know he's here?" Hal asked and then answered himself. "Of course Dmitri knows. Dmitri knows everything. He's freaking omniscient. That's just an act when he calls right in the middle of something amazing and goes 'what are you doing?' like he doesn't damn well know you plan a glorious explosion. Just freaking glorious."

Hal was rambling on about his recent misadventure with high explosives. If Taggart weren't standing there, she would take advantage of Hal's drugged state and quiz him on that, because she still was trying to figure out where he got the C4. More importantly, if the source was going to supply him with more in the future.

The network cameraman was eyeing Hal over her shoulder with open surprise and dismay. "What exactly happened this morning? He looks like he's been flogged."

"We were victorious!" Hal shouted. "We looked that thing in all seventy-four eyes and burned out its heart!"

Jane sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. So many things wrong in that sentence, she wasn't even going to try. God, she prayed that Nigel wasn't anything like Hal. "Right, let's get going. I want to get home before dark."

#

Technically she lived in Pittsburgh but barely. The true city's edge was another mile or so north. Once the township of Coraopolis, the nearly unpopulated neighborhood, however, was one of the points where the Rim had migrated inward via invading Elfhome vegetation. What had been housing plans once gathered around Pittsburgh International Airport was now collapsing homes among ironwood forest. The trees were still considered "saplings" but already towered a hundred feet over her driveway. The harsh sun instantly softened in a way that seemed nearly magical.

Chesty jumped out his open window the moment she parked and started a perimeter parole of the front yard. The cost of living so close to the Rim was she had to be ever vigilant. Only after he'd made a full sweep of the front yard without signaling danger did she get out and take a deep breath of the green stillness.

Taggart slid out of her SUV and stood taking in her ancestral home in the sun-dappled forest. The massive stone walls. The turrets. The gables. "Wow."

"Welcome to Hyeholde."

"This – this is not what I expected," he said quietly, as if not to disturb the peace. "A castle? Here?"

"When my great-great-grandfather proposed to my grandmother, he promised her a castle. He never mentioned that they'd have to build with their own hands. It took them seven years just to finish the West Room."

He laughed. "So you are a native guide."

"You can't get much more native without being an elf."

"Mine!" Hal cried from the backseat for the zillionth time since leaving the hospital.

"So, you live here alone?" Taggart obviously was asking if Hal lived with her.

"Yes." She hoped the brusque answer would stop any more questions, but she hoped in vain.

"Your family went back to Earth?"

"Don't ask personal questions." Jane added a glare so he'd get the point.

"She's got lots and lots and lots of family in Pittsburgh." Hal shouted. "And they all drive her nuts, so she hides out in her Fortress of Solitude."

"Shush you." Jane considered duct tape for Hal's mouth. God knows what he might tell the New Yorkers. She keyed open her gun safe and took out her assault rifle. "Stay with the SUV until I've checked the house."

#

Her great-great-grandfather had built the castle to be a restaurant, so it had an industrial-sized kitchen. She'd opened it up into one of the smaller dining rooms to add in a small eating and living room space. She got Hal settled on her big leather couch and assigned Nigel the task of keeping him there, one way or another. For the next hour as she squirreled away her supplies, fed Chesty and made a simple dinner, Hal ranted at hyperactive speed about his time doing network television.

She knew the pain medication was wearing off when Hal grew quiet.

When she paused to check on him, Hal asked, "Why are they here?" in a small miserable voice that sounded nothing like the normal Hal.

She opened her mouth to answer and realized that she really didn't know why the two were there. She'd been so caught up in trying to wriggle out of responsibility and taking care of Hal that she hadn't actually found out the details.

He probably hadn't asked Nigel because, despite the friendly banter, he didn't trust the man. The common thread of his stories, she realized, was that on Earth he'd been betrayed and abandoned by people he thought he could trust to more famous stars. Wives. Producers. And ultimately fans. Had he kept to old Earth stories in order to keep from playing up anything connected to PB&G?

"They've got a network show called 'Chased by Monsters' and Dmitri wants me to keep them out of trouble," she explained.

Hal frowned and looked at Taggart who was now slumped in the matching chair, looking exhausted. "You're not here because network is betting on a war?"

"Depends on who you ask," Taggart said. "Ask me, no. I'm never doing that again. I've had enough of the stench of blood. I wouldn't put it past Network though, certainly they suddenly green lighted our show after months of having us on hold."

"Wait. What?" Jane had missed something important.

"Taggart is an award winning war correspondent," Nigel said because Taggart apparently was modest and Hal was falling into a pain stupor. "Network probably okayed our show because it created a win-win for them. If there's a war, they have one of the best men trapped inside. If there isn't, they get what promises to be a hit show."

It suddenly made sense why Network hadn't warned Dmitri last Shutdown about the men's arrival and yet had given them a freshly painted truck. The decision had been made to send them after they'd processed WQED's last news dump, and then it was too late to send an email to Pittsburgh.

Jane swore. "Bastards."

Nigel spread his hands slightly in a "what are you going to do" motion. "It gets us what we wanted, so we can't really complain."

"We've been trying to get onto Elfhome to film documentaries for years." Taggart scrubbed at his face. "The UN has a chokehold on information coming out of Pittsburgh. Most people wouldn't notice it. We notice because there's a huge black hole where things like wildlife documentaries should be. Jane Goodall's work produced sixty years of film. Jacques-Yves Cousteau alone had thousands of hours of documentaries. Oxford Scientific Films did four seasons on meerkats. What do we have from Elfhome in nearly thirty years? A whole new world with fascinating people, plants and animals? Zip."

"Maybe the networks don't think they'll sell."

Taggart snorted. "Documentaries are funded differently. Production companies like ours often fold their profit back into the next film, along with money from private investors, government grant money and philanthropists who have a special interest in the source material. Normally we make a film and then market off the rights to networks. It gives us creative control over what we do."

Nigel nodded along with Taggart's explanation. "We've had the money for the last three years, but our visa applications kept getting turned down. We just didn't have the clout to force them through. So we decided to see if a major network would have better luck – and they did."

"But you're stuck filming crap now." Hal snorted. "Chased by monsters? Better be damn good at running."

"And exactly how do you get hurt filming a landscaping show?" Taggart retorted.

"If it can't kill us, we don't film it," Jane said, to stop the fighting before it could start. "There's a lot of dangerous flora and fauna in Pittsburgh and it doesn't stay beyond the Rim. It comes into people's backyards and sets up shop. We teach our viewers how to deal with it, but it means we have to actually get close enough to get hurt."

"Deal with, as in kill?" Nigel seemed flabbergasted.

"This isn't Earth. These aren't endangered species. This morning we were dealing with a very large strangler vine in a neighborhood with lots of children. There's no way to 'move' it to someplace where it isn’t a danger, especially while it's actively trying to kill anything that stumbles into its path. Pets. Children. Automated lawnmowers."

"That one is always amusing to watch but it always ends badly for the lawnmower," Hal said.

"Well, yes, the idea behind 'chased' is that we aren't hunting the creatures."

She remembered that they'd mentioned a list when they first met Chesty. "Which creatures?"

They had a list that made Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden's fare look tame. She stared at it, trying not to slip to horror. Half the animals were mythical – possibly – and certainly never seen near Pittsburgh. Did they have the pull to get them all the way to the Easternlands to find out? Humans were discouraged from leaving Pittsburgh city limits, with the exception of the train crews, who actually got to travel to the east coast. The elves normally forbid humans from traveling to the other continents. Fame, however, opened many doors.

"What, exactly, did the network set up for you in terms of visas?"

"Why?" Taggart asked.

"Many of these animals aren't native to the Westernlands." She scrolled down and a laugh of disbelief or perhaps fear slipped out. "Basilisk? Bigfoot?"

"We thought we should list all legendary animals," Nigel explained – apparently without realizing it – why they had visa problems. "Can't hurt to ask. Dragons are real, right?"

"Elves say they are." Jane desperately wanted a scotch but if she had one, Hal couldn't resist needing one, and she didn't want go back down that road. "This list is suicidal if you're not willing to defend yourself. This isn't Earth, where you can sit in your Jeep and take picture of lions, or go sit in the middle of a bunch of apes. Most of these things will peel open an SUV like it’s a can of sardines and make a snack of everything inside."

"It would be amusing to watch but it would end badly for you," Hal murmured. It was hard to tell if he was making a play on his previous statement or if he didn't realize he was repeating himself.

"The list is a starting point." Nigel leaned forward, face lighting up with inner fire. "To get us in the door. What we want is all of Elfhome. To revel in all that it has to offer. The virgin iron wood forest. The beautiful immortal elves. The strange and magical beasts. And the humans that live peacefully side by side with all this."

Jane shook her head, trying to resist the power of a TV host beaming at her one-on-one. "Don't snow job me."

"I've seen this kind of shit before," Taggart said with quiet intensity. "When a country goes dark, its means someone has something it's trying to hide. And often what they're hiding is horrible war crimes like mass graves and attempted genocide. Someone is keeping the media out of Pittsburgh."

#

The knowledge that there were people sharing her house, people whose safety she was responsible for, weighed heavily on her. It sunk her into the murky waters of old nightmares, where well-founded grief blurred into something strange and nearly unrecognizable.

She bolted awake with Chesty nosing her face.

"I'm fine!" She pushed him away and sat up. Her alarm clock read six in the morning with the sky just lightening with dawn. Hal's soft snores invaded the normal quiet of her house. "I'll be even better when I get rid of all these men."

She stomped across the hall and pounded on Hal's door and got an "I'm up!" yelped in reply. She stalked down the hallway, shouting, "Daylight is wasting ladies! Time to get up!"

She wasn't prepared to find Taggart already in the kitchen. Judging by the smell, he had made coffee and toast. He wore low-slung pj bottoms and had been standing in front of the bank of televisions she'd set up so she could watch all three Pittsburgh channels at once.

He had dark curls on his chest that matched his long black mane, which only served to underscore her first impression of wild man. Judging by his muscled abdomen, he visited a gym often in New York. She could also tell in a glance that she was very much into dark haired wild men.

She opened her mouth to tell him to get dressed and nothing coherent came out.

He gazed at her with open worry. "Are you okay?"

"Just – just…" Needed to remember that she was extremely pissed at him for invading her life. "I had a nightmare."

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Lawn gnomes had taken Hal. I couldn't find him."

"Ah, so you don't really hate him?"

She was caught off guard by the question. "No! Why would you say that?"

"Friendship is a rare beast in our line. Most people only fake it."

"I don't fake anything."

"I'm starting to understand that." His gaze made her blush because it seemed to suggest he was into tall blondes. Then again, most men were, at least at first meeting. Usually after they met her father's ghost, though, they realized that tall and blonde only stretched so far.

"Tell me, who exactly is Tinker?" He nodded toward the televisions.

All three channels were covering the same story from slightly different perspective. Jane swore as the details filtered in, painful in the familiar cadence, as if time had wound back seven years. Vanished without a trace. No witnesses. Missing since yesterday. Jumpfish and river sharks made finding a body unlikely.

"Oh god." The cameras of the news crews picked out all the same trappings as when Boo disappeared. The police cars. The EIA river patrol boats. The family waiting on the shore for news. The only difference this time was that it was elves gathered into a protective circle. The Viceroy's face was full of unbearable grief.

"You know him?" Taggart asked.

"Her. Tinker is a girl." Not much older than what Boo would be now, if Boo was still alive. "Everyone knows her. She's famous." Jane thought of all the photos of the muddy hoverbike racer that they had sent Network. In every one of them, Tinker had blazed glorious. Determined in battle. Joyous at her wins. Grinning even in defeat.

"I'm sorry," Taggart said quietly and Jane realized that there was a tear rolling down her cheek.

"I don't really know her." Jane wiped at her face. "She's just eighteen; she's still just a kid." According to certain juvenile betting pools, Tinker had barely started to date before meeting the Viceroy. "But Pittsburgh is a small town. Everyone has dozens of points of commonality. My cousins are on her crew. My younger brother hangs out with her cousin. My mechanic's little brother is her best friend."

The impending ripple of grief moving through the city, touching everyone, made Jane's throat tighten up. She focused instead on the chaos on the screen trying to understand when and where Tinker had disappeared. Last Jane had heard, Tinker had been building something out beyond the Rim. How had she disappeared with all those people at her beck and call? She wasn't a kindergartener with five older brothers to distract everyone. Tinker might be barely five foot tall but her personality expanded to fill the room. Any time that Jane had crossed paths with Tinker, everyone in the area tracked her movement.

Maddeningly, none of the three reporters were actually covering what had happened. Chloe Polanski hated working with a crew (and from what Jane had heard, the feeling was mutual) and used an eyepiece camera. Her shots were either close-ups of herself or confusing sweeps of the river. The woman was good for interviews but sucked when there wasn't a warm body to tear into pieces. Kimberly Shotts was going for the human-interest angle and her cameraman stayed focused on the Viceroy. Only Mark Webster's cameraman was showing enough of the surroundings for Jane to get her bearings as to where the elves and humans were gathering. They seemed to be at the old Greyhound parking lot off of Second Avenue, about six hundred feet from the footings of the 10th Street Bridge.

Jane swore as Mark's camera showed the wreckage of Tinker's famous hoverbike in the emergency pull off lane of 376, just feet from the Monongahela River. "What the hell did she hit?"

As if to answer her, the camera panned upwards to the Boulevard of the Allies at the top of the cliff beside Second Avenue. The drop from the highway above was straight down several hundred feet.

"Looks like she went off the cliff," Taggart said.

"Not by accident," Jane said. "She could make a hoverbike do anything. She could fly…"

Jane realized that Mark was showing the edge of Mercy Hospital. "Oh, freaking hell."

She scrambled to her camera charging station. She'd swapped out memory cards before stowing her camera in the truck. If Hal had actually recorded anything yesterday, it would be the only thing on the fresh card.

The first thing was Hal's "call" to the studio. She had missed out on him thanking her profusely for her promise to come and get him.

"Thank you, Jane. You wonderful, wonderful girl. A true goddess! You magnificent Valkyrie! I love you…"

She hit fast forward, swearing softly, as she started to burn with embarrassment because Taggart had followed her from the televisions.

"Is that your main camera?"

"It's our only camera."

"That ancient thing? I thought you were the top show."

"Welcome to Pittsburgh," she growled. The truth was that Hal killed too many cameras to let PB&G have the newer equipment, not that what Mark's crew were using could be consider state-of-the-art. Jane paused as she found Hal's "big bird." Hal wasn't the best cameraman so it blurred in and out of focus. At first the scale was impossible to judge until a hoverbike suddenly soared out into the air near it. The rider and bike separated even as they both plunged toward the ground.

Jane gasped in horror. The rider was Tinker. Falling.

The black bird dove and caught Tinker in mid-air. Only then the size of the creature became obvious. It was huge.

"What is that?" Taggart asked.

"I don't know. I've never seen a bird this big."

"Is it a bird?"

"I don't think it’s a wyvern. Its wings look feathered. Wyverns are lizardlike with bat-wings."

"Are you sure?"

"There's a wyvern stuffed in the Carnegie Museum, just down the hall from the dinosaurs. Every other year in school we went there for a field trip because there's not much else to see in Pittsburgh."

Tinker thrashed in the bird's hold and then went heart-stoppingly limp. The black bird flapped away. Hal attempted to keep the bird in sight with zoom and things blurred in and out of focus again.

Swearing, Jane pulled the chip out of the camera and slotted it into her home video editor. She flipped through the frames until she found the cleanest shot of the creature.

"Does that look like a winged man to you?"

"What exactly do these oni look like?"

"Tall. Strong. Red haired. No one said anything about wings."

"So there's another player in town."

Jane cursed, dropping F bombs, and she found the clearest picture of Tinker being caught by the winged man and sent it to her printer. "They're searching the river for her body and she never went into the water."

"Congrats on the scoop."

"Scoop hell." Jane snatched the picture off the printer. "We're telling her family what really happened to her."

"Really?" He looked surprised and pleased by the news.

Jane pointed across the room at the center television where the camera dwelled on the Viceroy's open grief. "He thinks his bride went into a river full of man-eating fish. If anyone should know that Tinker was still alive, it should be him."

#

It was like having two children in the car with her. Okay, one child and a young adult that kept backsliding. Hal, of course, was attempting to prove he was really only eight years old. Taggart could resist the taunting part of the time. Nigel was the senile grandmother who never noticed that the children were fighting. He sat in the backseat, smiling serenely at the passing landscape. What made things worse was that Taggart called shotgun so he could film through the front window. That made it so she couldn't reach Hal to swat him into silence. She found herself tempted to hit Taggart just because he was beside her. And because he'd changed into a dark blue silk shirt and cologne that smelled so good she just wanted to roll in it.

"I can kill us all," Jane growled, gripping the wheel tightly, and resisted the urge to drive the production truck into the ditch to prove her point.

Somehow they reached downtown without her killing anyone.

The EIA had Hummers in camo blocking the on ramp to 376 and then again at Second Avenue where it ducked under the Boulevard of the Allies. She avoided the EIA for the outsiders that they were. She cut up Forbes Avenue to the Armstrong Tunnels. There was a Pittsburgh police cruiser and a wooden barrier blocking the inbound lane. Luckily it was Bo Pedersen. He started to wave her away until she rolled down the window. The motion turned into a greeting.

"Didn't recognize the truck. What happened to yours? Hal blow it up?"

"I didn't do a thing to our truck, Bowman!" Hal shouted from the backseat, leaving out that he'd set himself and a good portion of the neighborhood on fire.

"He's still on pain meds," Jane said.

Bo laughed. "Yeah, I heard that Hal set himself on fire yesterday."

Hal started to say something. Jane held up a hand to silence him without looking. Now that they'd stopped moving, she could and would climb into the backseat to beat him. Judging by his quiet, he knew this.

"I need through, Bo," Jane said.

Bo shook his head. "The elves are on the war path, Jane, and that means EIA is being pissy about who has access."

"Oh, Jesus, Bo. Just open the gate and let me through, or I'll drop Hal on you and let you babysit him."

"Hey, hey!" Bo backed away. "My wife's expecting. I'm going to be a daddy. You keep Hal."

"Congrats, Bo. Tell Patty to let me know if she wants my place for the baby shower." The price of taking over Hyeholde was constantly being asked to host family weddings, showers, and birthday parties. Since every single party triggered old nightmares, she hated the invasions. Still, if offering up her house would get her through the tunnel, she would just have to suffer.

Bo's huge smile indicated she'd just made someone very happy. "Will do!" He glanced toward the tunnel. "I suppose since WQED is on the 'approved' list that I can let you in. Just be careful! Tie Hal down or something."

"Thanks! I just might do that." Jane waited for him to move the barrier and then drove into the tunnel.

"I take it you know him," Taggart murmured.

"His wife is my second cousin." Far enough out that Patty probably wouldn't have asked Jane to use Hyeholde but would be overjoyed at the invitation.

"Jane is related to everyone," Hal said.

"Not everyone," Jane growled. "It just seems that way. Most of the people who stayed in Pittsburgh after the first Startup did so because they had a shitload of family staying. My family on both sides has been here for hundreds of years."

"Anyone that she's not related to went to high school with her or one of her five brothers."

Boo would have started high school soon. No one would have the chance to sit beside her in class, write in her yearbook, or ask her to the prom.

At the end of the tunnel, Jane turned left onto Second Avenue and drove down to the parking lot. The elves were still clustered around the Viceroy by the river's edge. At a safe distance were the human camps: the police, the EIA, and, of course, the news crews. Jane really didn't want to park near the reporters. They were bored and looking for something of interest and, if nothing else, Taggart and Nigel were something new. If she avoided them, though, it would be like blood in shark-infested water. She pulled in and parked beside the WQED news van.

Leaving Chesty to guard the CBM truck, she got out with her camera in hand. Hopefully she could get to the Viceroy without attracting attention. The more people who knew that she wanted to talk to him, the more likely she would be blocked completely. After the news crews there were another rank of police, the EIA, and the Viceroy's guards.

Complicating her attempt was the fact that Hal, Taggart and Nigel chose to trail behind her. Mark Webster knew already knew everything about Taggart and Nigel. He recognized their truck and waved in uninterested greeting. Kimberly Schotts was intent on filming the elves. She glanced over, saw Mark wave and dismissed them.

Chloe Polanski, however, locked on target. She was the type of person that gave reporters bad names.

"What are you and Hal doing here?" Chloe closed on them quickly. "You're not news – unless you run over your own cameraman."

"That was an accident," Hal said.

"Hal!" Jane tried to get around the woman but Chloe kept shifting at the same time, blocking her. "It's none of your business what we're doing here, Chloe."

"I want to know because I am news. What do you two walking accidents think you're going to do? Help kill river sharks?" There was a huge booming explosion and water fountained upwards nearly a hundred feet and came raining down with dozens of silvery fish of all sizes. "Because the Viceroy is doing well enough on his own."

"It's none of your damn business," Jane repeated, gripping her left fist tight. She normally didn't hit women, but normally women didn't need hitting. Chloe had been a bitch after Boo had disappeared, something Jane had worked hard to ignore at the time. She'd been under the mistaken impression that news coverage would actually help find Boo. All it did was make everyone in Pittsburgh think her mother was a horrible person, her mother included.

Chloe flicked her gaze down to Jane's fist and smirked. "What? Are you actually going to try and hit me? You do realize I'm filming this?"

Jane snapped her fingers over her shoulder at Taggart, trusting that he still had his camera in hand. "Film this. There, now so are we." She gave her camera to Hal. "Either get out of my way or I'm going through you."

"Oh, the college drop-out is going to try and make me move."

"Was that supposed to make me mad? I've seen your interviews, Chloe, you can do better than that." Jane gave a "come on" with both hands. "You want to fight, we can fight."

Chloe smirked and shifted into a karate stance. Being that the reporter knew all about Jane's upbringing and high school sports metals, her confidence could only mean that she was even better trained.

For a moment Jane was sure that she was about to get ass kicked but was equally sure that if she could get one good punch landed on Chloe's face, it would all be worth it. But then Chloe dropped out of ready stance and slid sideways, alarm filling her face.

Jane shifted, bracing for whatever third party was joining the "discussion."

One of the Viceroy's body guards was suddenly in their midst, a tall female with her hair dyed the same color as the protective spells tattooed down her arms like Celtic knots. Anyone with half a brain cell skittered backwards, hands raised in the universal sign of being unarmed. The female elf was one of the sekasha-caste, a holy warrior thought to be perfect, and had the freedom to kill anyone that pissed her off.

"What's going on here?" the female snapped in English that sounded pure Pittsburgh.

"We have something that the Viceroy needs to see," Jane said.

"It's important that I see it," the female held out her hand.

Jane reluctantly gave her the photograph of the winged man holding Tinker. There was no way she could fight her way past the female.

The warrior stared at the photo and then gave Jane a hard look. "If this is faked, I'll kill you myself. How did you get it? When was it taken?"

"I took it!" Hal leaped forward. "I was at the hospital." He pointed at his raccoon eyes as evidence. "And I was completely stoned. Still am slightly. Pain medication. Makes me all loopy."

"Hal!" Jane cried. "You're going to get yourself killed."

The female caught Hal's chin with her hand and turned his head this way and that. "You're the silly grass man."

"Yes!" Hal cried and then, "No! I'm not silly."

"Yes, you are," Jane growled. "Trust me on that. That's a single frame of a video he took while he was in the hospital."

"Why didn't you come forward earlier?" the warrior snapped.

"Because he was drugged, I thought he had only imagined a giant bird. I didn't hear about Tinker's disappearance until this morning. Once I realized that she went off the Boulevard right beside the hospital and that Hal had a clear view of that, I checked the footage. When we realized what it showed, we came straight here."

"We want to see this video."

#

Jane had never been this close to the Viceroy Windwolf before. All the elves she knew were young looking; immortality made them practically ageless. Surrounded by his hardened warriors, though, Windwolf looked like a lost boy.

He took a deep breath and breathed out, "Oh, thank gods, she didn't go into the river."

"It's a tengu," Wraith Arrow, head of Windwolf's bodyguards, said. "An oni spy. Their masters made them from crows; they like to flock together. If there's one here in Pittsburgh, there's more. There's probably several watching us now, laughing at us."

"He appears to be drugging her." The blue haired female was the only one of the elves that seemed familiar with the concept of "camera" and had explained it in detail while showing the video. She'd stopped it now on one of the frames and zoomed in on where the tengu held something white against Tinker's face. "So she would stop struggling and be easier to carry."

The female advanced a dozen frames and then turned, holding up the camera to align it with the lay of the land. "He took her upriver."

"He probably was trying to get to the treeline." The Viceroy's personal assistant, Sparrow, pointed out that the tengu was flying toward the closest edge of the forest without crossing the heavily populated section of Oakland. "Away from witnesses. From there he could have flown along the Rim and crossed back into the city where there're few humans."

Windwolf looked to the blue-haired female. "Discord?"

She looked frustrated down at the ground. "I don't know. This." She waved at the river. "This has always felt like a waste of time but short of racing blindly about, hoping for something to hit me, no. Nothing. Forgiveness."

"She's alive," Windwolf said. "That is what is important. And she is more useful to them alive."

The looks on older elves' faces said that death might be more pleasant than being at the mercy of the oni.

"The sooner we find her, the less damage they can wreak on her," Sparrow said. "We can cover more ground if we split into several search parties."

#

Having plowed through all three channel's news crews, it was no surprise that Dmitri called moments later. Jane winced at her phone's screen and glanced toward Mark's cameraman to verify that Dmitri was probably watching her as well.

"Hm?" Jane tried for innocent sounding.

"What are you doing?" Dmitri asked totally deadpan.

"Omniscient," Hal sang quietly.

Jane snorted. Nothing supernatural about Dmitri's ability when half the time they were beaming straight to the studio, just in case Hal managed to blow up the entire neighborhood. She explained about Hal filming Tinker's kidnapping.

"And you didn't think to share this with our news crew?"

"Her family had the right to know first," Jane said.

There was a long pause on the other side. "Jane, I know that you're going to want to help but you of all people can't."

"Why can't I?" Jane tried to keep her voice neutral but it came out cold and hard.

Dmitri sighed. "To make a long story short, because I said so. Do you really need the long story?"

"Yes." Her voice had gone colder and harder. Her father's voice when he was truly angry. Hal was retreating, quickly.

"I've tried several times to syndicate Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden. I know that the American audience would love it, but every time I get close to closing a deal, everything suddenly goes south for no reason. Nigel and Taggart told me yesterday about the troubles they've had getting visas to come in to film, so I checked with the other stations. They both have run into similar news black outs. This Chased by Monsters got past whatever gatekeepers are blocking us. We need for it to succeed because so far it's going to be the only voice Pittsburgh has on Earth if the elves and the oni go to full out war."

"You think there's enough oni here to start a war?"

"If the elves didn't want news leaking out, they'd be creating roadblocks for us here in Pittsburgh. EIA Director Maynard was handpicked by the Viceroy and he's proved himself loyal. To keep you and Hal off American televisions, they'd simply keep you from filming. Everything we know about the oni suggests that they're getting to Elfhome via Pittsburgh during Shutdown. If someone is blocking us at network level in New York, it’s the oni not the elves."

"You really think the oni care if humans watch Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden?"

"This is about politics, Jane. The number of troops sent to support a peace-keeping effort could be influenced by the fact that thirty percent of all Americans recognize the name Hal Rogers and know the faces of a handful of Pittsburgh homeowners."

In other words, whatever they could get out, in whatever form, was actually propaganda.

"Tinker is not your baby sister. The elves will look for a thousand years if they have to. I need you to make sure Chased by Monsters is our voice on Earth. Nigel and Taggart only have visas for two months and then they have to take whatever they have and leave. If they don't have enough footage for an entire season, the whole thing is canned. Do you understand?"

"Fifty-six days, counting today, to do an entire season?"

"You're the only one that has any hope of doing this because you're only one with the right experience with the kind of shit Elfhome can throw at a film crew. I need you focused."

"Fine." She hung up on him just to salvage some pride. Fifty-six days. They would need to do approximately one episode every three days to meet the network's minimum. "Taggart, Nigel! Set up! We're doing a shoot here."

"Shoot what?" Taggart asked.

"You want to do river sharks and jumpfish. There." She pointed at the dead fish piled on the shore, the larger fishes cut open so their stomachs could be searched for one missing princess. "Whole ecology of Elfhome rivers."

"We were hoping for living examples…" Nigel started.

"We will get to those. Right now everything within miles is probably dead or stuffed. This is once in a lifetime shot. We'll get this now. Now!" she shouted to get them moving.

"Right." Nigel clapped his hands and turned to Taggart, who was already filming. "Here we are with an unexpected bounty. In one place, a full selection of all the fish found in the rivers around Pittsburgh. This massive example here is known as a river shark. They are believed to have evolved from an ancestor similar to the fresh water sharks of the species 'requiem' on Earth. Like their cousins, these sharks have round eyes and their pectoral fins are completely behind the gill slits, which normally are five in number. While Earth cousins are normally found in warm seas and mouths of rivers, the Elfhome river sharks have slowly worked their way the entire length of the Mississippi and the Ohio, an amazing one thousand, eight hundred and eighty-one miles, to find their way to Pittsburgh."

Nigel crouched beside the shark. It dwarfed him. "While the largest of Earth's requiem sharks rival the Great Whites, Elfhome's river sharks are remarkably larger. This one here is nearly five meters long. The record here in Pittsburgh is an unbelievable six point four meters. What do these massive creatures eat? Let's see!"

In a move rival to one of Hal's, Nigel plunged his whole arm into the slit cut in the shark's stomach. He jerked back his hand wrapped in the pulsing glowing mass of a water fairy. "What do we have here?"

"Put it down!" Jane cried in warning.

"Trying to," Nigel said calmly despite the wince of pain that flashed across his face.

"That's a water fairy." Hal whipped out his ever-present expandable grab-stick. Joining Nigel in the frame, he used the tool to pry the gleaming mass from Nigel's hand. "It's a distant cousin of the cuttlefish that has been crossed with a jellyfish. This one is just a baby, but still a sturdy little critter, despite its appearance."

"How poisonous is it?" Taggart murmured as the water fairy was peeled free to expose a massive welt on Nigel's hand.

"Not very. Keep filming." Jane headed to her truck for her first aid kit.

Mark met her at the jersey wall. "Dmitri wants to know if you gave me a chip yet." Chloe and Kimberly trailed in his wake, hoping to glean what they could. "What chip?"

"This one." She thrust the memory chip at him and kept going. Kimberly paused, unsure which of them were the hotter story.

Chloe kept pace with Jane. "Jane Kryskill, you’re the camera woman of Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden."

"Field Producer." Jane growled her official title, which Chloe probably damn well knew.

"You're working with award winning war correspondent Keaweaheulu Taggart."

Did everyone in Pittsburgh but Jane know who the hell Taggart was? Keaweaheulu? What kind of name was that? It sounded nearly as bad as an untranslated elf name. Jane ignored Chloe and unlocked her truck. She needed to get back to Nigel before his hand swelled up to the size of a baseball mitt.

"How is it that he's here on Elfhome with footage of Princess Tinker being kidnapped? Did your network have foreknowledge of this? How did your network know to send an award winning war correspondent this Shutdown?"

The questions started to sound damning when left unanswered. It was almost lunch time, which meant Chloe might be broadcasting live, giving little opportunity for damage control by the channel managers.

"Our network knew nothing about the kidnapping until it happened. By dumb luck, Hal Rogers happened to witness and get footage. Surely, all your viewers know Hal and his dumb luck. Taggart is not here as a war correspondent."

"Then what's he doing here?"

"Trying to get eaten!" Jane turned to face Chloe square on. "Taggart is here is with world famous naturalist, Nigel Reid, to film a network show called Chased by Monsters. They want to film Nigel coming face to face with Elfhome wildlife and hopefully surviving the experience." She let her sarcasm drip through since most Pittsburghers were slightly disdainful of newcomers. "If any of Channel Five's viewers hears of any monsters in the Pittsburgh-area – other than reporter Chloe Polanski – please let us know."

#

They ended up drinking Iron City Beer and eating blackened river shark and grilled water fairy in the Neighborhood of Make Believe.

"I didn't realize you could eat water fairy." Jane had been dubious as Taggart carefully grilled the skewered pieces over the charcoal grill in the studio's parking lot. She wouldn't let him feed any to Chesty until he'd proved it wasn't fatal by eating some of the tentacles.

"Both cuttlefish and jellyfish are common street food in East Asia." He waved his beer to take in the surrounding sets of fanciful puppet houses. "Can't believe I'm drinking beer in the Neighborhood of Make Believe. It almost feels blasphemous. King Friday's Castle. The Museum Go Round. The Platypus Mound."

"The Platypus family was why I become a biologist." Nigel was eating left handed as his right was still swollen from the water fairy sting. "Dr. Bill Platypus and Elsie Jean and little Ornithorhynchus Anatinus."

"I thought her name was Ana," Jane said.

"It was Ana for short. Her full name was an in-joke. It's the Latin scientific name for platypus. I identified with them at first because they were Scottish, like me, and then because they were so not like anyone else." He pulled up his pants legs to show off the fact that both his legs were artificial. "Like me. I wanted to know everything about platypuses. And then to understand how unique they are, you have to understand the rest of the animal kingdom. One thing led to another and, voila, Dr. Nigel."

"The only egg-laying venomous mammal on Earth," Hal said. "God knows what the hell their cousin is like here on Elfhome. Can you imagine?"

"Have the elves even been to Australia?" Taggart asked.

"Not that we can tell." Jane said and then tapped on the table beside her tablet to draw their attention back to why they were at the studio in the first place. "Focus. We need to figure out what we're shooting tomorrow. I've got all the monster tips that were sent to the station. We take the most mobile first, any warg or saurus sightings, if there's any. Then work down by mobility."

Taggart lifted his eyebrows in question to what she meant.

"Black willow and will-o-wisps are slow moving and will be in the same general area for a couple of days. Last on our list will be completely stationary creatures. Steel spanners. Strangle Vines."

"They're also most common." Hal read off his lot of the tips. "Strangle Vine. Strangle Vine. Spanners."

"Loch Ness?" Nigel said. "Elfhome has a Nessie?"

Jane copied the tip and read over it. The caller had spotted "something huge in the river" from the I-79 Bridge. "What the hell was he doing down there?"

"What you mean?" Taggart asked.

"Oh I-79 is practically a road to nowhere since it's right on the Rim. Oh, it was right after Startup. He was coming home."

"A Loch Ness sounds promising," Nigel said.

Jane shook her head. "No. He probably saw two sharks close together or just one really big shark. We don't need more sharks for now. Besides anything in the river is going to be hard to find and bloody dangerous since we'd have to beg, borrow, or steal a boat."

"That would be fun," Hal said.

"No!" Jane snapped. "We'll do spiders before river monsters that may or may not be there."

"Gossamer?" Taggart said.

"What?" Jane held out her hand for the tip. The caller pointed out that no one had ever been able to coax the elves into a close look at their living airship. "Now that has merit. I'll see if Dmitri can get us onto the Viceroy's gossamer."

"I can call the homeowner from this morning," Hal offered. "He and his boss owe us."

"The Viceroy owes us," Taggart said.

Not that their video had lead to Tinker being found. Jane had checked for updates on the search all day. The EIA confirmed rumors that Windwolf had sent word to his cousin, the Queen, requesting for royal troops to help find his bride. The Pittsburgh Police were asking for people to avoid known deserted area. The updates accounted for everyone involved except the oni. It made it seem as if everyone in Pittsburgh was battling an invisible giant.

Jane put the gossamer tip aside. "Okay, that goes near the top, pending permission from the elves to tour the Viceroy's airship."

"Oh, I can try out my call," Nigel said.

"Your what?" Hal asked.

"Gossamer call." Nigel got a shy, embarrassed grin. "We've spent the three years of waiting for visas on researching everything known on Elfhome. The oddest thing was that the most comprehensive videos on Elfhome are a series of animated shorts by a strangely secretive production company known as Lemon-Lime JEl-Lo."

"Actually their name is the only thing anyone knows about them." Taggart added.

"Animated?" Jane wondered if she had heard them wrong.

The grin got even shyer. "The videos use a fairly crude method blending modeling and CGI work but they're hysterical. Each is about ten minutes of pure farce but the storylines interlock creating a very detailed world. The thing is, if you check their facts, they're spot on."

"What you can check," Taggart said.

Nigel nodded. "Which loops us back to the idea that all information about Elfhome is being strictly limited. One of their videos mentioned a gossamer call and indicated that it was ultrasonic in nature."

"What exactly is a gossamer call?"

"What they'd discovered was if you analyze video tapes of the gossamers arriving and leaving Pittsburgh, you can isolate the ultrasonic commands that the elves use to control the living airships. They've also pieced together information that any creature bioengineered with magic – such as wargs – have similar 'call commands' embedded at an instinctual level.

A month ago, Jane wouldn't have believed it was possible, but then the undeniable evidence had surfaced that the elves could manipulate DNA at fantastic levels via magic. "They had enough information to build one of these calls?"

Nigel's grin went from shy to incandescent. "I can't wait to try it out."

Jane made a note to herself to steal Nigel's gossamer call before they toured the Viceroy's airship.

"Oh! Oh!" Hal cried. "A saurus!"

Secretly she was hoping that they wouldn't get any tips on saurus sightings. With Hal, the filming was fairly simple: find it; kill it. They would pad the footage with how to tell if a saurus was in the area, the type of guns needed to successfully drop the big lizard, the dangers of bringing too small of a gun to the fight, the merits of such tactics as shooting from second story windows or tree stands and any other bullshit they could think of.

Nigel and Taggart, though, probably wanted to do something stupid like film the saurus without trying to kill it first. Things could get messy fast.

"Where was the saurus spotted?" Jane hoped the location was near the Rim where the T-Rex's Elfhome cousin might wander back off radar.

"Dormont," Hal said.

"Dormont?" Jane said. "That's nearly downtown!"

"It says Dormont." Hal read. "Sleepy Hollow Road. Where old Mt. Lebanon golf course used to be."

Jane took his tablet to read it. The tip had been sent by "Beef4U." The name sounded slightly pornographic and juvenile. Was it a joke? "That's Castle Shannon."

"Another castle?" Taggart asked.

"It’s a town," Jane said.

"Was a town," Hal muttered.

She pulled up a map to double check her memory. "Yes, for some reason the early settlers in this area all wanted castles. Castle Shannon was a farm that grew into a town."

"Pittsburgh never lets go of the past." Hal continued to mutter. "You get directions by what used to be there. Castle Shannon is mostly empty rowhouses."

Nigel sprang to his feet. "We go now?"

"No!" Jane cried. "It's already dark."

"It would be very atmospheric," Nigel started for the door.

"Sit!" Jane barked and pointed at the chair he just vacated.

He wavered and glanced to Taggart.

"You're hurt. I'm drunk." Either Taggart was a lightweight or exaggerating as he was only on his third beer. Jane always kept count of other people's drinks so she knew when to shut them off. She had thought Taggart would be good for at least four beers before hitting "drunk." "Hal is on pain killers. It's dark out. And there's a fucking war brewing. Jane is right. We finish setting up a shooting schedule, get another good night's sleep and start out at dawn."

#

They transferred everything she thought might be useful from PB&G's production truck to the CBM truck. It would be a week until Hal's face healed enough that they could film, so they could focus first on the network show. They hadn't resolved the housing issue except to verify that no one in the offices was actually handling those duties. She really didn't have any choice but to take the men home again.

It was nearly ten o'clock when they left the offices, a full fifteen hours since they left her house, but it still felt like she was slacking. Part of her soul wanted to be out looking for lost little girls. Even if Tinker were found, though, her soul wouldn't be satisfied. She would need her Boo back for her to be at peace and the nightmares to end.

Before she pulled out of the parking lot, though, she turned on the radio and tuned to KDKA. Her cousin Sean was doing the news before leading into his show on local fusion music. Their video clip of the tengu was still the headline story. Pittsburgh Police had set up a tip line for anyone who might have spotted a black winged man flying over the city. Director Maynard of the EIA reported that he had requested additional troops during Shutdown. As Dmitri pointed out, the United Nations would have to approve the request, influenced most strongly by the United States. Sean repeated the news that Windwolf sent for royal troops. Once again, everyone in Pittsburgh was reporting in except the oni.

Sean transitioned to commercial with "You're listening to Sean Roach on KDKA."

Taggart chuckled quietly. "He's using the name Roach? Seriously."

"There's nothing wrong with Roach," Jane growled.

"They're cousins," Hal sang from the backseat.

"Your cousin's name is Roach?"

"Yes, my Uncle Bill Roach is a very successful businessman. All his kids are business savvy."

"And they stayed here in Pittsburgh?" Taggart asked.

"New York is not the center of the universe," Jane said.

"I didn't say it was. In fact I don't really like New York." He stared out the window at the forest to the north of the city as they drove down Bigelow Boulevard. The streetlights went up to the Rim and stopped abruptly. Beyond it, elf shines drifted over the dark canopy, a million earthbound stars. "I like quiet and solitude."

"Mine." Hal grumbled quietly in the backseat.

"What is that?" Nigel leaned forward to point through the windshield.

She glanced to see where he was pointing. They were crossing the Fort Pitt Bridge. Downriver was a glimmer of lights moving in the dark water below.

"Water fairies," Hal said. "Lots of them. I've never seen anything like it."

It was probably most dangerous section of road in Pittsburgh. Five lanes of traffic fed onto the bridge from three directions and had approximately five hundred feet of road-planning insanity to merge to two lanes into the tunnel or take the off-ramp to the river hugging Route 51.

During the day, Jane wouldn't have thought about stopping, but traffic trickled to a halt at night. She checked her rear view mirror. There wasn't any other traffic following them. She put on her flashers and stopped at the center of the bridge.

"Stay off the road," She warned.

A large truck rumbled across the inbound deck overhead.

They scrambled over the jersey wall to the sidewalk and set up tripods for the night shooting. The mass of water fairies flowed inexplicably closer, coming upriver.

"We could go to the Point," Hal murmured in the darkness beside her. He pointed across the water at the fountain set in the wedge of concrete that marked where the Mon and Allegheny Rivers flowed together to create the Ohio River.

Jane shook her head. "It would take us fifteen minutes to drop down to 51, swing across the West End Bridge, come back across the Fort Duquesne and get into Point Park. Another three or four minutes to walk through the park and set up."

"We could U-turn – there's room enough and --" Hal started.

"Hal, last time I listened to you, I nearly lost my license. No!"

"If they go up the Allegheny, we'll miss them," Hal said.

Nigel suddenly blew a loud piercing tri-toned whistle.

It made Jane jump, swear, and smack the man. "What the hell?"

"Am I supposed to hear it?" Hal asked. "I thought it was ultrasonic."

"It has four tones. Only one is t—…" Nigel started to explain.

The last of his explanation was lost under a deafening roar, seemingly in answer to his whistle. It was stunningly loud despite obviously coming from down river somewhere. The deep rumbling noise echoed off Mount Washington, making it impossible to pinpoint the exact origin.

Chesty leaned out the window of the truck and growled.

"What the hell is that?" Taggart asked.

"I don't know." Jane peered into the dark. The glittering shifting carpet of water fairies darted suddenly to the left and flowed up the Allegheny River. There was another roar and it seemed closer. Louder.

"You think it might be the Nessie?" Nigel asked.

"What the hell is the Loch Ness?" Jane said.

"The most popular theory is that it’s a plesiosauria, about the size of a sperm whale."

"Shit!" Jane cried. The last thing Pittsburgh needed was a huge river monster.

Nigel blew his whistle again. The answering roar from the dark waters sent shivers down Jane's back.

"Nigel!" She cried and snatched the whistle from Nigel's hand. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"That we get a picture of whatever it is." Nigel's tone indicated that he had no clue why she was angry.

"Is that it?" Hal was leaning far out over the railing to point at something arrowing through the river, coming at them at alarming rate. It seemed comfortingly small – barely a dozen feet in length -- until Jane realized that she was just seeing the creature's head. There was another wedge behind it, easily adding thirty feet to the creature. Suddenly the forty-some feet that the bridge deck was from the river's surface didn't seem far enough.

Chesty had gone full throttle warning snarl.

"In the truck," Jane commanded. She reached out and jerked Hal back. A second later, electricity flared in the water like a tesla coil discharging, outlining a massive crocodilelike body. The monster was nearly fifty feet long from nose to tip of tail. "Truck! Truck!"

"How wonderful!" Nigel cried. "Shouldn't we be filming this?"

"Too dark." Taggart shoved him into the backseat, earning Jane's love. "We'll film it tomorrow!"

#

They cautiously looked for the river monster the entire next day, careful not to stray too close to the water's edge, and Chesty on watch. Jane kept hold of the whistle and refused to let them use it.

"We could call Nessie to us," Nigel pointed out many times.

"No!" Jane kept shouting back.

Taggart finally broke the pattern. "Can you at least explain why?"

Jane growled. God, she hated being outnumbered. This was like riding herd on her little brothers, only worse because "I'll beat you if you do" wasn't an acceptable answer. "First rule of shooting a show on Elfhome." She grabbed Hal and made him face each of the two newbies so there was no way they could miss the mask of dark purple bruises across Hal's face. "Avoid getting 'The Face' damaged. Viewers don't like raccoon boys. Hal is out of production until the bruising can be covered with makeup. We've got fifty days and a grocery list of face-chewing monsters to film. We have to think about damage control."

"Second rule!" She let Hal go and held up two fingers. "Get as much footage as possible of the monster before you kill it. People don't like looking at dead monsters if you don't give them lots of time seeing it alive. Right now we have got something dark moving at night in water. No one has ever seen this before, so we can't use stock footage to pad. We blow the whistle and it will come out of the water and try to rip your face off – violating rule one – and then we'll have to kill it and thus break rule two."

"Sounds reasonable," Taggart said.

"Would we really have to kill it?" Nigel's tone suggested he equated it to torturing kittens.

"If it's trying its damnest to eat you? Yes!" Jane cried. "And if we just lure it out of the river right now, without some way to keep that from happening, we will have no other option. Until we know which of the three rivers this thing is in now, even setting up a safe perch to film from is going to be a waste of time. We don't have time for this. I can get people to keep an eye out for it and call us if it shows up."

She had Hal too well trained to argue with her. Nigel looked to Taggart instead of her.

"I think Jane's right," Taggart said. "Our end goal is to get enough great footage that we can get an open pass to Elfhome. We haven't shot anything but water today."

Nigel nodded reluctantly. "Okay, let's do the saurus tomorrow."

#

It came as no surprise that her nightmares had gotten worse. Between Tinker's kidnapping, the lack of any progress at finding her, and quiet sounds of someone else in her house, she had no hope. At three a.m., she slipped out of her room and padded down to the kitchen to find something to drown them out.

There was light on in the kitchen. It was in an odd place. She paused to feel Chesty standing beside her, not growling, before swinging the door the rest of the way open.

Taggart was holding her refrigerator's door open, studying its contents, wearing only his low pj pants.

"Do you not have shirts to sleep in?"

"Actually, no." He eyed her milk as if there was something strange about it.

"It's fresh."

"It's just – I've never seen milk in a glass bottle before."

"I get it from a dairy down the road. It's easier for them to recycle glass bottles than plastic."

"It's like I've gone back in time." He poured the milk into her smallest saucepot. "Do you have any sugar and cocoa I can put into this?" As she handed him her sugar bowl, he explained his lack of shirts. "Network wanted us in L.A. first before coming to Pittsburgh to do pre-production work. Design the logo, hire on the people that will be doing the graphics for titles and end credits. Mostly what we spent the month on, though, was having it drummed into us that we were going to film monsters. The bigger and more fantastic, the better. Then we flew to New York to drive to Pittsburgh – and half my luggage didn't make it."

"Ouch."

"Luckily it was just my backup boots, some extra pair of jeans, and," he motioned to his bare chest. "The shirt I sleep in."

"We do have clothing stores." Jane put the cocoa on the counter beside the saucepot. "We can get you something tomorrow evening after filming."

"Thanks. Sorry about waking you up." Then reluctantly he added. "I have bad dreams. If I go back to sleep, it's like I just hit pause when I woke up."

"Been there, doing that. You didn't wake me. I've got my own little demons."

He did his eyebrow quirk, which was stunningly sexy since he had the most striking eyes she'd ever seen.

She found him a teaspoon to keep from blushing. She grew up with a small testosterone-driven army, but never had to deal with man alone in her kitchen, half-naked, in the middle of the night. At least, not one that wasn't related to her.

"I have five younger brothers." She stumbled for an explanation.

"Hal said something like that."

"Yes, well, what Hal hasn't mentioned is that I had a baby sister too. When I was sixteen, she was six."

He realized the implication and his face filled with sorrow for her. With the look, all the raw grief that been building up the last few days seemed to expand to fill her. Feeling like her heart was about to explode with the anguish, she found herself talking.

"My dad died when I was twelve. My brothers were ten, eight, six, four and two." Not that she had their ages memorized for that year alone; it had always been simple to figure out. "I'm not sure what the hell happened in June, but every other March, regular as clockwork, my parents had a baby."

Taggart nodded while mixing sugar, cocoa and a splash of milk into a dark paste. The fact that he continued to make hot cocoa, albeit in a very odd manner, made it easier to spill out her grief.

"I'd always spent a lot of time watching my brothers, but after my father died, it was like I became the Dad. Mom had just had Boo and needed to be the Mommy, so I took care of everything Dad used to do. Cut the grass. Fix things that got broke. Teach my brothers how to run and climb and shoot and fight. I didn't really mind it. It was just how things were. I didn't know anything else."

He stirred the paste in the hot milk. She realized that he'd made enough for two people. She got out two coffee mugs and set them down on the counter. As if she opened up floodgates, the words kept spilling out. There was something comforting about the dim kitchen, the quiet of the night. For once, not being alone was a blessing.

"My brothers. It was like they had a death wish, and every time I turned around, I had to fish them out of the river or cut them down from a strangle vine. Boo was smart. She was curious as a cat but she'd always get someone else to do stuff for her. She'd be there in the thick of things but she was never the one stuck and screaming."

He poured out the steaming cocoa, dividing it neatly, and then turned to wash out the saucepot.

"The summer that I was sixteen, our freezer quit working. Here in Pittsburgh, you have to have a freezer, especially with eight people in the family. You shoot a deer. You catch a shark. You butcher a cow. You can smoke some of the meat, but the rest, you have to freeze it or it will go bad. The thing is, they're harder than hell to get. There's one little appliance store down in the Strip District, just a hole in the wall. Every Shutdown they get one truck full of things – washers, dryers, refrigerators, hot water heaters -- and there are only one or two freezers per month. You can put money down and order one advance and wait two months. Or you can be the first person in the store as they unload the truck. Mom didn't want to be out the money and have to wait, so she decided that we go into the Strip District the night before Shutdown and just camp there until a truck came in and we'd get one. You know all the 'could have' and 'should have.' She still tears herself apart blaming herself. She could have ordered the freezer. She could have left us all at home. She should have left Boo with my aunt. It just eats at her. It eats at all of us."

"What happened?"

Jane lifted her shoulders. "We don't know. One minute Boo was there, with us, and then the next, she was gone. It’s a crazy time. All the delivery trucks fight to get into the Strip District, unload and get out of the city before they get stranded on Elfhome."

"Been there. Done that."

"The police thought at first that maybe she went to the river's edge. We told them that she wouldn't do that. She was too smart. Then they thought maybe she tried to get home. We'd come all piled in my mom's pickup but there were other times we'd came in on the lightrail. We were all sick of being stuck in the Strip District, waiting for the truck to be unloaded. But she was about the only one of us kids that wasn't whining about going home. It was the first time she'd been in town for Shutdown. She’d never seen so many trucks at once. Whole families carrying everything into their stores fast they could. She was fascinated.

"And then, the police suggested that maybe she'd gotten into one of the empty trucks. At least, that's what they said in front of me and my brothers. And then they took my mom quietly aside and said what they really meant. That one of the truckers took her."

"That got the EIA involved and they stopped all the trucks that had deliveries in the Strip District that hadn't crossed the border already and searched them."

"You know when they first disappear, you're angry. You told them just to be good, stay close, and not get into trouble and now they're nowhere in sight. You look and you look and you look – just so angry you could hurt someone -- and you're rehearsing what you're going to say when you finally figure out where the hell they are. Then slowly this fear takes root, and starts to grow, and you try so hard to hold onto that anger, because it's so much safer than the fear.

"But it leaks away and all there is left is fear. And then that goes away too, because you know, whatever horrible thing that was going to happen has happened. It's over. It's done. It can't be undone. And you walk around feeling like a big hollow drum with no idea how you're supposed to feel."

#

The hot cocoa was the best she'd ever tasted, hinting that Taggart had spent many sleepless nights perfecting it. Her dreams for the rest of the night were unsettling in a totally different way and featured a wild man with chocolate-colored eyes.

#

The tip from Beef4u had specified the old Mt. Lebanon golf course. Jane hadn't been back into the area for years, so she had expected to find it overrun with possibly dangerous brush. She was surprised when they arrived in the early gray of dawn, to find the grass looking regulation height.

"What the hell?" She pulled to a stop to peer out over the lush rolling green. She was driving her SUV with Nigel following in the CBM production truck. "Don't tell me someone actually still plays golf."

"Wouldn't surprise me." Hal had volunteered to ride with Nigel. Based on the chatter over the voice-activated headsets, they had bonded over a mutual love of flora and fauna.

Taggart was in her passenger seat, smelling good enough to eat. She never met anyone that could be so distracting without saying anything. He was wholly focused on filming.

Something moved in the fog. She tensed. They couldn't be so lucky as to spot the saurus immediately – could they? The answer was no, as the forms resolved into cows grazing lazily.

She swore softly. "Shit. 'Beef4u.' A damn farmer sent in the tip."

Taggart laughed, his voice dipping down almost to bass.

Jane snorted out in disgust. "Okay, the good news is spotting the saurus just got a hell of a lot easier. Plus we've got a ton of free bait."

"The bad news?" Taggart asked.

"Smart boy. Cookie for knowing that there's bad news." Jane eased her SUV across the worn divided line to drive along the berm. "Bad news, Pittsburgh beef cows are the meanest son-of-a-bitches."

"So, we have to dodge several tons of pissed off sirloin while filming one hungry dinosaur?"

"Welcome to Pittsburgh." She drove slowly along the converted golf course. "Keep an eye out for oncoming traffic."

"What are you looking for?"

"Tracks."

The farmer had gone to town on fencing, putting up eight strands of barbwire to create a six-foot wall around the golf course. Jane suspected that Beef4U was trying to keep animals out as well as in. Considering that wargs were a growing problem in the area, she couldn't blame him for trying.

"There!"

She automatically jerked back to her side of the road and then realized that Taggart hadn't spotted an oncoming car but a monster. He had his camera already trained on the massive creature poised to attack.

"Oh! That's where that went," Jane said.

Truth was sinking in on Taggart. "That's – not real -- is it?"

"No, that's a proper T-Rex. Saurus are more velociraptor in shape, although just about the same size. I think that's from a miniature golf course that was like ten miles away. Yes, this is Sunset's stuff. There's Skull Mountain and Batman. I wonder where they found the pirate ship. Oh, god, they've got the dragon den statue from Sandcastle!"

"Pittsburghers love castles."

"It's an abandoned water park down on the Mon River. They couldn't keep the water fairies out. And yes, we do, it's part of the American dream." She was going to drive past but realized that Nigel had pulled into the parking lot. "What are they doing?"

"Oh, we can't pass this up." Taggart motioned for her to go back. "It's far too surreal. This is what we came to film. The real Pittsburgh."

"This makes us look like redneck nutcases." Jane backed up so she could pull in behind the production truck. Nigel and Hal were already out, gesturing at all the statues visible from the parking lot.

"We've got to get this, Jane!" Nigel cried as she and Taggart climbed out of her SUV.

"All right." She agreed before Hal could chime in. They only had a vague tip on the saurus and so far they hadn't seen any sign of one. Certainly the cows seemed unconcerned and the fence hadn't been breached. Most likely the putt-putt was as safe as any other place in Pittsburgh; which was to say, only somewhat harmless. "Set up so the T-Rex is in frame and you can do basic biology comparisons." She turned to Taggart. "Keep an eye and ear open. I'll be in the truck."

She would have liked to put Chesty on guard duty, but he would only guard her. Elfhounds were very loyal to a very small set of people and she'd never been able to get him to include Hal into that unit.

Because she and Hal killed their show's subjects every week, often with fire, they used the production truck to make sure they had good footage before fully engaging the creature. After the actual fighting started, whatever they got, they got. They'd also learned that while a smoking body afterwards rarely made great material, it was worse to come back the next day and discover that scavengers had found the corpse.

She flicked on screens and put in an earpiece to link her with Taggart and Nigel. "I'm set."

Taggart had a perfect frame already. Nigel waited until Hal got a light reflector in place.

Nigel stood a moment profile, looking up at the T-Rex looming over him and then turned toward the camera. "No more than this statue can capture the true essence of a dinosaur can our cameras convey the primal silence of this place. We're standing in the heart of the displaced zone on a Saturday morning. At one time two million people lived in this area. A sunny day, like today, would have heralded thousands of lawn mowers growling to life. Cars coming and going to one of a dozen malls. And across the street, people would have been lining up to tee off. Cows graze there now. We haven't seen another car for half an hour. All there is to be heard is the rustle of the wind through the trees."

Hopefully just wind, Jane thought.

"This miniature golf place stands almost abandoned. Someone is keeping the grass trimmed. There's clubs and a bucket of golf balls and a sign that reads 'play at your own risk.' Someone has added 'be careful of the water trap on third hole.' This place stands as a monument to what is quintessential Pittsburgh. The people of this city adapt and go on."

Jane was impressed by how much information Nigel had managed to gather since they’d arrived. She hadn’t noticed until that moment, but he was right: someone was maintaining the place. Judging by the torn earth around the dragon statue, the owners of the park had only recently looted the abandoned water park in Homestead and dragged it halfway across town. Apparently, there was enough interest in the putt-putt to improve it but not make it a viable business.

"This fellow is Earth's Tyrannosaurus, or T-Rex. He is a theropod dinosaur, which means he's bipedal, or walks on two legs. As we see here, his eye-sockets faced forwards, giving him good binocular vision. But most importantly, he's been extinct for sixty-five million years. We are here today seeking something very much alive. The Elfhome saurus.

"This distant cousin is very much like this fellow here. It grows to a massive forty feet length from nose to tip of tail, and fourteen feet high at the hips." Nigel raised his hand and demonstrated that if his knuckles were the dinosaur's hips that the saurus would be considerably taller if it straightened up from its running stance. "This effectively doubles its reach. And unlike the T-Rex, the Elfhome saurus has very functional forelegs that can reach and grasp."

Nigel lifted his right hand slightly.

"Done?" Taggart asked.

"Done," Nigel said. "For now. I could talk for hours about the saurus but it would only be worth it if we catch one on film."

"How was that Jane?" Taggart asked.

She checked lighting and sound. "It was perfect."

"I want to do the water trap." Nigel pointed past Mario and the mushroom castle of the second hole. The moat of the castle extended out into a small pond with stepping-stones out to an island that acted as the tee for the third hole. The cup lay somewhere on the shore beyond the larger than life Batman standing guard on the flat roof of an old fashion police station.

"What do you think is in there?" Taggart asked.

"The mind boggles." Jane eyed the murky green water through the monitors. "The most dangerous things are in the river, not ponds."

Hal pulled out his grab stick and gave the water an experimental stir.

"Hal, out of the water."

"I'm being careful."

"Just stay out of the water and keep back from the water's edge."

"We could just throw a stick of dynamite in," Hal said. "Just to be sure."

"We don't have any liability waivers signed, so no dynamite."

Taggart gave a bark of surprised laughter. He was getting hauntingly beautiful shots at amazing speed. The nearly abandoned golf course in the early dawn light seemed luminous and yet achingly sad through his lens.

"Hush you," Jane grumbled, feeling mildly jealous. She wanted to be outside, filming too, but time didn't allow for that.

The men carefully picked their way around the water trap to where rooftop Batman stoically guarded the cup.

Nigel reached up to pat the statue's foot. "The stories you could tell."

And hopefully they wouldn't add any new interesting ones today.

Nigel leaned against the miniature police station and grinned with boyish glee. "It's really starting to hit home. I'm on Elfhome. I was eight when Pittsburgh suddenly vanished from Earth. It was like Christmas. The first Startup was in the middle of the night and we woke to a changed world. I remember how all the television channels for days played endless footage of the iron forest that sprang up without warning where the city once stood. How completely and totally dumbfounded the world was on how to explain what had happened. And after the first few hours of the wall of trees, the stories of the strange and wondrous animals rampaging in the suburbs that remained on Earth. For me the most amazing was the two saurus that made it to the Monroeville Mall parking lot..."

Jane saw a movement in the background. Something big and black was charging down the hill behind the Batman statue. "Cow!"

"What?" Nigel asked as Hal took off running, reflector held over his head.

"Cow!" Jane shouted again.

A big black angus bull came thundering toward the men who scattered in all directions. Jane swore as she realized that the loose bull could only mean a break in the fence, which meant something had taken the eight strands of barbwire down. Worse, Taggart and Nigel weren't heading toward the safety of the trucks. They looped around Batman with the bull chasing them.

The idiots didn't understand that the bull wasn't the real danger.

"Stay!" She gave Chesty the command to keep him out of her line of fire. Snatching up her weapons, she charged from the production truck. She ran toward the water trap, shouting as she ran. "Nigel! Taggart! Stop looping!"

Taggart shouted, waving his arms to get the bull's attention as Nigel scrambled up onto the roof with the Batman statue. Once safe of the bull's charge, Nigel yelled and kicked at the passing bull, trying to lure it away from Taggart.

"No, no, no. Incoming!"

Jane flung the stun grenade ahead of the bull and then ducked down, hands on her ears. Even with sight and hearing shielded, the explosion was a loud brightness on her awareness. The bull staggered backwards, disoriented by the light and noise.

Luckily, Taggart still had his combat reactions. He'd shielded himself from the blast. Unfortunately, he still seemed flabbergasted into inaction. "What the hell was that?"

"It’s a flash bang."

Taggart swore, uncovering his ears. "I know what the hell it is! Why?"

"Because I can't shoot the damn bull without having to pay for it! Get to the truck!" She pointed toward the production truck. Hal knew the drill; he was already clambering into the back.

"Nigel?" She turned to order the Scot down off the low roof.

A saurus loomed over the Batman statue.

"Nigel! Down!"

"Huh?" Nigel hadn't shielded himself from the stun grenade. He was blinded from the flash. He clung to Batman's arm and shuddered like a worm on a fishhook.

"Down!" Jane grabbed Nigel by the leg and yanked him down.

The saurus struck even as Nigel came tumbling down onto Jane. She shouted in wordless dismay as she saw the massive head lunging downwards at them as she and Nigel slammed onto the ground, all elbows and knees. The smell of rotten flesh blasted over them on the saurus' breath.

Nigel twisted and kicked upwards toward the mouthful of daggerlike teeth. The jaws snapped shut on Nigel's foot and the saurus jerked him upwards, off of Jane. For a moment, all she could do was watch in horror as the saurus gripped Nigel in its claws and tore his foot from his leg.

Feel the fear, but don't be it, Jane! Feel the fear, but be Jane, and Jane can kill anything that crosses her path.

She scrambled up, swinging her rifle off her shoulder. Nigel was in the way for a heart shot, so she aimed for the wide left eye. Hold your breath. Squeeze.

Even fifty caliber wasn't strong enough to move the massive head. And like a beheaded chicken, the damn lizard didn't know it was already dead. Something misfired in its brain enough, however, for it to open both claws and drop Nigel. It was all Jane needed. She unloaded the clip into the saurus' chest.

The massive beast staggered to the right and then toppled with a heavy thud.

Her ears ringing from the gunfire, she reloaded and then caught hold of Nigel and dragged him back, keeping her rifle still aimed at the still monster. Nigel's booted foot stayed beside the dinosaur even as she pulled him to safety.

"Hal! Call 911!" she shouted. "Get an ambulance out here."

"No, no, I'm fine." Nigel said weakly. "Just a few scratches." He had parallel furrows on his back, seeping blood. He tried to sit up and she pushed him down.

"Lie still!" Jane jerked off her belt and slapped it around Nigel's thigh and twisted it tight. There was surprisingly little blood. No blood actually.

"Jane. It's all right." Nigel gave a weak little laugh. "I don't have feet."

"What?" Jane cried.

"I was born without all the right bones in my legs. The doctor amputated them at the knee when I was baby. I've never had feet."

Right. She knew that.

#

It was a typical Pittsburgh Backyard & Garden production in terms of content: angry creatures trying to eat them, explosions, screaming, yelling, occasional gunshots, and eventually a dead monster. The actual saurus attack, though, was gorgeously filmed. A true professional, Taggart had locked back on Nigel moments after the flash bang had gone off and kept focus on him despite the fact that he could have been filming the man's death.

Jane comforted her pang of jealousy with the knowledge that Taggart could only get the footage because she was dealing with the saurus. If she and Hal had an actual crew, they could get shots just as good.

"It's good!" Jane reported to the others. "Let's film a closing."

Nigel had been sanitized and bandaged but opted to put the torn shirt back on to wrap up the episode. He thought it counterbalanced the "very dead" state of the saurus, and Jane had to agree. The men set up to film. With Nigel sitting on the ground beside the massive head and the foot it had torn free, they started to film.

"This is not how I wanted this segment to end," Nigel said. "Considering the alternative, I'm happy to be alive, thanks to our brave and wonderful producer, Jane Kryskill."

Jane blushed hotly. She would have to be sure to edit that silliness out.

"Unbelievably, this is an adolescent male," Nigel continued on a more professional vein. "The elves say that saurus typically only live about a hundred years, which makes them fairly short-lived for an Elfhome species. This male is probably only ten years old and would have reached full maturity around fifteen. That's lucky for us, since if he was an adult, he probably would have had a mate and up to a dozen young nearby."

There was an odd noise over the microphone and after a few seconds, she recognized it. A police siren echoing off the hills as the squad car race toward them. Someone actually called the cops on them?

"Hold up, guys. We're getting company."

A few minutes later a Pittsburgh Police black and white came down the road, braked hard when it spotted their trucks in the parking lot and then came up the driveway at a cautious speed.

Jane went out to meet them, careful to leave all her weapons in the truck.

The responding officer was her best friend, Brandy Lyn Pomeroy-Brooks-Abernethy, which could be a good thing or very bad. Brandy had grown up with a burning desire to be Wonder Woman, complete with golden lasso and bullet deflecting wrist guards. She'd settled on policewoman as the nearest thing, much to the dismay of Honorable Lissa Pomeroy, her grandmother and Pittsburgh's only judge. Brandy gave out tickets to anyone that pissed her off, friend or foe, on the theory that it made it easier to find out who her true friends were. At any hearing, the offenders would find themselves locked in a legal battle between Judge Pomeroy and Brandy, as if it was a contest for Brandy's soul.

Thus Brandy was the only cop in Pittsburgh who would arrest Hal and anyone else rather than ask for an autograph.

"Hey, Jane. We got a call that a war was breaking out. Are you okay?"

"We're fine. Things got a little hairy, but I've got things handled."

Brandy looked at the "Chased by Monsters" truck, then at Jane, and then back again. "Is Hal okay? I heard he set himself on fire the other day."

"He's fine. Network just has us working on this show for a few weeks."

Brandy eyed the CBM's sharp-toothed logo and shook her head. "What do they think you are? A Monster Hunter?"

"Yeah, that's just about right."

She caught sight of Taggart. "Spend all day filming that? Your life is so hard." She noticed then Nigel's bloody, one-foot condition. "What the hell happened to him? I'll call for an ambulance."

"No, don't!" Jane waved her down. "The scratches look worse than they are and he's got a spare foot in the truck."

Brandy's face went to neutral. "A spare?"

"Yeah." Jane felt giggles coming on. It had been a stressful hour. If she laughed though, Brandy would go into Wonder Woman mode and arrest them all. "It's supposed to come off like that. We'll just pop the other one on."

Brandy put her hands on her hips and glared at Jane. "You didn't shoot any of the cows, did you?"

"We haven't touched the cows!" Jane covered her mouth to keep the giggles in. Technically, they hadn't touched the bull. "I shot the saurus; many, many times. We're just wrapping up."

There was the rumble and snarl of a big diesel engine and a half-ton Ford pickup came growling up the road. It turned into the drive and stopped behind the police car. For a moment, the truck seemed to have no driver. Then the driver's door swung open, a set of steps unfolded, and a tiny little old woman climbed down out of the truck, muttering obscenities the whole way. She looked like she was several inches under five foot tall, seventy pounds wet, and close to a hundred years old if not over it. She slid a cattle prod out from behind the pickup's seat before walking over with a gait that belied her age.

Jane didn't know the woman but Brandy did.

"Hi Grandma Gertie."

Oh, this was famous Grandma Gertie Betts, and she was over a hundred years old, having been born in the late 1920s. She'd been slowly annexing large sections of the South Hills to her farm, producing everything from apples to zucchini. She didn't have any children but a horde of adopted "grandchildren" that helped her run her various businesses.

"Well, god damn it, you could have fucking told me that you got my fucking email!" Gertie came to glare at Jane. "If I'd know it was PB&G down here, making all this fucking noise, I wouldn't have called the fucking police!"

Note to self, Jane thought, make an effort to swear less. I so don't want to grow into this woman. "We're sorry. Thank you for the tip."

"I would have shot the fucking thing myself but it's always such a hoot to see Hal be Hal." Yes, all stories of Grandma Gertie fully indicated that she would. If nothing else, there were two rifles on the gun rack in her pickup. "You two didn't smash up anything, did you? This is Hal we're talking about."

Jane considered a moment. Normally they did do property damage but today they'd been fairly conservative. "No. We didn't damage anything."

"Good. Its been a pain in the ass to get some of these hauled in from all over Pittsburgh but it makes a nice place for all my kids to come play."

Brandy escaped, leaving Jane to fend with Grandma Gertie. Jane in turn handed her over to Hal to keep busy while they finished shooting. Unfortunately, tiny women reminded Hal of the nuns of Mercy Hospital and he kept sending Jane pleading looks to rescue him.

Once they wrapped, she rescued Hal with an autographed official slickie produced by WQED on the show and a handful of still shots of Grandma Gertie with the other two men. Then firmly she escorted the old woman back to her pickup.

"Thanks again for the tip. New York gave us a very tight schedule which we'll only be able to keep if we can find subjects to film."

"I'll tell my kids to keep their eyes and ears open." Gertie slid the cattle prod in behind the seat and used the stepladder to climb the several feet up into her pickup. "But now, I've got a bull to find and chase home."

There was a little troll doll in the shadows of Grandma Gertie's dashboard, slyly grinning at Jane. The sight of it made Jane's heart go heavy and sink. She was about to pull back when the other details sunk in. The troll doll was wearing a little Viking helmet.

"Oh my god! Helga!" Jane snatched up the doll. There was a black smudge on the pushup nose and the cascade of white hair was dirty and ratty, but it was Helga. On her bare toes were the touches of purple paint for nail polish. Jane could barely breathe. "Where did you find her?"

"Those troll dolls used to be popular way back. I never saw a Viking girl before though."

"Where did you find it?" Jane shouted.

"I didn't find it, it found me." Gertie touched old thin fingers to the doll. "A few weeks ago I gathered up a herd of the kids and took them all to Sandcastle to get the dragon. I didn't think anyone would be there and everything would be free for the taking, but there were a bunch of people squatting there, using the swimming pools as fish tanks, although god knows why. There's been plenty enough fish in the river since we took to visiting Elfhome. We pulled the ride apart to get the statue and took it. Sometime in the confusion, the doll slipped into my truck."

#

For first time in her life, she abandoned Hal and her schedule. She wanted to head straight to Sandcastle, but her father had trained too well to go alone. She raced after Brandy, knowing that this close to lunch that she'd stop at the only food place still open.

McMicking's was a little deli at the Arlington lightrail stop. It was actually two tiny houses built on trailers. Ellen ran a tightly stocked deli and lunch counter out of one while she slept in the other. She made her store mobile just in case business became too poor she would be forced to move. Arlington was her third location. She had started at Library and worked back towards Pittsburgh, keeping to the light rail tracks.

Brandy was perched on the hood of her squad car, finishing off a bowl of Ellen's famous pumpkin and spinach curry over jasmine rice.

Jane waved the troll doll. "Look! Look!"

"Yeah, I see it." Brandy twiddled her fingers in a "give me" sign. "It's a doll. An ugly doll. Use your words. Tell me why it's important."

"Boo had this when she disappeared." Jane pushed the troll into Brandy's hand. "It showed up in Grandma Gertie's pickup when they were at Sandcastle. Boo is at Sandcastle."

Brandy examined the toy, shaking her head. "How can you know it’s the same one? We had a couple of these when I was a kid. They all look alike. Same beady eyes, big grin, pug nose and wild looking hair."

"With a Viking helmet?"

"No. But my personal experience isn't a true statement of how many Viking trolls there are in Pittsburgh."

Jane snatched the doll back and smacked Brandy with it. "Stop talking like your grandmother!"

"You come roaring up, waving a doll, talking all crazy about your little sister? I know what comes next. You're going to want me to go busting down doors and get ugly in someone's face. I'm just telling you what my grandmother is going to say when this hits her court."

"This is Sergeant Helga Teufel Hunden. She was my mom's doll before she gave it to me." All their toys were hand me downs and second hand store finds. Everything had been battered and ugly and half-broken even before they got hold of it. Helga had the virtue of being seemingly indestructible. "Before I gave her to Boo, I replaced her hair, and repainted her helmet and I made her a purple dress and I painted her toes to match. I can guarantee that even if there's a shitload of these dolls in Pittsburgh, this is the only one with purple toes."

"Good enough. But it's been six years. Someone could have found it lying on the ground in the Strip District the day she went missing and has been drifting person to person since then."

"Someone put it in Grandma Gertie's truck when they were at Sandcastle…"

"It could have been put into her truck at anytime, anywhere, by anyone. You know she doesn't lock her truck and has dozens of kids underfoot all the time. Everyone calls her Grandma for a reason."

"Why are you being so pig-headed about this?"

"Because I've watched your family tear itself apart and then have to rebuild itself every time we find anything even remotely connected to your sister's disappearance. That girl's body that we found in the woods two years ago. And the boy's skeleton two years before that. It's suddenly the day that she disappeared and you're all blaming each other for not keeping close enough watch on her."

"So for peace of mind, you want us to just say 'she's dead, end of story'."

"No, that's not what I said," Brandy growled. "Look it doesn't make sense. If Boo was the person that put the doll in Grandma Gertie's truck, why didn't she just stay there?"

"I don't know!"

"Jane, I love you like a sister, and if this was any other time, I'd round up some people and go tear Sandcastle apart. No one seems have noticed, but the shit hit the fan thirty days ago. A week after Windwolf was nearly killed, EIA started major housecleaning. They have two NSA agents going through all their personnel files and they started seizing EIA employees, Gestapo-style, and throwing them in jail."

"I – I haven't heard that."

"No one has. Someone is keeping a tight lid on the news. They opened up the county jail to hold them all."

"Wait? They're holding them? Why didn't they ship them to Earth for trail?"

"Because they're not human. The EIA has been infiltrated by the oni. It went as high as Director Maynard's personal assistant, who turned out to have a tail and dog-ears. The oni were using magic somehow to look human. The EIA was spending too much time trying to keep more oni from slipping into Pittsburgh to transport the ones in holding to the border."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because it's coming down from on high that hush-hush is best for Pittsburgh. Let the EIA clean house. The thing is that the EIA did most of the heavy lifting, and we have been picking up the slack. Now Tinker's been kidnapped, we don’t have the resources to follow ghost leads."

"Please!"

Brandy looked away, shaking her head. "Jane. I can't. I can't drop everything because of a toy found in a pickup truck weeks ago. Grandma Gertie is getting old. That doll could have been in the truck for days before she noticed it. She could have been anywhere when it was put into her pickup. And why would a little girl who disappeared six years ago, put a doll in a truck, and do nothing else?"

"Brandy!"

Brandy's shoulder radio crackled and her dispatcher directed her to head to a shooting and added that an ambulance was responding. "I have a job to do! I have to do it because no one else is going to!"

#

The Chased by Monsters production truck pulled into McMicking's parking lot just as Brandy raced away.

"How did you find me?" Jane snapped. She didn't want them there, reminding her that she had her own job to do, one that no one else could do.

All three men tapped their right temple to indicate the headset she was wearing.

"Oh freaking hell!" Jane cried. "Don't tell me you heard everything I said?"

"Okay. We won't." Hal pointed at the deli. "It's lunch time. Let's do food." He turned to Nigel. "This place has amazing food. Good as anything you'd find in New York."

"Gypsy wagons!" Nigel clapped his hands in delight. He'd attached his backup set of feet, so only the faint blood staining through his clean shirt remained as proof how close a call they'd had. "Oh, how charming."

"Are you okay?" Taggart asked.

Jane nodded mutely as tears started to burn in her eyes. Somehow last night had broken down her defenses around him and it left her emotionally fragile.

He carefully took the doll out of her hands. He brushed the ratty, dirty hair back from its impish smile.

"People used to ask if Boo was half-elf because she was so beautiful. She had hair was so pale blonde that it looked white, the bluest eyes and skin like china. When she was clean and still – which was usually only when we were at church or a wedding or something – she was like an angel that had fallen from heaven. But with us, most the time, she was half naked, muddy, and grinning. To me, she was just as impish as this doll. And her hair. Her hair would be this mass of untamable curls. When I fixed Helga for her, I made the hair just like Boo's."

"We'll find her," Taggart said.

Jane shook her head, taking back the doll. "I can't put you at risk."

Hal came back carrying biodegradable take-out containers that perfumed the parking lot with the smell of rice and pumpkin curry. "I say we film a show."

Jane smacked him.

"Ow! I mean it! Everyone in Pittsburgh knows PB&G. Even if you don't own a television, there are all those billboards from this spring. We just do our normal shtick."

"Shtick?" Jane echoed.

"Come in with cameras, walk all over the homeowner, and blow the hell out of their property."

Jane stared at him for a moment as she realized that he was right. Shy of the Viceroy and the director of the EIA, the various TV personalities were the most famous faces in Pittsburgh. Unlike some of them, like Chloe Polanski, Hal was well liked because people sensed that at his core, what Hal wanted more than anything, more than ratings, was to honestly save people. It was the main reason that Jane put up with his craziness. Despite the homeowner's misgivings and the chaos they caused, they kept the dangerous flora and fauna from killing countless people.

But would his fame actually protect him?

"I can't ask you…"

"You're not asking," Hal said. "This is my plan and I'm quite proud of it."

"I think it’s a good plan," Nigel said.

She glanced at Taggart and he gave a sheepish grin as he nodded.

Oh god, this was what she was most afraid of: she was outnumbered by crazy men. Vague plans to call her little brothers evaporated as she started thinking of damage control. The fewer crazy men she needed to corral, the less chance of something going wrong. Hopefully.

#

Pittsburgh was full of forgotten corners. It was nearly two thousand square miles of space transported to Elfhome. For every handful of empty houses there was an empty quickie mart, gas station, dry cleaner, Starbucks and McDonalds. And with every failed business, there came another handful of empty houses. Desolation grew like a cancer. Homestead had been home of the famous steel mill, a fairly new mall, the sprawling water park of Sandcastle and sixteen hundred households. When she was little, there had been a strip of houses clustered around West Street, eking off a living from the still open Sandcastle. When the park closed, the neighborhood went under.

The entrance of the park looked no different from all the abandoned buildings that they'd passed coming in. Jane's heart sank. The squatters must have moved out after Grandma Gertie's tribe descended on them.

"What is it?" Taggart's question made her realize she had sworn softly.

"It's empty," she said.

"How can you tell?"

"There's no takens."

"Takens?"

"Pittsburghers do stuff to show that a building is taken. Set up a planter with flowers. Paint the door Wind Clan blue. Put out a welcome mat. Install an obvious doorbell. Or put up a new mailbox, even if they can't get the mail delivered. It keeps other people from trying to move into their space."

"What if they don't want people to know they're here?" Taggart said. "They've got a little girl they've kidnapped and god knows what else. They don't want to be noticed."

He had a point.

On the theory that Hal was the recognizable one, he got out and pushed open the gate. It swung easily and silently open. Beyond them was the massive parking lot, cracked and weed choked. The tall waterslides towered on the other side like twisted dreams.

Everyone but Nigel cautiously got out of the truck. Silence reigned, broken only by the calls of crows.

Jane shouldered a backpack stuffed with every tool she imagined she might need for a jail breakout. She hefted the big light reflector like a shield while her heart hammered in her chest. There was a tiny little voice deep inside her that she currently was ignoring. It whispered that the only reason she was letting the men talk her into this was because she was being selfish. She was supposed to be the smart, level-headed one that knew when it was time to ditch and run.

Taggart glanced at her and read her face. "Oh, you can't back out now." Taggart brandished his camera like a weapon. "You promised us."

She didn't remember making any promises. In fact, that was so unlikely that she knew he was lying. It felt weirdly better, though, to know control had slipped from her hands, and with it, responsibility.

Hal took his place out in front, his pith helmet on, and his grab-stick tucked under his arm like a riding crop. He was grinning hugely, like he did just before he got to blow things up. Probably because explosives were well in the realm of likely outcome of their rescue attempt.

Chesty stood at her side in heel. The elfhound scanned the lot with open suspicion, which meant they weren't as alone as they seemed.

They went through an over-the-top mime of setting up to shoot. Don't mind us, we're harmless.

Hal, however, seemed slightly confused what their real mission was. "Should I intro as PB&G or Chased by Monsters?"

Jane bit down on the automatic "We're not actually filming!" No need to announce that to anyone who might have very sharp ears. Besides, she was fairly certain that Taggart was filming – in fact probably would keep filming even if gunshots and explosions occurred. "Do both. Depending on what we get, we'll use the video for one show or other."

"Welcome to Pittsburgh Lawn and Garden. I'm your host, Hal Rogers." Hal paused and straightened nervously. "Welcome to Chased by Monsters. I'm Hal Rogers." He half-turned, giving the camera his handsome profile, the raccoon mask of bruising covered up with half a bottle of concealer. "And this..." He waved a hand at the twin square towers that made up the front entrance. The landlocked builders had tried to combine Cape Cod, lighthouse and castle themes for the gatehouse and utterly failed. "This is Sandcastle: an eighty-seven acre water park with fourteen water slides and multiple swimming pools located on the banks of the Monongahela River. Opened in 1989, it bravely continued operating even after it found itself on Elfhome. It closed its doors…" Hal paused to shove open the accordion steel gate stretched between the two towers. "…in 2020 after a sudden outbreak of deadly Elfhome water creatures in its water supply. Despite heavy chlorination and an extensive filtering system, creatures such as river plankton, elf shrimp, and water fairies took over."

And in they went.

No one came forward to stop them. The place looked completely deserted. Jagger bushes grew waist high in every inch of lawn and weeds choked the cracks in the cement sidewalks. Chesty nearly quivered at her side, nostrils flared, jerking his head from one target to another. They were being watched by half a dozen things that Chesty considered dangerous.

So Boo's kidnappers wanted to pretend that Sandcastle was deserted? Fine. Jane and her crew would play ignorant.

Hal marched forward a dozen feet, pointing out the park's three large pools and the fact that the river lay just feet beyond. Oddly the pools had been covered by some kind of odd-looking tarps.

"Camo netting," Taggart murmured.

More evidence that someone was hiding something. Behind the buildings that lined the boardwalk, Dragon's Den lay dismantled by Grandma Gertie, the massive statue at the slide's heart missing. All that remained was the two stories of open wooden stairs leading to the now vanished launch point. Considering how big the dragon was, Gertie must have had dozens of people with her. It was little wonder they could come in and go without a fight. But why hadn't Boo just gone with them? Hidden herself in the truck instead of the doll?

Eighty-seven acres of possible hiding spaces.

"What monster do we track today?" Hal said as he paused at the decision point. Go into the gift shop? The park offices? Head for the buildings closer to the river or go on to the boardwalk? "Indeed that is the question: what is out there?"

Hal pointed out at the open river on the other side of the mushroom pool. Hopefully he could keep attention away from what Jane was doing. "The other day we spotted a creature never seen before in Pittsburgh, a massive river reptile generating a storm of electrical discharge. It had been described by one of our viewers as a Loch Ness monster."

While Hal gestured and info dumped about the river monster, Jane leaned the reflector against the wall and pulled out a Ziploc baggie. The first thing that had gone into their new freezer were several pieces of Boo's clothing to be used by scent dogs. They'd used most that first summer, but she'd found one still buried at the bottom. One last chance to find her baby sister.

"A long standing theory has been that the Loch Ness is a plesiosauria, which is a marine reptile that first appeared during the early Jurassic period and thought to be now extinct. These massive predators reached lengths of forty to fifty feet in length. What we witnessed the other night, though, seems to classify the Pittsburgh Nessie as a type of electric eel."

She pressed the cloth to Chesty's nose. "Seek. Seek."

Chesty whuffed in the scent. Dropping his head, he started to track.

"Electric eels get their names because they can generate up to six hundred volts of electricity." Hal managed to make his stroll forward, matching Chesty's progress, seem totally natural without losing track of the information he was presenting. "This powerful amount of voltage is five times the normal output of a household outlet and can easily kill a man. Those, however, are Earth's electric eels. The largest of these only reach about seven feet in length. How much voltage could a creature that is fifty feet long generate? The possibilities are staggering!"

Chesty headed to the boardwalk that once was lined with food stands with names that made it clear what they sold: Potato Patch, Uncle Tony's Pizza, Philly, Healthy Hut. The eateries had steel grates rolled down to cover their storefronts. Chesty passed the rows of locker rentals and went still at the first steel grate cover. Jane knelt beside the grate and gave it an experimental tug. It rose up an inch on well-oiled tracks. There was a large room beyond, dimly lit by celestial windows.

"We're going in." Jane lifted the grate two feet. Chesty crawled under and she wriggled in after him and let the door close behind her.

At one time, the place had been a café. Chesty bee-lined through overturned tables and broken chairs to the swinging doors into the kitchen full of large stainless steel appliances.

There was a startled squeak and someone ducked around one of the counters. The move, however, had backed the person into a corner. The girl stared at Jane and Chesty with eyes wide, hair a wild tangled bloom of unruly white blonde curls.

"Boo!"

"Jane!" Boo skittered away from her outstretched hand, ducking through the shelving under the counter. "Go away!"

"Boo, I'm here to take you home!"

"They'll kill you if they find you here!"

"Who?" Because now that Jane found her baby sister, she wanted to know whom she was going to kill.

"Lord Tomtom's warriors."

"Who?"

"You have to go!"

"Carla Marie Kryskill, come here now!"

"Jane!" It was the little girl whine she remembered so well. "I can't leave Joey! He's my responsibility."

"Fine, we'll take Joey too." Who the hell was this Joey? Jane couldn't remember ever hearing of a missing "Joey." Maybe it wasn't another kid.

"They have him in a spell so he can't be found and he's chained."

"We'll get him out. Where is he?"

Boo stared at her for a long moment as if staring into her soul. After seven years, did she still have the ability to trust anyone?

"I promise," Jane whispered. "We will not leave without the both of you. Okay? Semper Fi. Leave no man behind."

Boo's eyes filled with tears and she gave a tiny nod.

"Take me to Joey."

Originally built as a row of isolated shotgun-style buildings, Boo's capturers had cut doors between the restaurants and built up walls until the structures were one big maze. In a dim back room, they found a little black haired boy, chained by one foot, inside a gleaming hologramlike spell. Jane stared at shimmering lines of power that wove from floor to matching design in the ceiling, creating a cage out of nothing.

She knew nothing about spells except they were much like lamps – they needed a power supply and a continuous loop to function correctly. In theory, breaking the circuit turned off the spell. She tapped the bar quickly. It felt as cold and hard as steel but it looked no more solid than light beamed through smoke.

"What's going on?" The little boy sounded very American. He looked like a kindergartener. "Who are you?"

"This is Jane." Boo reached through the bars to lace fingers with him. "She's came! She's here to save us. Both of us."

Jane dug frantically through her backpack. "Taggart, I found them. I'm going to kick the beehive to get them free. Get ready to move fast."

"Okay." Taggart seemed dubious at the wisdom of this.

She took out the bolt cutter and laid it aside where she could find it quickly. Once she started, they'd probably only have minutes to get to safety. She found the foam package of whack-a-moles. They'd developed the little explosives to force vespers out of their holes so they could be filmed. They worked on the same principle as a nail gun, driving a spike straight down into hard packed ground. She never tried them on concrete; hopefully they wouldn't explode like a pipe bomb instead.

"Here." She passed the light reflector into the cage. "Joey, hold this up like a shield. Boo, get behind that counter."

She used clay to create a seal between the explosives' barrel and the concrete over the spell etchings.

"Fire in the hole!" The explosion was deafening in the small room. Thankfully, though, the bars of the cage vanished.

"Jane! Incoming!" Taggart shouted. The grate rattled up back at the café's entrance. There was the loud whistle of the monster call. As the grate clattered down and gunfire broke out, there was a distant roar of the river monster.

Swearing, Jane snatched up the bolt cutter and scrambled quickly to Joey. The chain was stupidly short, only a few inches between a loop on the floor and the shackle around his ankle. The metal cuff had chaffed him raw and bleeding. She'd thought that there was something horribly wrong with his foot until she realized that it wasn't deformed. He had a bird's foot. Instead of a human foot with five little toes, he had a bird's with four scale-covered talons. Three long talons faced forward. A shortened fourth splayed out in place of a heel. Not as long as a true crow's foot, but long enough to allow him to grip a branch solidly with his foot.

Jane gasped as the image of Tinker's kidnapping played out in her mind's eye. The boy was a tengu. Boo had been taken by oni? The oni had been in Pittsburgh all these years? How many of the missing children – thought dead of jumpfish and strangle vines just like Boo – had the oni taken?

"Jane! They're coming!" Boo tugged at her arm. "Just go away. They won't hurt us; they need us alive. They want the call for the tengu flock! They need the blood of the Chosen to take control of the flock."

Jane's breath caught in her chest as she saw for the first time Boo's feet. The ghost white scales of her talons that matched her pale hair. Jane looked up into Boo's face. Her baby sister's face. Her baby sister's blue eyes.

"What did they do to you?" Jane cried.

Hurt filled Boo's face. "Just go away!"

"We're all going, now shut up," Jane snapped and cut through the chain.

"Jane?" Hal shouted over whistle blast and gunfire.

"Over here!" Jane started to unload her backpack of weapons.

A minute later, Taggart found them. "That door won't hold for long. Do you have any weapons?"

Jane laughed, checking the clip and handing him a pistol. "Two of my grandparents were Marines. The third was a moonshiner. The other was a part of the local mafia. Do the math."

"You've got guns. Lots of guns."

"My family all but bleeds bullets." Jane took out two more pistols. She held the little twenty-two out to Boo. "You remember how to use these?"

"Don't point it at anyone you don’t want to kill." Boo took the gun. "Which is a lot of people right now. Aim down the barrel, hold your breath, squeeze."

"Good girl."

There was a roar, this time sounding far too close, and the whole building shook as if hit by a freight train.

"Where's the backdoor?" When Boo only stared at her in horror, Jane groaned. "Please tell me there's back door."

Boo shook her head. "They're nailed shut. That's the only door in."

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Jane scanned the room. What should they do? She realized that there were too few of them. "Where's Hal?"

There was a sudden explosion from the hallway beyond the cage room.

"I've made us a door!" Hal called.

"Hal! Damn it, how many times have I told you to warn people before you blow things up?"

They went out the hole that Hal had blown through the back wall. A back service alley ran the length of the boardwalk, lined with boarded up loading docks. Electricity was crawling over the building like a lightning storm had been anchored to the storefront. They ran toward the truck that seemed a million miles away.

Jane realized that the monster call was growing faint. She nearly stumbled as she looked over her shoulder and realized that Taggart was running in the opposite direction, still blowing the whistle and leading the river monster away. A muffled roar came from inside the building and screams of something that could have been human.

"Idiot!" The park was a maze of deep waterways to anyone who didn't know the area. Once he was beyond the corner of the building, he'd be out of sight. Nor was there any guarantee that there weren't oni coming around the other way to cut them off.

"Hal, get Chesty and the kids to the truck."

"What?"

"Truck! Go!" Jane shouted and pointed. "Chesty, follow!"

She headed for the stairs that one time led to the top of the Dragon's Den ride. "Taggart, you idiot, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Giving you a chance to get to the truck and into it without a horde of monsters on top of you. Five people and one large dog and only three doors."

He had a point.

The river monster came crashing out of the building into the back service alley. It looked like a weird cross between a catfish and a crocodile. Its mouth was a snout filled with teeth with long whiskers on either side. It had four stubby legs and a long whiptail. Electricity snarled and leaped from it to every nearby object.

Taggart whistled and the thing turned and crawled at stunning speed after him.

"Don't go left at the end of the buildings, Taggart. Swing right!" Jane ran up the steps keeping track of both Hal and Taggart as they both ran in opposite directions. "And stop blowing that stupid whistle. It turned already. Let it go chomp on someone else!"

Taggart's laugh came across the channel.

When Jane reached the second floor deck, she saw that a big male was running to block off Hal. She lined him up and only thought about how they'd taken her sister. Twisted her sister's body against her will until she wasn't even human any more. Jane killed him like she'd kill any other monster trying to stop Hal.

She turned and picked off a male coming across the building, carrying a rifle. A third that she hadn't seen took a shot at her from boardwalk's roof. The bullet whined past her. She didn't miss with her return fire.

"Jane, we're at the truck," Hal reported.

"Get out to the street and head toward the mall to pick us up. And be careful, Nessie might be out there with us."

One of the oni, however, cooperated nicely in drawing the monster's attention. She scrambled over the wall to the city street to join up with Taggart just as Nigel drove up.

"That was stupid," she said as she scrambled into the backseat with Chesty, Boo and Joey.

"Yeah, a little." Taggart squeezed into the back from the other side. "I spent three years as a war correspondent. My nightmares are all about sitting and watching people die and doing nothing. I don't think I could stay sane if I'd stood and watched you die."

"Mine," Hal muttered darkly.

Whatever she might have said was cut short as Boo snatched up Helga from the dashboard.

"Look, Joey!" Boo cried. "I told you someone would find Sergeant Helga Teufel Hunden and Jane would come for us."

"Why didn't you just go home with Grandma Gertie?" Jane asked.

"I told you!" Boo pulled the little boy into her lap. "Joey's my responsibility. I couldn't leave him. Big sisters take care of their little brothers."

Jane recognized her father's ghost even though he been dead before Boo could talk. She'd imprinted him into her little sister without meaning to, but this was all kinds of wrong. "Boo, he's not your little brother." The boy wasn't even human.

"Yes, he is!" Boo tightened her arms around Joey and glared at her with cold hard eyes. Her father's eyes. "You always said that you can't pick your family but still had to do right by them. The oni made us brother and sister. I'm Joey's big sister and I won't let anything bad happen to him."

From within Boo's protective hold, Joey blinked up at Jane. He looked only five or six but he'd been chained and caged like an animal. The only real difference that she could see between him and her brothers at his age was he had odd feet. But so did Nigel. This might be all kinds of wrong, but it wasn't this little boy's fault. She nodded. "Okay. If he's your little brother, then he's mine too."

A quiver of Boo's bottom lip was all the warning Jane got before she had her arms full of bawling little girl with poor Joey squashed between them like a teddy bear. Boo cried as if she had her heart torn out.

"Hey, hey, big girls don't cry," Jane said because in any moment she was going to lose it. If she started, she wouldn't be able to stop, and she knew from experience that her tears would burn like liquid fire. "It's okay. You're safe!"

"I was so afraid!" Boo wailed. "I prayed and prayed that you come for me, but I thought – I thought when you saw what they did – I thought – you'd say that we weren't s-s-s-sisters anymore!" She had been so scared that she could barely even say it.

"You are my baby sister." Jane held her tight. "Nothing anyone could do to you, no magic, nothing, could change that. You will always be my baby sister."

Once Jane got Boo and their new little brother safe, she was going to war. Not with her rifle, although she dearly wanted to, but with her camera. The oni obviously were gearing up for guerrilla warfare because they couldn't stand against the joint forces of humans and elves. The news blackout was their doing; keeping the two allies from uniting. She wasn't going to stand back and let them get away with it. She wasn't going to let them turn her city into a warzone. She was going to find out their every secret and broadcast it across two worlds. They were about to learn the meaning of "no better friend, no worse enemy."

Wen Spencer is the author of the critically acclaimed and popular Elfhome series of science fiction and fantasy hybrid novels, including Tinker, Wolf Who Rules and latest entry Elfhome. She’s also the author of contemporary fantasy Eight Million Gods.

Haunts of Guilty Minds

by John Lambshead

"Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.”

—Shakespeare (Henry VI, pt III)

Blam, blam!

Concussion slammed Gaston, easily penetrating the ear protectors he wore like a pair of hi-fi headphones. His chest thumped in sympathy with each explosion, and the acrid smell of burnt chemicals stung his nose.—

Blam, blam!

He held the gun in two hands at a low chest height using the fast “double tap” pistol technique developed by the SOE, Churchill’s Special Operations Executive. Urban encounters with the SS proved speed and firepower more useful than target-shooting accuracy. Holographic targets flicked in and out around him as he moved through the battle range, an exercise area rigged out like an office suite. The targets weren’t exactly human but he didn’t really look at them. This was a free-fire exercise where everything that moved was hostile.

Blam, blam!

It kept coming. He looked at this one, a moving bush whose branches were long tentacles tipped with blades.

Blam, blam!

It winked out, and a bell chimed.

“Exercise over, make your weapon safe,” said the disembodied voice of the range master.

Gaston turned off the pistol. There were no holes in the furniture because the gun shot blanks. They were supposed to sound and feel like the real thing. They didn’t, of course. The holograms weren’t anything like the real gut wrenching terrors that Gaston hunted. Some people were hell on wheels on a gun range but froze in real combat. Speed and aggression, not theoretical target shooting skills, kept you alive at the sharp end.

“You’re slowing down, Sergeant. That last one almost had you,” said an English upper class voice behind him.

“If you say so, Major.”

Gaston turned to look at Major Jameson leaning casually against the frame of the open door, a man no longer young but not yet old either with the aristocratic Anglo-Norman features that peered down from innumerable portraits of the great and the powerful throughout English history. People like Jameson had come over to England with old Duke William to win their fortune. Hell, Jameson was probably descended from some of them. Gaston’s ancestry traced straight to the West Indies and a complex mix of slaves, sailors and slave owners. They had both been soldiers in the British Army, but Jameson had been in the Guards, Gaston the Paras.

Jameson and Gaston now worked for The Commission, an organization that had more in common with the security services, good old MI5 and MI6, than the army, but old habits die hard. NCOs didn’t argue with “Ruperts” officers even when said Ruperts were in jocular mood. There was no percentage in it.

Jameson detached himself from the frame and walked into the range. Where Jameson went also went his pet monster. The Dark Lady slid in behind him. She bounced lightly across the floor like a tigress and for much the same reason: a muscle power to weight ratio that was way too high for a human being. She looked human, petite even, with jet black hair the same shade as her leather motorbike suit. She was beautiful, but Gaston felt not the slightest attraction. He would have soon as bedded a cobra. Her green eyes gave her away. They turned into metallic emerald chips when she was provoked. She was easily provoked.

“Karla,” Gaston said inclining his head.

She smiled at him showing small white teeth. She didn’t fool him for a millisecond. It was the smile on the face of the tiger. He’d led the team that captured her, and he’d lost a trooper doing it.

“I’d like you to do me a favor if it’s not too much trouble,” Jameson said.

“Of course not, sir,” Gaston replied, inwardly groaning. It was Friday afternoon and he had plans for the weekend.

“Shouldn’t take long. I just want you to drop something off at the British Museum on your way home.”

Gaston relaxed. That was no problem. He would leave a little early and still get home in time.

Jameson handed over a slim little parcel the size of a packet of twenty king-size fags.

“Give this to Professor Fairbold personally at the Black Museum.”

Bloody, sodding Jameson! He should have known there would be more to the favor than appeared. He had envisioned leaving a package at the Museum’s reception but no such luck. The Black Museum was an offshoot of the more familiar British Museum but was a little trickier to access.

Sir Hans Sloane started his collection of curiosities that became the National Collection of the British Museum while serving as the personal doctor of the Duke of Albemarle, the Governor of Jamaica. One of the curiosities he brought back and introduced to Europe was chocolate, but Jamaica is the home of Obeah so there were other artifacts of a darker nature.

This hidden collection swelled when the British army expelled the French and took control of Egypt, the center of occidental magic. As Sir Antonio Panizzi, Principal Librarian of the British Museum in the 1860s, put it: “People of weak minds such as children, servants, women and the lower orders generally must not be exposed to dangerous concepts.”

“They are expecting me?” Gaston asked.

It was not an idle question. The Commission and the Museum fought a long bureaucratic turf war over the last four centuries and their relationship could best be described as a hostile armistice. The Black Museum was enemy territory for a Commission operative. Contacts between the two organizations were about as common as exchanges across Checkpoint Charlie during the Cold War.

“Rang them myself. I’ve arranged with Fairbold for you to go in through the back entrance via the old British Museum tube station. That should bypass all the usual rigmarole.”

That, Gaston thought, was some consolation.

“I’ve never been there. What does the door look like?”

“Oh, the usual thing, just show the receptionist your ID. There’s a special Central Line train passing through Mile End station at eighteen seventeen hours. You should just make it if you get a move on. You need the last carriage.”

Jameson also presented Gaston with a small sprig of heather.

“Just put this in your buttonhole, Sergeant, and it will get you through the Museum’s aversion spells. One of our Wicca’s from The Coven made it specially.”

Jameson grinned at Gaston’s expression.

“Don’t worry about the buttonhole spoiling your manly image, Sergeant. You’ll be fine provided you don’t get off at the Museum of Performing Arts by mistake.”Jameson chortled at his own wit.

“No, sir,” said Gaston, who saw nothing funny in the business.

“Have a good weekend and see you Monday.”

He left with a half wave. Karla gave Gaston a smirk before following, like she knew something he didn’t.

#

Gaston caught a Docklands Light Railway train heading north away from The River. The short robot trains ran on an overhead track, giving a good view of East London’s Temples of Mammon, glass concrete towers housing the world’s largest financial center. You can’t serve God and Mammon, as the Bible would have it. The City of London had long since given up any attempt to try. God didn’t stand a chance in competition with the banking bonus culture.

Bow Church Station let Gaston out onto the Mile End Road at Street level. It was unusually straight, betraying its origins as the Roman Road from London to Colchester. When the legions built a road it went as the crow flies and the Britunculi, the “ghastly little Brits” could stuff their property rights. There was a small deviation circumnavigating what had been the Celtic Chieftain Badvoc’s brothel at Chelmsford but that hadn’t appeared on any official map sent back to Rome for reasons that the Imperial Governor was reticent about.

A crow scarfing the remains of a takeaway kebab at the kerbside glared at him suspiciously in case he wanted some for himself.

Once or twice he got the feeling of being watched. It was so pervasive that he pulled the dropped key ring stunt to look behind him and even circumnavigated a block but no one followed him so he decided he was just getting jumpy. By then Gaston was running late so he broke into a jog trot, weaving through the pedestrians.

“Yay, go boy,” yelled a pretty girl with pink hair and purple leggings who may as well have had “university student” tattooed on her forehead.

Gaston grinned and waved back, half tempted to stop and try to chat her up but sanity prevailed. He was really pushed. He reached the Mile End Station at six fifteen to be greeted by queues waiting to get through the automatic ticket gates. Without breaking stride he jumped the queue and flashed a Metropolitan Police Warrant Card at the inspector on the luggage point. He vaulted the barrier before the man could open it.

The warrant card looked completely genuine. It should. The Commission sourced them from the same place at the Met. It’s just that Gaston wasn’t a policeman.

He pushed his way down holding the ID card held high in the air. People parted to let him through faster than the proverbial fool is separated from his money. Getting in the way of plainclothes London policemen running through the tube is definitely frowned upon by life insurance companies. The Met’s armed units were inclined to shoot first and consider their options when it came to the press release.

He made the end of the platform by six sixteen. The bloody train was late of course. The damn things were always late, provided you were on time. It was one of the subclauses in Sod’s Law or something.

The train came. They usually did in the end. It looked fairly packed but not impossible to squeeze into. The platform at the end cleared as people rushed up the line of carriages hoping to find an empty seat, or at least a comfortable place to lean. The end carriage was empty but no one except Gaston moved towards it. When the doors opened he felt a pressure wave at the entrance like invisible surf pushing at him. Then he smelt heather and was through.

The carriage wasn’t completely empty. A lean figure sat in the far corner. It wore black, black jeans and a black hoodie top pulled over its head. The passenger hunched forward so that its face was lost in shadow. Gaston had a sense of a long nose. Black pointed slip-on shoes completed the Goth image. He ignored him, or her, or whatever – it was hard to tell which pronoun applied.

The tube filled up as it ground into the center of London. People had to force their way past the sliding doors against those already on board like a rugby prop forward going for the ball. No one tried to get in the empty end carriage. The aversion spell was highly effective. It would have worked on Gaston were it not for his “lucky” heather.

“Let the doors close or we won’t be going anywhere,” the driver said over the speakers, the poor fidelity not hiding his Jamaican drawl. Somewhere someone was trapped in a sliding door. Gaston had seen idiots put their briefcase between closing doors in the hope of triggering the safety mechanism so they would open again. If the briefcase wasn’t wide enough the safeties ignored it and the train went off anyway. Losing a briefcase was unfortunate but it was even more awkward if it was chained to your wrist at the time.

In the West End, the train stopped just outside Holborn station.

“We’re being held on a red light. Hopefully, we should be moving soon,” said the driver, in a voice that held out no hope at all.

Only the rear carriage doors slid back and Gaston hopped out onto a platform. Just the rear carriage was level with the platform, the rest of the train being parked down in the tunnel.

The British Museum stop was one of the “lost” underground stations, supposedly disused and mothballed. Few people remembered its existence. It wasn’t until the train pulled out that Gaston felt uneasy. Why was the station deserted? Where was the Black Museum’s security? Surely you couldn’t just walk in? Bloody Jameson said there would be a receptionist.

Maybe he had got off at the wrong place but how many disused stations did the special train stop at? He walked along the platform a little way and found a faded sign: British Museum. That settled the matter.

Gaston had been in the army a long time and led many a patrol.

“You won’t have any problems, Sergeant. The area has been completely pacified so you won’t need helmets or armor. Just have a few sweets handy to give the kids. You’ll have dedicated artillery support on instant notice. Friendly tanks will already have the crossroads secured when you arrive. Choppers will be in to extract you zero eleven hundred hours without fail.”

He’d heard the bloody lot. Any briefing given to the PBI, Poor Bloody Infantry, could be expected to be a mixture of wishful thinking and sheer bleeding lies. You just got on with it anyway and hoped the body count wasn’t too high.

A cold wind blew along the platform. It lifted a dirty piece of paper and wrapped it around Gaston’s legs. He pulled the sheet off and examined what was the top of an old torn poster with faded colors. A slogan written over a Union Jack and a silhouette of a First World War Tommy exhorted Britishers to enlist. He tossed the paper back into the wind and wiped his fingers on his jacket. What on Earth was a “Britisher”?

A tube train rattled sounding nearby but it didn’t come through the station. The side of the tunnel was lined with grimy tiles. Many were cracked and some had fallen. He walked along the platform until he reached an exit and peered in but it was too gloomy to see much.

A black cat stalked out of the tunnel and looked Gaston up and down. Not impressed, it stalked up the platform with an air of magnificent disdain.

“Yeah, you and me both, pussy,” Gaston said.

Somehow the presence of the animal was reassuring. Gaston pushed on up the tunnel. What else could he do? It got darker and rougher underfoot the deeper he went in until he tripped over something. Gaston fished out an electric torch key ring. The bright white light of the LEDs lit up a cave. He swore and turned around to retrace his steps but could find nothing but a dead end. Someone was playing games.

The cave opened onto a gulley in mature oak woodland. The sun was low on the horizon and obscured by clouds so it wasn’t all that much brighter than the cave. Ground cover was sparse, mostly grass and ferns. This was what the Thames Valley must have looked like before the trees were cleared and London built. None of this was real, so it must be the Otherworld. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t cleared or trained for solo Otherworld penetration. That was what the witches of the Coven and Jameson got the big buck salaries for.

A path meandered through the woodland so he followed it. Pipistrelle bats flitted between the trees, intercepting the evening insect swarms. The back of his neck itched, like he was being watched. He looked carefully around. Something bulky moved deep between the trees. He caught a flash of horns so it was probably just a deer. He hoped it was just a deer.

“Caw!” A raucous shriek from over his head made him jump.

“Are you trying to scare me to death?” Gaston asked the crow perched on a branch over the path.

The crow looked at him cocking his head from side to side and shuffling its feet. It leaned forward and just for a moment it reminded him of his fellow passenger in the special tube carriage.

The crow laughed.

Gaston blinked. Okay, crows were mimics, but a laugh?

The crow laughed and laughed, the cry becoming ever more maniacal. Static built up. Gaston knew that meant magic. He definitely wasn’t paid to handle magic. He thought to run, but where? In any case his legs wouldn’t obey him. They firmly stayed rooted to the ground like he’d turned into one of the oaks.

A black streak erupted along the branch and the crow launched itself into space. Feathers spilled down where a clawed swipe raked the bird’s tail. The crow fluttered out of sight among the trees, its outraged squawks fading into the distance. The black cat sat on the branch and observed Gaston. It looked bored.

“Thanks, cat,” Gaston said.

It ignored him and began to clean a white-spotted forepaw with great care.

Gaston shrugged and went on.

A horn sounded in the distance. It brayed discordantly in a key not used by people; brassy notes that projected overweening arrogance and menace. He quickened his pace. The horn sounded again, closer this time. He broke into a trot, jumping over branches strewn across the path. Another fifty meters and he heard bodies crashing through the woods behind and on each side. The horn sounded closer. He put his head down and ran.

A branch snagged his foot and he pitched forward in a roll, letting momentum carry him back on his feet. The first dog broke from a patch of ferns on his left and leapt for his throat. He didn’t remember drawing the Glock from under his arm but it was in his hands in the SOE grip.

He fired twice and the dog sailed past him without contact. Another appeared, bounding up the path. Gaston raised the gun but the double tap had no effect. He fired twice more and the dog rolled over coughing blood.

The animals weren’t all that large. He didn’t recognise the breed but they looked like bulky whippets. The problem was that more poured out of the undergrowth in a semicircle around him. They hunted silently, which was far more frightening than if they barked. They made short rushes from all sides, one feinting an attack to get his attention while another rushed him from a different direction.

He laid down a barrage of fire until the gun clicked on empty. Had he really fired seventeen rounds? He used the plastic pistol as a club, batting away one animal as another bit into his arm. The surviving pack moved in. A dog leapt at his throat.

A black leather-clad arm tipped with claws intercepted the leaping canine, slicing through its neck. A black boot smashed the spine of a dog worrying his leg. A charging dog halted abruptly, skidding on its haunches. Karla caught it in one hand, ripping out its throat with the other. She hurled the corpse back at the pack.

Karla moved through the gloom like a quicksilver shadow, kicking, clawing, biting, leaving a trail of broken bodies in her wake. Gaston dropped the magazine from his pistol and loaded a fresh clip. He raised the gun but couldn’t make out a target in the mayhem long enough to get off a shot. Karla followed the dogs into the trees. Agonized howls indicated when she caught one. Eventually, it went quiet.

Gaston held the Glock in both hands, ignoring the pain in his arm. The thick material of his jacket had absorbed most of the bite. A branch swished behind him. He whirled, raising the pistol.

Karla stood right behind him, eyes like glowing chips of emerald ice. Blood ran down the side of her face, dripping from her long protruding fangs. Her arms were covered in gore and her hands ended in long hooked claws. His pistol sights were lined on the bridge of her nose. For a long time neither moved.

“One day, monster, your usefulness will be over,” Gaston said, evenly.

He reluctantly lowered the pistol and replaced it under his arm. He and Karla had a history. The trooper she had killed had been his girlfriend. On the other hand this was not the first time Jameson’s pet monster had saved his life.

A whimper attracted his attention. The animal with the shattered spine was trying to crawl away using its front legs. Its paralysed rear quarters dragged behind.

“I like dogs,” Karla said happily, the words slurred out through fangs.

She picked the animal up with one hand and bit deep into its neck. It only struggled for a short time. Gaston walked off in disgust.

He had travelled but a little way when a tall figure sporting a magnificent set of antlers pushed through the ferns and straddled the path in front of him. The creature wasn’t a stag. It walked on two legs for one thing and wore clothes for another, a russet-brown tunic over trousers of Lincoln green. Its right hand held a bronze horn and in its left a long spear with a leaf-shaped steel blade at the tip.

The stag-man put the horn to his lips and blew a short note that set Gaston’s teeth on edge. He had the Glock in the SOE grip. The stag drew back the spear so Gaston fired a double tap, then a second. He might as well have been blowing bubbles. The bullets were hitting, the tunic jerked where they struck, but they had no effect.

The heavy spear thrust forward and Gaston threw himself to one side, landing awkwardly on a tree root. The pistol flew from his hand. He lay winded for a second. The spear lifted over him then surged down.

And stopped dead, six inches from his heart.

Karla had the shaft firm in both hands. The stag pulled it clear, spinning her round. She went with the flow, turning full circle with the grace of a ballet dancer to confront the stag as it moved in to stab her. She flowed like fluid black lightning around the thrust, evading it by millimetres, and grasped the spear shaft in one clawed hand. The other struck like a sword, shearing through the wood.

She tossed the spear head behind her. The stag raised the broken spear in an overhead grip. It ended in a jagged splinter. A wooden stab wound could be lethal to Karla’s kind in a way that mere bullets weren’t. If the situation bothered her then she hid her fears convincingly. She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, beckoning to the stag.

“Come on then, if you think you’re hard enough,” Karla said, quoting the time-honored jibe used by the British Army and the England football supporters club to intimidate truculent opponents.

The stag took a step towards her.

“To the death,” Karla said.

The stag paused.

“Duel to the true death? With you Dearg Due?” the stag said in a rich baritone voice.

It seemed to consider, cocking its head to one side in a surprisingly birdlike manner. Karla grinned at it, showing her teeth.

“Well, we’ve all had a long day. Perhaps another time.”

The stag vanished into the shadows among the trees.

#

The path ended at an old barn with blacked out windows. Gaston knocked at the door and was ushered in to a British Museum study laboratory. The walls were concrete painted battleship grey and a large square metal duct ran across the ceiling. Benches covered with academic papers, curios and bits of laboratory equipment lined the windowless walls.

“Professor Fairbold?” Gaston tentatively asked the grey-bearded man in a lab coat.

“Major Jameson’s daemon,” Fairbold said delightedly, looking at Karla and ignoring Gaston. “What a pleasure. I did not realize you would be coming.”

“Um, Professor?” Gaston started.

“But how did you get through the wards around the Museum, my dear? Did Jameson make special arrangements with the Director without telling me? You really shouldn’t be here.”Fairbold shook his head, scattering dandruff over his lab coat.

“Um, Professor, we have a situation,” Gaston said, somewhat desperately.

“Really?”

Gaston gestured through the still open door. Was the man blind or half witted?

Fairbold stuck his head out. “Fascinating, fascinating, that’s the Otherworld you know?”

“Yes, I do know. Don’t go out. Things lurk in the trees.”Gaston made a grab for the professor’s arm, as he showed every sign of exploring, and shut the door firmly. Just on the off-chance he opened it again but the forest was still there.

“I’d better put some tea on.”

Fairbold boiled water using an old electric kettle by the sink in the corner of the room while Gaston recounted his adventures. By the time he’d finished, Fairbold had two steaming mugs of tea.

“I’d offer you my arm, my dear, but I see you’ve already drunk something,” Fairbold said to Karla.

That was a fair assumption as her leather suit was covered in dried blood. Gaston finished his account. Fairbold hadn’t appeared to be listening but now he looked at Gaston with sharp eyes.

“It sounds to me that you’ve had an encounter with The Green Man and the wild hunt, young, er…”

“Gaston.”

“Gaston, thank you, but the spear is anomalous. I would have expected a bow. We need to know what we are up against before I can dispel it.”

The professor produced some dusty tomes and showed Gaston various pictures of Green Men of the Forest but none of them were quite right.

“Hang on. The daemon recognized her!” Gaston said, pointing at Karla.

“Yes,” Karla replied.

The two men looked at her but she said nothing more. It was at times like this, thought Gaston, that he realized exactly how alien Karla was.

“He called you something, deerugdo?” Gaston asked.

“Dearg Due,” she replied.

“Dearg Due,” Fairbold repeated. “Well, well, well, you really are so much older than you look, my dear.”

“What’s a Dearg Due?” Gaston asked suspiciously.

“A who rather than a what,” Fairbold replied, taking a sip of his tea. “An old Irish myth about a young woman who was forced into an arranged marriage with a brute who beat her. She committed suicide and was buried but arose from her grave at midnight to kill her husband and father.”

“Oh yes,” Gaston said.

“By drinking their blood,” Fairbold said. “It’s an old Irish vampire myth really.”

“It would be,” Gaston replied, with feeling. “A vampire myth, I mean.”

A loud hiss interrupted them. A black cat emerged from under a bench. It arched its back and spat at Karla.

“Now be nice to our guest, Mike,” Fairbold said. “Mike doesn’t like daemons in his Museum.”

“I understand your position, cat,” Gaston said.

He turned to Karla.

“If he knew you then you must know him?”

“What?”

“The stag-man. You must know who he is.”

“Oh, Nud. His name’s Nud,” Karla replied.

“Indeed,” Fairbold said.

He selected another volume and showed Gaston a drawing.

“Yes, that’s him,” Gaston said. The slanted eyes under the spread of horns were quite distinctive, and he held a spear. The legend under the picture said Nodens, not Nud.

“Of course, the Crow god, now we’re getting somewhere,” Fairbold said.

He fished around amongst a stack of books piled up against a desk leg until he located one bound in red leather cracked with age. He thumbed through until he found the right page, opened the room door onto the woodland and began to read out loud.

“Lord have mercy.

“Christ have mercy.

“From all evil, deliver us oh Lord, Christ have mercy, from all sin, from your wrath, from sudden and unprovided death, from the snares of the devil, from anger, hatred, and all ill will…”

Gaston gaped. He had the usual relaxed English attitude to attending church but his West Indian relatives were still fire and brimstone so he knew a prayer when he heard one. Fairbold continued until there was a snap, a discontinuity in reality and the woodland vanished as if it had never been. Outside was a basement corridor, all neon lit, dry dust, and peeling paint.

Fairbold closed the book of prayer with a thump that made Gaston jump. His nerve was going.

“What did you do?” Gaston asked.

“I exorcised Noden,” Fairbold replied. “He’s a Romano-British pagan God. Wheeler found the remains of a late Roman temple dedicated to him at Lydney Park in Gloucestershire back in the Twenties. Like all pagan shrines, it was slighted by Christians so Nodens is vulnerable to exorcism. Magic is forbidden to Museum staff but exorcism is a special case, classed under religion, don’t you know.”

Fairbold’s expression lost its normal smile.

“But someone has been performing forbidden magic from within the Museum’s wards. That much is clear. Someone here has broken The Regulations.”

Gaston could tell Fairbold pronounced the last two words in capital letters.

“And the target seems to have been you, Mr Gaston.”

“Me? Why would anyone want to stop me? I’m just the post boy here, which reminds me.”

Gaston held out Jameson’s package but Fairbold was staring at the ceiling, eyes unfocussed so he put it back in his pocket.

“Perhaps the right question at the moment is not why but who and how. Who tried to stop you and how did they manage to create an Otherworld bubble inside the Museum. Find the how and I suspect it’ll point to the who.”

He looked at Karla.

“You must know something, my dear. You knew enough to turn up at a critical moment. You must have bypassed our wards by entering through the Otherworld bubble. Were you following Nodens? Hmmm?”

Karla was sat cross legged on the floor engaged in a staring contest with Mike the Museum Cat. Their frozen body poses suggested that they were both in for the long haul.

“She’ll only tell you what she wants you to know,” Gaston said. “Daemons are very like women in that respect.”

Fairbold sat at his desk and began flicking through volume after volume.

“Interesting chap, Nodens; he didn’t start as a Roman god, you know. He was a Celtic deity originally. The Romans had a habit of taking over the gods of their subject peoples. The Professor...”

Fairbold implied capital letters again.

“…associated his name with a Germanic root word meaning to entrap.”

“Karla called him Nud,” Gaston said.

“That’s the Welsh form for Nodens. It got into English as Lud, as in the name of the legendary British king who is supposed to be buried at Ludgate. There used to be a statue of him there. I believe it is now in the porch of the church of St. Dunstan-in-the-West in Fleet Street. Fleet Street, you know is where…”

“Yes, Professor but if we could get back to the attack on me,” Gaston said, somewhat desperately, before Fairbold could launch into a rambling one hour lecture down the byways of the mythological history of Britain.

“Well, the relevance is that according to Geoffrey of Monmouth, London is named after Lud so Nodens has a close connection to the city. Of course, Geoffrey is a bit dodgy as a source, I remember that…”

“But how does this help us?” Gaston asked, getting skilled at heading Fairbold off at the academic pass.

“Because of The Professor, my dear chap.”

“And he is?”

“Why J.R.R. Tolkien of course. Everyone knows of The Professor, surely, even in the Commission? The trouble that man has caused us over the years: brilliant scholar, of course, but no common sense.”

Gaston thought that was rich coming from Fairbold.

“The Professor became interested in Nodens because of The Ring.”

More capital letters but Gaston had a horrible feeling that he knew all about The Ring. But it wasn’t real, was it?

“Perhaps I should explain.”

Oh Dear God, another lecture, thought Gaston.

“Wheeler found a number of defixiones at Lydney Park. They’re curse tablets,” Fairbold said, noting Gaston’s blank expression.

“One of them was from a certain individual called Silvianus. It asked Nodens to curse a ring that had been stolen by a man named Senicianus and promised the god half the value of the ring if it was returned. A heavy gold ring had already been found at Silchester in the eighteenth century with a depiction of Venus. Someone had badly inscribed on it an exhortation to the Christian God to protect a Senicianus. Senicianus is an unusual name,” Fairbold said, dryly, “so we can be sure it is the one named in the defixio.”

“At least it wasn’t inscribed with One Ring to Find Them All,” Gaston said. “So we have a cursed ring. Where is it now?”

“Why here in The Black Museum’s Roman collection, of course. A properly authenticated fake, properly authenticated by the British Museum that is, is on public display at Vyne House but we keep the original secretly under lock and key. Can’t have cursed rings lying around rural England, can we now. That ring must be the key to all this.”

“Lead on,” Gaston said.

Fairbold lead the way through the winding underground corridors of The Museum to another door. He knocked and they walked into a study room that was identical to the one they had just left. Identical except for the occupant, that is. The man wore the stained white lab coat uniform of a BM academic but the antler horns tied to his head were presumably not standard. He had a silver glove on his right hand with a large gold ring on the forefinger. He was waving both arms around and chanting in what sounded like Latin.

The man would have looked ridiculous were it not for the heavy static charge of magic in the room. Fairbold stopped in the doorway, gaping at the sight of his colleague.

Gaston was now on familiar territory. He had never claimed to be any sort of intellectual but when it came to swift violent action he could recover a great deal of ground lost in debate. He shoved Fairbold to one side. Throwing himself at the man with the ring, Gaston seized his right wrist with one hand and hit him good and hard on the jaw with the other. The BM academic flew backwards into a wall and collapsed, the glove spinning off his hand. Gaston bent down to pick it up.

“No, don’t touch it!” Fairbold said.

Fairbold hunted around the room until he found a lead box. Carefully teasing off the ring with a pair of tweezers he manoeuvred it into the box, snapping tight the lid. The he picked up the glove and tossed it to Gaston.

“A souvenir of your memorable visit.”

Gaston examined the glove. It was ordinary leather coated in tightly wound silver paper. Fairbold picked up the antiquated black Civil Service Bakelite phone on the desk and dialled a number.

“Security, Fairbold here. Could you come to the Roman Section, immediately please.”

The man on the floor sat up, brushing a broken antler branch away from his face. Blood ran out of his mouth.

“I think that Commission thug has broken my jaw,” he said, thickly. “Violence, that’s all they know. Bloody animals.”

“Really, Dumpkins, you thought a bit of tinfoil would protect you from the Vyne Ring’s curse? I suppose you got the idea from the Welsh myth of King Lludd of the Silver Hand. Absurd! Everyone knows that tinfoil is only useful for keeping out CIA brainwashing beams,” Fairbold said

“It would have sufficed for my limited purpose,” Dumpkins said, defensively.

“Nonsense, for pity’s sake man we are dealing with the Vyne Ring. All those Lord of the Rings books, movies, toys, dreams. You know mythology is charged by human dreams and imagination. If only one per cent has flowed into that artifact from the Tolkien connection then the damned thing has more latent power than the Spear of Longinus. The Ring would have eaten you in the end.”

“I think you overestimate the danger, Fairbold. You were always prone to hyperbole. Take that paper you wrote on the decommissioning of Mycenaean cult figurines,” Dumpkins said.

“If we could save the academic argument for another time,” Gaston said.

“What were you trying to achieve anyway?” Fairbold asked Dumpkins, ignoring Gaston.

“I suppose I may as well tell you as it will all come out now anyway. I intended to win the National Lottery with the help of a little magic. Harmless enough, surely?”

“Harmless! Using heavy duty magic within our wards, playing games with probability, you could have collapsed the walls of reality letting God knows what into London. But why, what did you need money for? You haven’t bought a new suit in twenty years to my knowledge.”

“The winnings were not for me personally, Fairbold you old fool, but to finance my next project. My grant to investigate Easter Island was rejected—as well you know since you were the anonymous referee who canned it.”

“Rightly so, your ideas were ludicrous. The whole thing would have been an enormous waste of money.”

“Unlike your Etruscan Expedition,” Dumpkins sneered.

“I was unlucky there.”

“Ha!”

“Ha yourself!”

Fortunately for Gaston’s patience, not to say sanity, the two learned savants were interrupted by a knock at the door. An elderly face almost completely obscured by a black peaked cap and a snow-white walrus moustache peered around the door.

“Did you call security?” the face asked.

“Ah, Grindyke, detain Doctor Dumpkins and hold him in your Lodge while the Director decides his fate.”

“Certainly, Professor Fairbold. Now you come-along-with-me, young fellah-me-lad,” Grindyke said as he tottered in.

Gaston thought he had now seen it all but The Museum still had a surprise in store. Grindyke had bought two assistants with him, from the Egyptology Section no doubt, where they were part of the Collection. They moved astonishingly quickly for mummies, for the sort of mummies wrapped in bandages rather than snot-nosed brats. Each took one of Dumpkins’ arms and hauled him out, still exchanging obscure insults with Fairbold.

“Wait!” Gaston shouted.

They all stopped and looked at him.

“I have been hexed by a crow, bitten by dogs and nearly spitted like a suckling pig by an Iron Age god. Now in the name of all that’s unholy would someone please tell me what the Hell your internal squabbles in The Museum have to do with me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dumpkins asked.

“Not to me, so humor me with an explanation?” Gaston replied.

“When I was washing out my mug in the kitchenette after this afternoon’s tea, I heard Fairbold talking to the Director in the Senior Common Room. They didn’t know I was there, of course,” Dumpkins said smugly, “but I could hear every word through the hatch.”

“So?” Fairbold asked

“I heard you warn the Director that Jameson was coming on an unscheduled visit. I mean, why would the Head of The Commission’s enforcement arm be coming here secretly? Obviously, somehow, they found out about my magical experiments. Why else would Jameson come except to terminate me with, with…”

“Extreme prejudice is, I believe, the current expression,” Fairbold said, helpfully, doubled over, unable to contain his mirth.

"Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer," he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

“I merely came to deliver a package to Professor Fairbold as a favor for Major Jameson,” Gaston said carefully, feeling like shooting someone or perhaps just banging his head on a wall.

“I thought you were Jameson,” Dumpkins said.

“No, I’m Sergeant Gaston.”Gaston replied firmly. “Just Jameson’s delivery boy—which reminds me.”

He fished in his pocket and held out the package.

Fairbold took it from him and broke the seal, snapping open the hinged cardboard box.

“Excellent, Jameson remembered to get my Turkish cigarettes when he was in Ankara,” Fairbold said, in delight.

“All this over a packet of fags?” Gaston asked in disbelief.

“Not just any cigarettes,” Fairbold said, huffily. “These are Murad’s special shag. You just can’t get them in Britain anymore. The European Health and Safety Directorate banned them. Dangerously high tar content, don’t you know.”

That was when Dumpkins screamed.

John Lambshead is retired research scientist from the British Museum of Natural History. He is the author of swashbuckling fantasy Lucy’s Blade and coauthor, with best seller David Drake, of science fiction adventure, Into the Hinterlands. This story takes place in the world of The Commission and his new contemporary fantasy novel Wolf in Shadow.

The Lamplighter Legacy

by Patrick O'Sullivan

Winner of the 2013 Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Competition for best forward-looking original science fiction story.

September 15, 2021

Earth

The astronaut gripped Ernesto's wrist. "Look, kid, you want to put the phone down and look around?" He had to shout to be heard over the helicopter's deafening noise. "This is a once in a lifetime experience."

Ernesto adjusted the gain on his aviation headset. "Yes sir." He reluctantly pocketed his cloudnode and leaned back in the plush leather seat. He peered out the helicopter's window at the broad, open ocean off the coast of Ecuador. They'd passed over the shrouded mass of the Galápagos an hour before. Now the ocean looked the same as it had ten minutes earlier, and ten minutes before that: wet, choppy, and indistinguishable from the ocean he could see any day at home in San Diego. It was a wild and memorable experience meeting an astronaut, but that was yesterday. When the astronaut had to shout over the helicopter's thumping rotors it reminded Ernesto not of Captain Weber, a real American hero, but of Ernesto's dad after half a bottle of Captain Morgan.

Shouting and astronauting did not go together. Ernesto would write a blog post on that topic later tonight. He would also mention that too much dollar-store after-shave and astronauting didn't go together either, at least not in the confined cabin of a trillionaire's ramjet helicopter. Ernesto was mortified at his mistake, but man enough to admit the truth for once: that he was more enthusiastic than experienced when it came to both astronauting and shaving.

cosmicgrrl wouldn't have made such an egregious error. She would have consulted an expert. She had once messaged ernesto2003 that admitting ignorance was a virtue, not a weakness. That exposing oneself was the first step to understanding. Then she'd ruined everything by making a joke about his screen name. That was nearly four years ago and Ernesto's face still burned whenever he thought about her message.

Last month, when cosmicgrrl discovered that ernesto2003 had won the Lamplighter Prize for Best Amateur Space Blog, she'd been shocked, shocked, shocked. Ernesto was convinced he'd admitted to cosmicgrrl that Blogespacial! was his creation. Even if he hadn't boasted so baldly, it said 'moderador' under his screen name in all his posts. Did she think he was just some high school slacker with nothing but time on his hands? Or because he wasn't a NASA engineer like her, he had all day to pontificate on some else's blog?

The astronaut shouted. "Something bugging you, kid?"

Yeah, there was. Ernesto had blown all he'd saved waiting tables on a worldwide data plan and he wanted to use it. "No, sir," Ernesto said.

The problem with virtual keyboards was that you had to look at them to type. Ernesto could touch type sixty words a minute on an old-school keyboard, in the dark, with the covers pulled over his head. He couldn't input a word here without insulting the astronaut and Mr. James Lamplighter, whose generous award had funded Blogespacial! for as long as Ernesto cared to continue posting, and who had invited Ernesto to witness the launch of Lamplighter's latest satellite. The launch would take place from a floating platform positioned on the equator, somewhere up ahead. Ernesto clutched his cloudnode powerlessly and gazed out at the broad, empty ocean.

One wave looked just like another.

#

In pictures Lamplighter seemed bigger, more imposing. He was the richest man on Earth, and when the newsblogs ran posts with his photo they were inevitably shot from below, as if Lamplighter was a rocket set to blast off and the photographer a mere mortal like Ernesto, so much extra payload crowding the launching pad.

Ernesto's voice quivered when he said, "Pleased to meet you, sir,” but he looked Lamplighter in the eye and managed to shake hands without sweating all over the man's manicured nails.

"Call me Jim," Lamplighter said. His voice was an average voice, his eyes average eyes, neither blue, nor green, nor brown. He was in his late fifties and dressed in a white guayabera shirt, jeans, and sandals. Ernesto might have waited on Lamplighter's a thousand times at Casa Suarez without noticing him, if not for one thing. Lamplighter quivered with energy, like Hidalgo, Mr. Calderón's golden retriever, after Ernesto had thrown the ball but still had a grip on Hidalgo's collar.

The astronaut had passed Ernesto off to Lamplighter on the command vessel's helipad. The helicopter had circled the launch vessel so that Ernesto could photograph from above and up close. It was a letdown. The platform was huge, a converted North Sea oil rig, but there was no launch vehicle in sight. Ernesto wanted to ask the astronaut what was up, but didn't fancy shouting at a real American hero over a helicopter's thumping racket. Instead Ernesto took shot after shot, camera clicking in bracketing exposures, more shots of an empty launch deck than he felt necessary, but his activity seemed to please the astronaut, and Ernesto had no end to image storage on his cloudnode.

The command vessel was big but not huge, like a cruise ship, but empty. Lamplighter said the ship's crew of forty was on board, but the people involved in the launch numbered only eight, including Captain Weber, who was acting as a technical advisor.

Ernesto asked how many people were on the launch platform and Lamplighter told him only the ship's twelve person crew. No technical staff yet. There'd been a change of plans.

Mr. Lamplighter asked if Ernesto would like to get the personal interview over with. As part of the Lamplighter Prize Ernesto had won the right to an exclusive interview with the richest man on Earth. Mr. Lamplighter said things would get hectic later and now was as good a time as any. Ernesto must have looked worried because Mr. Lamplighter asked if he was feeling okay.

Ernesto pasted a confident grin on his face. "Never better, sir."

It was a good thing that Mr. Lamplighter was paying for Blogespacial!'s bandwidth fees going forward, because an interview with Mr. Lamplighter was like gold, and traffic to Ernesto's site would explode. It wouldn't just be regulars like cosmicgrrl and lucky_yellow_dragon, and cornelius_simeon, and vikenti_123 who would argue back and forth on Blogespacial!. Many people were interested in Mr. Lamplighter for all sorts of reasons, but most had nothing to do with his space projects.

"Tell you what," Lamplighter said. "Why don't you get your kit settled, and get freshened up, and meet me on the fantail?"

"I don't know what a fantail is," Ernesto said. "Let alone where it is."

Lamplighter grinned. "You're the real deal, aren't you, ernesto2003?"

Ernesto started to look at his feet before he forced himself to meet Mr. Lamplighter's gaze. "Sir?"

"Many young men would have said, 'Sure,’ and then wandered around for half an hour in ignorance, wasting their time. And mine."

"Maybe they'd already know what a fantail was, and where it was." cosmicgrrl certainly would. Her family had a boat. A yacht. Until today the closest Ernesto had ever gotten to a boat was on Sundays, when he helped his mom load the minivan with fresh dorado from the fish market.

"Tell you what." Lamplighter subtly tapped the cloudnode implanted behind his right ear, an Hermés Executive II, certifiably uncrackable, nearly invisible, and more costly than the helicopter Ernesto had arrived in. "I'll squirt you my id addy. Ring me when you're ready."

#

Ernesto stared at the cloudnode in his hands. On its display was the address of the richest man on Earth. The temporal cloud address of the richest man on Earth. This was unreal. He flicked to his friendnet glyph. There was a message waiting, one from cosmicgrrl.

Well? What's it like?

Ernesto typed madly. Exciting. I've met him, and he's calm, just like you. There's been a delay in the launch, but he doesn't seem perturbed. Very collected, like sending a payload into orbit is an everyday occurrence. Like it's normal. Ernesto pressed the send glyph and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Wouldn't that be fantastic? If it was?

Ernesto stared at the display projection and contemplated the implications. I'm not so sure. Maybe then no one would view my blog. Not if space missions were normal.

The satellite time lag was minimal. I would.

No, she wouldn't. Not if she realized just how close she'd cut when she'd joked about his screen name. He'd never replied to her message. 2003? Is that your birth year or something?

Like cosmicgrrl would even look at him twice. Ernesto Suarez, heir to the great Suarez restaurant fortune. Ernesto went into the tiny ship's bathroom and splashed water on his face. He stared at the boy in the mirror. He was about as far from a great American hero as they came.

His fingers worked the keyboard projection. Got to go. Can't keep the big man waiting. He hammered the send glyph and went to search his suitcase for a shirt that didn't reek of astro-shave.

#

It turned out the fantail was the rear of the command vessel. The stern.

Mr. Lamplighter leaned against the rail. He looked like a king, or a god. "I imagine you have some prepared questions."

The command vessel was underway. An apparent wind blew from behind Ernesto, battling the cross-breeze that had begun to whip up whitecaps on the dark waves of the Pacific. The deck vibrated and water churned, pale and foam-flecked, salty spray thrown up by massive, unseen propellers far below. Ernesto's hands shook. This was so bizarre. He, Ernesto Suarez, was on the deck of a wet-launch command vessel, chatting with the richest man on Earth. Chatting like they were buddies.

Ernesto's voice quivered but didn't crack. "A couple, sir."

"Here's the agreement. For every question, you ask I get to ask one. If you ask a boneheaded question, I get to ask a boneheaded question. Anything I say gets reported word for word. Anything you say gets reported word for word."

Ernesto shifted his feet. He'd interviewed many NASA, CNSA, and ROSCOSMOS experts for his blog. "Verbatim transcriptions can be boring, sir. People tend to wander, and... um... do that a lot."

"I don't. And you won't. Those are my requirements. Take them or leave them."

"I'll take them, sir."

"Then shoot, ernesto2003."

"Yes, sir." Ernesto flicked the recording app on his cloudnode alive. He'd scoured the cloud for every interview of James Lamplighter in existence. He'd never interviewed anyone but scientists and engineers and they couldn't stop talking once Ernesto got them started on the subjects his friends cared about. With Lamplighter he didn't know where to begin. Lamplighter was a money man, not a scientist, and notoriously secretive. Plus, it wouldn't just be Blogespacial! regulars reading this interview. Millions would read Ernesto's words simply because the subject was James Lamplighter.

Ernesto decided to begin where every other interviewer began. "What's it feel like to be the richest man on Earth?"

"It feels like dirt. And that's a boneheaded question. I was born the tenth richest man on Earth. When I die I'll still be the richest man on Earth. And that will feel like dirt squared." Lamplighter glared at Ernesto. "My turn. What's it feel like to be born a nothing?"

Ernesto felt his face burn. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not a nothing."

"Then prove it. Next question."

"You want me to post... That? Without editing?"

"I don't want it. I demand it. Now next question, son."

"I'm not your son."

"That's not a question."

Ernesto was so angry he couldn't see straight. He knew he was that angry because the idea that he couldn't see straight was a cliché, and Ernesto hated clichés with a passion. "You're the richest man on Earth. You can have anything you want."

"And you were born a nothing. And you can't. That's still not a question. Is this all you've brought, ernesto2003? Because I have a score of questions, and you're going to answer every single one."

Ernesto rubbed his forehead. His guts churned. "Why are you doing this?"

"Now that's a question, and it's not a boneheaded one. Do you want to film this?"

"Why?"

"Because no one's ever asked me that question. It's good copy."

"No, I don't want to film this."

"Fair enough," Lamplighter said. "I imagine, in your mind, 'Why are you doing this' pertains to why I am beating up on an seventeen year old kid, whose parents aren't even legal residents, and who would be entering college next year if he could scrape together the coin, but instead is wasting his talents waiting tables at the family restaurant, which will one day be his, and which he will hate with all the passion in the world because it isn't what he wants. He will hate it, not because he couldn't imagine better for himself, but because he can.

"Now, in my mind, your question, 'Why are you doing this', pertains, not merely to this conversation and your precious feelings, but to everything I've brought you here to witness, and everything I've done in my life up to this moment. Do you, perhaps, see a difference in these two questions, and in the nature of our perspectives?"

Ernesto's face burned. He glanced down at the recorder in his hand. He could switch it off and go home. He didn't have to do this. He didn't like it when his dad got angry, and he didn't like it when he got angry. Anger made him stupid, and maybe he wasn't much, but he wasn't stupid. Ernesto took a deep breath and looked Lamplighter in the eye. "I see it."

"Well, I don't. They are faces of the same coin. So I will give you the same answer to both questions. I'm 'doing this' because I want to. And because I can."

"What? That's your excuse?"

"You don't get a follow-up. And for the record, that was an explanation, not an excuse."

"That's... cold."

"My deck, my rules. Now I get a question."

Ernesto tore his gaze away from Lamplighter. He glanced out to sea, where the wind had begun to whip the white-capped waves higher. Ernesto could feel his nostrils flare as he sucked in great gulps of salt air. Lamplighter would probably ask if Ernesto had any socks without holes in them, or what it feels like when your parents can't make a mortgage payment. "Go ahead."

Lamplighter leaned against the rail, stretching his legs. His gaze never left Ernesto's face. "What, ernesto2003, do you want more than anything in the world?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

Ernesto couldn't speak the truth. Not in a thousand years could he speak the truth. Not without messaging cosmicgrrl first. In private. "I haven't given that as much thought as it deserves."

"Give it some." Lamplighter lounged against the fantail railing. He crossed his tanned ankles and pursed his lips, examining Ernesto like some unidentifiable stain discovered lurking on his freshly-pressed tablecloth. "While we wait, maybe you'd like to ask the obvious follow-up question."

Maybe, right after Ernesto finished stuffing his fist up Lamplighter's posh aristocratic nose. Some things never changed, no matter how much you wanted them to. Ernesto took three deep breaths and counted to ten. "Umm... What do you want more than anything in the world?"

Lamplighter grinned like an imbecile. "I thought you'd never ask. I have given this as much thought as it deserves. I've thought about it every night since I learned to read, and since I learned to think for myself. I wish to be the richest man--"

"But you already are!"

"Hear me out, son."

"I'm not your son."

"You think not?"

"I wouldn't want to be."

"I don't blame you for feeling that way. It changes nothing. Now stow it, and let me say what I want to say. For the record."

Ernesto jammed his cloudnode in Lamplighter's face so the microphone wouldn't miss the man's gloating words, and so that later he could transcribe every arrogant, elitist inflection of Lamplighter's boarding-school voice. "Go on."

"You'll laugh, ernesto2003."

"I promise you, Mr. Lamplighter, I find none of this amusing."

"I wish to be the richest man on Mars."

Ernesto snorted. "What?"

"You heard me. And you laughed."

"That's impossible."

"I heard you laugh, son."

"No, the other thing. Being the richest man on Mars. That's impossible."

"That doesn't stop me from wanting it."

"But you can't have that." Even the richest man on Earth couldn't have that. No one could.

Lamplighter's gaze locked with Ernesto's. It was like when Ernesto was eight and crouching in his aunt Vera's basement the day before Christmas, peering into the firebox of the furnace and trying to figure out why the house didn't burn down. For an instant, Ernesto felt that the fire saw him watching, and all it was waiting for was for Ernesto to turn his back and run.

"Are you a writer, ernesto2003?"

"Trying to be."

"Then surely someone, sometime, has told you how writing is like eating an elephant. That there's only one way to do it."

"One bite at a time."

"Exactly."

"So?"

"One small bite for a man is still too much for mankind to swallow. At least too much for mankind's politicians and their hidebound masters."

Lamplighter's gaze shifted from Ernesto to the sky, tracking something that probably wasn't invisible to Lamplighter's augmented eyesight but was far too small for Ernesto's naked eye to see, watching it soaring, up, up, and away.

"Too much until now."

The viewfinder of Ernesto's camera had grown very steady. Very still. He realized he'd been holding his breath. Shouting and astronauting didn't go together. He needed to be cool as mission control. Cool as cosmicgrrl. Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"How do you intend to get to Mars?"

"I'm following your plan, ernesto2003. With slight modifications to the budget."

"What?"

"You'd do me a great favor if you'd stop shouting after every question I ask."

"That was a statement that I shouted after."

"So it was. Let's try this again. Are you sure you don't want to film this?"

Ernesto felt his face twist into an imbecilic grin. "That's a boneheaded question."

"Then get your gear. And meet me in the assembly bay."

"I will, sir. Umm..."

"Ring me when you're ready."

"I will, sir." Right after he messaged cosmicgrrl.

#

Safe in his stateroom, Ernesto tried to keep from hyperventilating. You are not going to believe this. Ernesto messaged cosmicgrrl everything he'd learned: that Lamplighter intended to go to Mars using a plan cosmicgrrl and Ernesto's other friends had worked out on Blogespacial!.

cosmicgrrl's reply was nearly instantaneous. I am shocked, shocked, shocked. Tell me more.

Later. When I know more. First, Ernesto had to do something he'd been putting off. There were a pair of elephants stomping around on his guts now, and if he wanted a good night's sleep ever again he couldn't ignore either one. His pulse raced as he typed rapidly, pressing the send glyph before he lost his courage. Do you ever get out to San Diego?

It cost a small fortune, but Ernesto's international data plan was worth every penny. cosmicgrrl's reply rocketed back instantly. All the time. Why do you ask?

Ernesto's palms wept sweat. His cloudnode squirted from his fingers. He scooped it up off the pristine bedspread and took the coward's way out. Tell you later. Gotta go.

#

The camera rattled in Ernesto's hands. It had image stabilization, but that wasn't enough. A multi-stage lift vehicle filled the command ship's assembly bay. Three engineers were stripping the payload. Captain Weber and a lady engineer were working on another payload package in a distant corner of the shipboard high bay. Sodium light bathed every inch in uncompromising detail. It took Ernesto a minute to adjust the camera's white balance before he was satisfied with the results. Ernesto panned the camera the length of the bay. He wished it could capture everything, not just the way shadows fell across titanium and steel, but the scents: machine oil, ozone and hot metal, salt air and copper, and the sweat of honest work; scents so thick he could taste them—sights, and sounds, and smells that if distilled and condensed could fuel his imagination for a thousand years.

Lamplighter shifted so he was in the frame. "Recognize that bird, ernesto2003?"

"Yes sir." It was one of the old Zenits.

"Care to read off the specs for your online amigos?"

"I'll add them in a voice-over, sir. If I get any details wrong my friends will ream me a new... I mean, I'll lose a significant amount of credibility, sir."

"Recognize the payload they're removing?"

"I think it's one of your communications satellites, sir."

"Right. What about the new payload Captain Marine Band and his shapely sidekick are working on?"

"I can't tell from here, sir."

"Let's take a walk."

"I'll have to stop recording." Ernesto couldn't afford to trip and break his camera.

"Do what you need to, son. Lamplighter's first and only rule."

"Yes sir." Ernesto clicked the camera off and stepped over a thick black power cable, following along in Lamplighter's wake.

Lamplighter paused as they passed the three engineers wrenching on the payload at warp speed. "Would you like to take a break, gentlemen?"

"Thought you'd never ask," a compact man said. He wiped a red bandana across his face. He eyed Ernesto up and down. "This the new guy, chief?"

"That remains to be seen."

The man stuck out his hand. "Well, either way, glad to meet you. I'm--"

"No names." Lamplighter glanced at Ernesto and for the first time Lamplighter looked uncomfortable. "They're on loan from NASA. An off-the-books deal."

"Temporary Duty Assignment," the first engineer said. "About as temporary as it gets, if this bird doesn't fly. Either way, we're all qualified for early out if we want it."

"Volunteers," the second engineer said. He'd wandered over, sipping a Diet Coke. "True believers, ernesto2003. Maybe these old coots are ready for retirement, but I'm not."

"I shouldn't be recording this," Ernesto said. "If you'll get in trouble I--"

"Screw it," the third engineer said.

"Easy for you to say, 'beatlestix69'." The second engineer sipped his diet cola.

"Listen, wiseacre, stony1632 said my screen name needed numbers in it."

"Did he now?" The engineer glanced at his coworker and chuckled.

"I might have, duckman."

"It's 'mandrake', compadre." He wiped his hands on a shop towel and looked Ernesto up and down. He turned to Lamplighter and grinned. "Ab ove maiori discit arare minor."

"We'll see," Lamplighter said.

"Hey, wait a minute." Ernesto looked from face to face. "Are you guys saying you're posters on Blogespacial!?"

"That's why we're here," the third engineer said. "Even then, it took some conniving. Uncle Sugar is unusually tight-fisted now that he's broke."

The first engineer grinned at Ernesto. "We're all grownups. We know what we signed up for. Even if the Federales don't. Officially."

"Like I said. You do what you need to, son. It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission."

"Try telling that to my dad."

"When I meet him, I will." Lamplighter smiled at Ernesto, a devil's smile, all teeth. "It takes three days to transfer this bird to the launch vessel and fuel her with LOX and RP-1. Until then no one's going anywhere. No one, including you."

Ernesto tried to keep the look of terror off his face. His dad would murder him. There was a wedding reception scheduled for Saturday night and Ernesto had promised to work the private room. "I need to make a call."

"First you need to see the new payload. The one you and your transnational, net-dwelling co-conspirators designed."

"I didn't do anything." Ernesto said. "I just made a place where people could share ideas."

"You're right, kid, that's nothing," Stony said.

Lamplighter grinned at the engineer. "I think he's a little too overwhelmed for irony right now, Stony."

"Is that so, kid? Are you a little overwhelmed?"

"No, sir." Ernesto was a lot overwhelmed.

Lamplighter gripped Ernesto's elbow and hauled him away. The engineers went back to their feverish wrenching.

"You've met Captain Weber," Lamplighter said. "Or should I say, 'hohnerman'?"

"That was a typo," the astronaut said. "There's no way to edit your screen name."

"It's off-the-shelf software," Ernesto said. He'd tried to edit his own screen name a thousand times.

"That's what the chief's little princess claimed."

Ernesto wasn't listening. He was trying to check out the NASA lady without her noticing. Maybe she was cosmicgrrl. Maybe that’s why cosmicgrrl’s replies were coming back so quickly. She was on board the command vessel.

"And this is--"

The astronaut grinned. "She goes by 'butterbug_babe'. On line."

Ernesto stared at the engineer. "Oh. I mean, wow. Really?"

She smiled at Ernesto. "Really."

"Your posts are brilliant. And your Spanish is outstanding."

"I paid attention in class."

"Yes, ma'am." Ernesto spent most of his time on-line cleaning up typos and grammatical errors. Half the people posting on Blogespacial! lately weren't native speakers. He'd tried writing a program to clean up the common English to Spanish translation errors but it hadn't worked out. He’d had to read and edit every post manually. Ernesto couldn't keep his eyes off butterbug_babe, who looked like he'd imagined cosmicgrrl would. Brainy, and competent, and calm under pressure. Everything Ernesto wasn't.

"You know what the greatest benefactor to space exploration is, Ernesto?" The astronaut grinned.

"War." That's what cosmicgrrl said. Ernesto had tried to argue with her but it was like a stone trying to argue with the wind.

butterbug_babe crossed her arms and frowned. "Reasonable people might disagree."

Ernesto glanced from face to face.

"War," Captain Weber said. "The mother of invention. Take a look at this bad boy."

Ernesto followed the astronaut to a workbench where a mottled brown and tan box hunched atop a vacuum clamp. "Recognize it?"

"It looks like a Miller-Lee 3D printer. A Mark Four. With some sort of adjunct processor and one big-a... I mean, some sort of large external power supply, sir."

"Like a remotely controlled Millie Tri-Delta. A Mike Five Roger. EMP hardened. Sealed and jacketed for desert use. Hydrogen fueled. We started using these puppies in the second Syrian War and--"

"Police Action," butterbug_babe said. "Technically."

"Call it what you like," Captain Weber said. "It smelled like war to me. Anyway, it's heavy duty, and this one's special. One of a kind."

Ernesto's stomach felt like it was filled with broken glass. "The first of its kind."

"Right. It's self-replicating."

This was all beginning to make sense. Lamplighter wasn't going to Mars. He had other plans. Plans that were all Ernesto's fault.

#

Lamplighter leaned over Ernesto's shoulder. "You don't look so good, son."

Ernesto didn't feel so good. The timing all made sense now. It was September 15th, 2021. In two weeks Ernesto would turn eighteen. He'd be called up for the draft. By December he could be frying in a sunbaked, 3D-printed sand hut, waiting to die. If he was still breathing he could search the desert sky and witness nothing. The asteroid 4660 Nereus would pass within 3.9 million kilometers of Earth. Close, but too distant to perceive with the naked eye.

"On Blogespacial!. I was just...thinking out loud."

Ernesto had trained with milspec 3D printers in citizenship class, trained with them so often that he dreamed about them, and about what they could do. Not just what they were born to do, but what they could do, if they were free to choose. When his number came up and Ernesto went to war, he'd vowed to do it on the front lines, sweating over a Seabee's shovel if he had to. He wasn't made to lounge in a safe, air-conditioned room, twitching a joystick from ten thousand miles away. That didn't make him a coward, and it didn't make him a fool, regardless of what anyone said.

"I was just trying to get a discussion started."

Lamplighter rested his palm on Ernesto's shoulder. "Well, you did that, son."

Ernesto swept his gaze the length of the assembly bay.

"You still want to make that call?"

"I have to, sir." His dad was counting on him for Saturday. He deserved to know that Ernesto was going to disappoint him. Again.

#

Ernesto flicked his cloudnode off. The conversation with his father hadn't gone well. The less he thought about the shouting the better. He rubbed his thumb across the cloudnode's controls. He flicked it alive and typed out a message.

Maybe next time you're in San Diego you'd like to have lunch. I know this great Mexican joint. They'll treat you like family.

Ernesto stared at the blinking cursor, heart pounding, index finger hovering over the send glyph. He stared at the virtual display for the longest time before he switched off and pocketed his cloudnode. Who was he kidding? He couldn't make any promises. Especially not that one. Not after talking to his dad. Not anymore.

#

Lamplighter leaned against the fantail rail. The ocean churned white behind him.

Ernesto zoomed in on Lamplighter's face.

Lamplighter frowned. "Power that down. We need to talk. Off the record."

"But you said--"

"Turn it off."

"Yes, sir."

"What's eating you?"

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

"It's nothing."

"Earlier, I asked you a question. You danced around it." Lamplighter pinned Ernesto to the deck with his gaze.

Ernesto shuffled his feet. "I wouldn't say that, sir. I said I hadn't given the topic enough thought."

"Have you now?"

"Umm... Too much, probably."

"Well, let me make this easier for you. In three days, maybe five if the seas don't lay, we're going to launch a mission to 4660 Nereus. On it will be a payload designed by a bunch of space-crazy kids. Kids on Space Blog."

"Blogespacial!, sir."

"Whatever. You kids dreamed it up."

"We had help."

"Nevertheless, it's your project. Your mission."

"With some modifications to the budget, sir."

"Of course." Lamplighter leaned forward. "By December that payload will begin to dig in, and it will begin to replicate itself. Every two years--"

"One point eight two years, sir."

"Okay. Anyway, the asteroid will pass close enough to Earth that we can reprogram the payload, and the factory it's built, reprogram it on every pass, adjusting as we need to, so in forty years--"

"Thirty-nine, sir."

"Will you stop interrupting?"

"Yes, sir."

"In thirty-nine years, when 4660 Nereus passes within..." Lamplighter glared at Ernesto.

"One point two million kilometers."

"Right. The nearest approach in six hundred years, and we'll have everything we need. Everything, ernesto2003, that we need to get to Mars, will be there waiting, a hand's breadth away, cosmically speaking. Everything needed to get to Mars in style, and free for the taking." Lamplighter smiled. "Free, to whoever can lay off their boneheaded squabbling and get there first."

"Yes, sir." Ernesto glanced at his shoes. "But you'll be... umm."

"Dead. But you won't, Ernesto. 2003."

"I hope not, sir. I'd like to see what happens."

"I expect you will do more than see it, son. And I'd like to ask a favor."

"Anything, sir."

"Take me with you. Take me with you, if only in your fevered imagination and your mad, improbable dreams."

Ernesto gazed far, far out to sea. He looked anywhere, everywhere, anywhere but at Lamplighter's shadowed face. "Yes, sir."

"Now I'll ask you one more time, and I expect a straight answer. What, ernesto2003, do you want more than anything in the world?"

"Hang on." Ernesto fished in his pocket for his cloudnode. He closed his eyes and pressed the send glyph. It wasn't ten seconds before the device twitched in his fingers. It took twice as long for Ernesto to screw up the courage to look. He stared at cosmicgrrl's reply.

It's a date. I absolutely love, love, love Mexican.

"Well, son?"

Ernesto's heart felt as if it might leap out onto the deck and race away on a trail of burning fire. When Ernesto glanced up he found Lamplighter watching—the sun pressing low against the western sky, close enough to touch, the Pacific churning behind Lamplighter, a long trail of foam, sun-kissed and endless in his wake.

"I, Ernesto Suarez, wish to be the richest man on Mars."

"Truly?"

"Or the poorest. It doesn't really matter."

Lamplighter turned and gazed toward some unseen, farthest shore. The last rays of the sun lit the parting clouds as the stars began to rise.

"It wouldn't matter to me either, son."

Ernesto closed his eyes, not fighting the tears, but letting this singular moment, this calm, pregnant moment unfold around him, like wind embracing stone.

"I know. Sir."

#

September 15, 2081

Mars

Diego Suarez clasped the cinerary urn to his chest. It was ugly, and crude, and until this morning, the most precious thing in all the world.

"That's an impressive show and tell," Mrs. Singh, his fourth grade teacher, said.

"That's the tell. This is the show." Diego held the urn out at arm's length.

"It's a nice urn, Diego."

"My granddad printed it, on 4660 Nereus. Right before he died. Died saving people he'd never even met. Grandma Suarez says they were people he didn't even like. That's the story."

"You must be very proud."

"I'm supposed to be. But I'm not. Look!" Diego upturned the urn on the teacher's desk. A thin dusting of ash trickled out, not enough for one man, let alone two. "It's all a lie. Everything everyone ever told me was a lie." He had to stare at the bulletin board because if he didn't he'd choke on the nasty lump swelling in his chest, swelling exactly where a Lamplighter's heart was supposed to be. And wasn't.

Mrs. Singh held out her hand. "May I see that?"

Diego handed her the urn. Mrs. Singh took it, cupping it in her hands like it was a fresh oxygen charge and she was just back from a long walk. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers up and down the ugly, lying pot, touching, feeling, searching its surface for something Diego couldn't see. A single tear ran down her cheek.

She spoke without opening her eyes. "Tomorrow we'll take a field trip. To hydroponics. Tonight, I'd like you all to look up calcium phosphate, and be ready to discuss. Class dismissed." She ran her fingers over the urn one last time before she opened her eyes and handed it back to Diego. "You won't believe me, Diego, but this was the best show and tell. Ever."

#

Diego's grandmother scowled when he handed her grandpa's and Mr. Lamplighter's urn. Not that he believed the lie anymore. It was just a nasty 3D-printed pot, the sort Diego could crank out in half an hour on a bad day. It was a lie. He never should have taken it without asking permission but he'd forgotten about show and tell until the last minute and he was desperate to show up Chandra Patel for once.

"She really said that?" His grandmother watched Diego's face like she'd never noticed it before. "Padma Singh said that?"

"Yeah."

"And she cried?"

"Not crying, really. Just a tear. It wasn't a big deal."

His grandmother glanced out the viewport. Diego couldn't see what she was looking at. Everything looked red, and sharp, and normal.

"Well." His grandmother shifted in her chair. "I don't mind telling you, Diego." His grandma cradled the urn like a baby. She closed her eyes and Diego began to worry that she'd fallen asleep, or worse.

"Grandma?"

His grandmother cracked one eye open, then the other, pinning Diego to the carpet with what his dad called "that damned Lamplighter look".

Diego shifted from foot to foot. "Don't mind telling me what?"

"That I am shocked, shocked, shocked." Grandma Suarez held out the urn for Diego. "Now go put this back where it belongs."

###

Copyright © 2013 by Patrick O’Sullivan

Dog's Body

by Sarah A. Hoyt

I drove into Goldport, Colorado at sunset, with the mountains in front of me and the sky a welter of red and gold behind them. And with a sense of doom in my heart.

Yeah, so I’m that geeky guy who makes his living investigating cryptids and writing about them for a website. For all those of you not up on the lingo, that means I hunt down reports of Big Foot, the Ohio Wolfman, Utah’s Bear Lake Monster, Denver’s Lizard Man, the south east’s supernatural panthers and all the rest, and then I take pictures if there are any to take, and report on what I found.

There was no reason to feel any particular dread of this one trip, either. Goldport was just the sort of isolated mountain town from which crazy reports came. Three hours by winding mountain road from Denver, it had been a mine town while silver boomed, then become all but a ghost town till the early twentieth century when the University of Colorado had moved one of its branches there – the infamous CUG. The surplus of educated people had, in turn, attracted a trickle of technical entrepreneurs which had turned into a flood sometime in the Eighties.

Now Goldport, holding on to its rugged image, was a mixture of white collar geeks, the students who would become white collar geeks, and the people who catered to their interests and needs. It was rumored to have the best comic shop west of the Mississippi River, the best microbreweries in the world, and one of the best “weird and geeky” presses anywhere in the universe.

In other words, it was just the sort of place where the front page of the paper would publish pictures of a dragon flying in a snow storm. Mike, my old college roommate and buddy who runs the cryptid site, gets clippings and scans of stuff like that three times a week, usually from places like Goldport, or from Brazil. Brazil either has an instability in its reality field or its papers enjoy spicing up readers’ lives with crazy reports.

The problem with the Goldport photo was that neither Mike nor I, nor Millie – Mike’s wife – could find anything in the picture to show that it was Photoshop.

Look, even the best image manipulators screw up, okay? There will be a hint of shadow gone wrong, somewhere the light doesn’t hit right. There will be some pixels out of place. But this picture didn’t have any of those, and the dragon didn’t look like a drawing or a figurine, not even a really well done one. It looked real, like something you could see flying by your window on a Saturday afternoon in January. That is, if dragons existed. This photo just might prove that dragons existed.

So Mike and Millie had asked if I’d come out. A day’s driving, because we were based in Kansas. The cyrptid website had been what Mike and I had started when we were laid off from our dot.com jobs after the bust. It had been born of an afternoon discussion on strange animals, and where they could be hiding, why there were never any decent pictures taken, and whether there could be any truth in rumors of things like the Loch Ness Monster and Big Foot. We’d hashed it back and forth, pulled out the scientific articles for and against, and finally decided to start the website for discussion.

It had taken off in an unpredictable way, and now Mike and Millie and I got our livings from it. One of us would drive or fly off to verify sightings, then come back, get one of our scientists – the ones who worked for pizza and beer – to give their view of the whole thing, and put it up.

As a result we were both sensational and scientific, and we’d managed to become the go-to- resource for cryptids for everyone from educators to your corner nut.

What we’d never managed to do was prove that even a single one of the sightings of odd animals was true. Which was why I was on my way to Goldport, on the track of that weirdly real picture, and why it was so odd for me be scared as I drove down the very clean streets of this white-bread mountain town. Thousands of times and nothing had gone wrong… It wouldn’t go wrong now in this clean-cut, straight-laced city.

Oh, sure, it had rougher patches, like the run-down motel row I was driving past, but that didn’t make it rough. And there was no reason, no reason on Earth that I should be feeling dread.

Perhaps it was that oh-so-very-real photo, or the fact that once we started digging into it, we’d found other odd reports in the local press. There was a black panther that showed up now and then, but no one could quite track down. There was a report of a room-sized roach. There were way more deaths by misadventure involving wild animals than there should be, and a few years back there appeared to be a reign of terror run by komodo dragon of unusual size. Then there were reports that had to be a joke, of a squirrel in a beret, smoking Galoises and carrying a little red book.

Taken one at a time, it was easy to shrug off all the reports and say that whatever it was was in fact impossible. But all of them together—

I started to shrug my shoulders to ease a feeling of tension and cold in the middle of my back, then forgot it all as a large, golden dog surged in front of the van. It ran into my path so close that I had to stand on the bakes to stop from running it down. As I stopped, I realized the dog had come around to the driver’s side of the van and also that it was not only beautiful and well groomed, but that it looked like an Afghan hound, a rare breed. I only knew what it was because a friend of mine had owned one of these growing up. Obviously this was no feral mutt. And it was stretching, paws on the window.

I opened the door and said, “What is it boy? What—” I couldn’t say anything more, because the dog had nuzzled the door a crack, and forced himself in, jumping onto the space in front of the passenger seat.

Reaching over, to open the passenger door wide, I said, “Come on, boy. You can’t mean to get in here. I’m not your owner. I don’t want to be accused of steal—” Before I opened the door, I saw people come running out of the side of the road towards the van. There was a little wooded area out there, what seemed to be a camping ground of some sort, and they were running out of there, from where, at a guess, the dog had come.

You know how sometimes your body makes decisions before informing your brain what is going on? Mine took a split second to ditch the idea of opening the passenger door, and hardly any longer to close the door on my side and step on the gas and take off out of there like I meant it.

I was probably a mile down the road, before I thought through what I’d seen. This was a beautiful, well cared for dog, without a collar. A dog who had just forced himself into my car, despite not knowing me. A dog who looked terrified. And the people running out of the wooded area looked… not like the kind of people who would own a really expensive dog. More like the kind of people who would steal a really expensive dog and hold him for ransom. Or perhaps use him in dog fights – even though I couldn’t imagine anyone using an Afghan hound for that. These weren’t exactly your vicious dogs.

But the thing is that the pursuers looked just like the kind of people who would try. I’d only got a quick impression of twenty or so people, all running out, all … well… all male and all rough-looking. It was enough. On the other hand, I thought, as I took the first right turn haphazardly, and then a left turn into a tree-lined street with largish houses – if they were really rough characters, they would be after me. Could they have got my license plate number?

“Damn,” I said. “They’re probably after me. I just managed to involve myself in a local dispute. And they probably do own the dog.”

“They don’t,” a voice said from in front of the passenger seat.

I cast a quick glance to the side, veered all over the road, said, “Oh, my,” and bit down on a more vigorous exclamation, because huddled on the floor of the passenger side was a girl. She was blond and slight, and for just a moment I thought she was young – very young, like fourteen or fifteen. But then I focused on her face, because the rest was naked and I really didn’t want to look at it, and, my face burning, realized that she was in her late twenties, maybe around my age. The face had that mature look, and the eyes – strangely warm brown eyes – had a look of grave seriousness. She still looked scared

Still?

Yeah. I had no doubt that those almond-shaped eyes had belonged to the Afghan hound. Which meant I had been wrong in calling the dog “boy.” I pulled to the side of the road. Turned off the ignition.

“You shouldn’t stop,” she said. She had a low voice, raspy, which made me think of dark coffee and nutmeg. “They might have got the license plate.” She was huddled, sitting down, hugging her knees, managing to hide as much of herself as was possible. “They will be looking.” Her hair was very long, covering most of her back, and it was the exact color of the hound’s fur. Her face was peaked, oval-with-a-pointy-chin and managing to betray both elegance and a sort of artlessness that has nothing to do with youth.

I opened my mouth, closed it. How does one argue with a girl who was a dog just moments before? Nothing in my ten years of hunting down cryptids had prepared me for this. I started the car again and took off down the street. “Where do I go?” I asked.

“Somewhere public,” she said. “Somewhere with a lot of people. It will be less likely they’ll come after us in public. Of course, I’ll have to shift, and they’ll claim they own me.” The little, raspy voice had a sad undertone.

“Shift,” I said, but didn’t ask what that meant. The question answered itself. She had the good sense to ignore me. She’d risen on her knees and took a quick peek out of the side window. She dropped down again into her protective stance. “If you turn right ahead, then left, we’ll be on Fairfax Avenue. There’s a diner there, the George. At this hour the parking lot will be pretty busy.”

I did as she told me. When the world is completely insane, acting as though it all were perfectly logical is your only defense.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that there was a problem with a public place and a naked girl. I could ask her to change back into a dog, of course. But then she couldn’t talk. My eyes scanning the parking lot for any approaching stream of dubious characters, my mind jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Go in the back,” I said. “There’s a space to get back there between the seats.” She gave me an apprehensive look, and I explained. “There’s a duffle bag back there. Open it. You’ll find a bunch of clothes, and there should be a grey sweat suit. Put it on, and bring me the hiking boots.”

She didn’t argue. A good thing when a young woman didn’t argue, in a situation that was already crazy. I caught glimpses of grey cloth in the mirror, then she squeezed between the seats, wearing my suit and extending me the hiking boots. as if she thought I might bite. I put the van in park, put my shoes on and handed her the flip flops.

“You haven’t turned the ignition off,” she said.

“No, in case we need to take off,” I said, as I looked again one way and another in the parking lot. It was a large parking lot behind a diner, with a busy street on one side, an alley on the other, and facing a huge brick Victorian at the back. A car came into the parking lot and pulled up, but the people that came out of it, a man and a woman, middle aged, laughing together, didn’t seem the type to be involved with the roughs who’d chased after the hound. I noticed my companion tensed slightly and followed them with her eyes, but when I asked her, “Do you know them? Is there any reason we should avoid them?” she shook her head. She still followed them with her eyes, and her forehead was slightly wrinkled.

I said, “Well, come on. We’ll talk where it’s public.”

She got out of the van, looking both ways and darted as close to the diner as possible, in full view of the windows. I followed. The place looked Greek by way of mid-century America. It was clearly a small home that had been expanded with a glassed-in annex. Inside, as we came in to a tinkle from the bell on the door, into a smell of hot frying oil and souvlaki, it was homey and somehow familiar in the way stereotypical places have of being familiar. There were stools along the shiny chrome counter, a row of booths against each wall, tables in the center and tables in the annex. My companion made like a shot for the back of the diner, and a corner booth that looked too small for normal human beings. She scooted in under a gruesome picture of St. George slaying a dragon, which had been drawn mostly in red and by someone obsessed with bloodshed. This was so far from the normal pictures of Greece in a place like this, that I stared, remembering that outside over the door there had been something in neon, flipping pancakes, and I’d almost swear it was a dragon.

More confirmation was on the wall to my left where The George, with a logo of a dragon in a chef’s hat flipping pancakes, was awarded Best Place for a Midnight Breakfast and Best Place for Saturday Brunch by a newspaper that sounded like one of the free rags given away in college towns.

I looked at the painting again. Curiouser and curioser. Was this a place for dragon haters? Or merely people obsessed with dragons? In my head, I saw the dragon picture as real and these people right here as the dragon hunters, chasing down dragons relentlessly and—

“What will it be?” a voice asked, and I realized a woman stood beside me. She was very pretty. At least that was my first impression. Slim and somewhat darker than olive skinned, racially unplaceable and probably one of those mixes that exist only in America, with long hair down to the middle of her back dyed in complex layers that made an ever changing tapestry of earth tones as she moved.

I sat down and looked up at her. She was wearing a green apron with The George on the chest, and a red feather earring. She smiled at me and set down two menus, one in front of me and one in front of my guest. Was it my impression that she seemed to look twice at the young woman? Well. The young woman was dressed like… she was wearing my clothes. Which in fact she was. But she looked up and managed a smile at the waitress, while she put a hand on top of the menu. “Just coffee, please.”

I ordered a coffee too, but kept the menu. The smell of souvlaki and gyros made me realize how hungry I was, but the menu appeared to be written in a foreign language. I blinked in confusion at things called “Draw One in the Dark,” “Noah’s Boy,” “Bowl of Red,” and “Gentleman Takes a Chance” before realizing that there were the real names for the foods written underneath: black coffee, ham sandwich, tomato soup, hash.

Still it seemed very odd, and I was relieved to find a side of the menu labeled “specialties” that was mercifully free of this strange speak. It listed things like “The George’s Platter” which consisted of salad, gyro strips, pork and chicken souvlaki, olives and dolmades. I wondered how big it was, but at $15, how big could it be?

I ordered it when the waitress brought our coffee, and five minutes later had the answer. Big. As in, really, really big. It was a tray, piled high with salad and meat. She brought two plates with it, one for me and one for my guest, and then, with a look over her shoulder at my guest, she left us.

My guest daintily helped herself to an olive and a slice of tomato, and I told her, “Please. You have to help me eat this. I didn’t realize I was ordering enough for a family of four.”

She looked up and smiled, tensely, and I realized – don’t ask me how – that she was very hungry, an impression confirmed moments later when she started tucking into the food with a will.

“How—” I stopped short of asking her how old she was. I’d guess short of my own age. Instead I asked, “What should I call you?”

She paused towards munching on souvlaki – excellent, I’d tasted two pieces – and looked up, blinking. “Jane,” she said, much too hastily, and then as though she sought to make things clearer, “Smith.”

“I see,” I said. “And you… you… shift? Into an Afghan hound?”

She stopped shoveling meat into her mouth at a prodigious rate, and nodded, once. Then she set the fork down and said, “Look, look… I… If I tell you, you won’t give me away, will you? I mean, I—”

“I’d be very careful what you tell him,” a man said. As he spoke, he slid into the seat next to me, forcing me to slide over. I looked at him in some alarm. He didn’t look like one of the guys who’d chased the dog… Well, chased Jane, whatever her real name was. I was fairly sure I’d have noticed a guy with a reddish-blond mane wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khakis.

On the other hand, he was tall and powerfully built, and his casual comment wasn’t filling me with confidence. “Who—” I said.

He flipped ID at me. “Rafiel Trall. Officer of the Serious Crime Unit, Goldport.”

I turned sideways and blinked. “Oh.” I relaxed a little. “Is anything wrong?”

He made a face. “You work for a website about cryptids?”

“Is anything wrong with working for—” I asked, even as I registered, out of the corner of my eye, that Jane started to rise up out of the booth.

“Depends. Would you be intending to cause trouble?” the policeman asked, even as, deftly, he put a hand out to stop Jane leaving. “Rumors of shape shifters could really ruin this town’s tourism and—” He stopped because I’d snorted.

“Have you looked at the site?” I asked. “In eleven years of operation, we have yet to find a true cryptid. And if we did, I’m not sure our public would believe it.” I paused. “Hell, I’m not sure I believe it, and I saw it, with my own eyes.”

He turned half sideways to look at me, and I realized he was looking at me very intently. More alarmingly, the waitress was back, and standing very near the table. Next to her was a man maybe two inches shorter than her, but for that not unimpressive. He had the chest of a fanatical weight lifter, not rendered less alarming by his wearing a George apron that must have been customized because under the dragon logo it said “Beware of Flames.” He wore his hair long, confined in a bandana, and he carried a spatula. Don’t ask me how, but that spatula looked lethal. Next to him, completely closing off that side of the table, so that neither I nor Jane could leave, was a small Chinese man, wearing jeans, a checkered shirt, a bolo tie, and a determined expression. They were all glaring at me, though they also seemed to prevent Jane from moving. She’d started panting, and the Chinese man touched her on the shoulder. “Don’t,” he said. “Shifting here would be a bad idea.” She looked scared, but stopped the panting.

“Would you care to tell me when you saw shifting? I presume you mean shape shifting?” the police officer said. “And how you met this young woman?”

I told him. As I said, when things get crazy enough you act like they’re perfectly sane. Sometimes that’s the only way to survive. So I told everything from the time I’d driven into town and seen a beautiful dog escaping a bunch of rough looking characters.

He listened to it all to the end, in silence, though I expected snorts of derision or confusion, at any moment. Instead I got “I see,” as I finished.

“So you’re probably not the one who did it,” the waitress said.

“Who did what?” I asked.

Instead of answering me, Officer Trall turned to Jane. “Your name really is Naomi Howland, right?”

For a moment, I thought Jane would bolt, and since her way was blocked, she would do it by jumping over myself and Officer Trall, and running out the door atop tables, booths and people’s heads. Instead, the wild look of panic in her face subsided, and she said, “Yes,” in the tiniest voice, followed by “I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t.”

I registered surprise from all the people around us. Then Trall said, “Why would you go to jail?”

“I stole… I was left at the pound… various places… I was to make up to… rich people, and then when they were gone call a number and… open the door to…”

“To your kidnappers?” Rafiel asked. “But my dear, that’s not your fault. You were what? Twelve, when you were taken? Coercion and Stockholm syndrome. Besides, how do you think the police would prove that? Could we show in court that you changed into a dog and back? Do you think anyone would believe it? And if they did, think what it would do to our lives. At best, we’d all end up as experiment subjects in some lab.”

Her eyes were very big. Tears shone in them. I said, “You’re upsetting her,” and was surprised at the defensiveness in my tone.

But she shook her head. “You see,” she said, her voice very small. “I had just started shifting. I was afraid… afraid my parents would… find out, and kill me or something. And then...”

“Yes?”

“These men… One of the boys at school talked to me. He shifted too, so I thought I was safe, and he said his dad could cure me and…” She shook her head. “They took me to this place, in the mountains. It used to be a miner’s shack. There were a dozen of them. They said they’d told my parents and my parents didn’t want me. They showed me a letter—” She paused. “And then they made me do the scam, you know, being the cute puppy and getting adopted and then…” She shook her head. “For ten years. Five houses a year, because it took a while for people to feel like they could trust a new dog loose in the house. And they said if I told, I’d be arrested too. Then they came back to Goldport, and I heard them talk. They were going to take me to the pound, but they said we’d have to be careful because this diner was a center of shifters, and some of you weren’t cool. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I thought they were afraid of you, and I should… I wanted to come here and ask for help.”

“You did the right thing. We’ve been looking for you for ten years,” Rafiel said. “The entire force has. When this man came in with you, Kyrie spotted that something was wrong.” He nodded to the waitress. “And of course we could tell you were a shape shifter, and he wasn’t. We could smell it. So we ran the van ID and we thought we’d figured it out, that he’d kidnapped you to create cryptid incidents or smell out other shifters, or something.”

“Now, really,” I said. “What kind of a cryptid incident is an Afghan Hound?”

Rafiel gave me a fleeting smile. “Not a great one,” he said. “Well, not for a website. But it happens. Believe it or not we have a were-basset hound too.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

“Good. Willingness to believe it would make me fear for your sanity,” the policeman said. Then he turned to the young woman, “Look, Miss Howland, your parents have been looking for you for ten years. I imagine you’re anxious to reunite with them—”

Jane-Naomi looked anguished. “Yes, but… but… what will they think… I mean…”

“I think they’ll think they’re very happy to get you back. Your mom might want to tell you some things you don’t know about your grandfather. But meanwhile… that ring is still out there. I take it they’re all shifters?”

She nodded. “Coyotes mostly,” she said. “And a fox. They can’t get adopted, see? When they met me—”

“Yes, but now they’ll be looking for another young shifter to kidnap and if you escape…”

Her eyes were very big. “I just want to get away,” she said. “I just want to go home. I’ve had put up with them for ten years. I’ve worked their scam. I’ve been fed dog food and visited every humane society in Colorado, always in danger of being put down if they have too many dogs. And there was… other stuff… What more can I do?”

Now the waitress pushed in, to sitting beside Naomi, and held her hands. “Listen,” she said. “I understand where you’re coming from. And you don’t owe anything to anyone. If you want us to call your mom right now, we’ll take you home, and I’ll tell Rafiel to stuff it. For most people that’s how it would work, except for a court date to identify your kidnappers. But we’re not most people. We’re born with the ability to shift.” She must have seen my widening eyes because she gave me a small smile. “And we heal faster, are stronger, and live longer than normal humans. But the price we pay is that we exist outside normal human society. We can’t just go to the courts and say these men exploited a young, fearful female shifter. That’s not how life works for us. We live with the threat of our secret being exposed at any minute, and normal humans turning on us. There are a lot of us in Goldport. There are reasons for that. Maybe we’ll tell you some day.” She gave me another smile. “But we’re very few in the whole world. We’d be at best curiosities and at worse destroyed.” She squeezed Naomi’s hands. “The problem is that we come in all human varieties. And those that are bad are very, very bad. If those men continue to do what they do, if they find another victim, sooner or later they’re going to get caught. And then we’ll all be caught. Besides—” She paused. “Would you like what happened to you to happen to any other twelve year old?”

Naomi formed “No,” soundlessly, and shook her head. Then she cleared her throat. “No,” she said, in her little raspy voice. “What do I do?”

“We should take this to the back room,” the short man in the bandana and custom apron said. “He’s not one of us. He might talk.”

Naomi looked at me. It was a quick, considering look. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. He’s not of us, but he helped me when I needed it. He gave me the clothes off his back. Well, off his duffle-bag. While the ones who were shifters…” She shook her head again. “I feel safe with him here.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling humbled.

The policeman next to me chuckled. “One picture, cryptid man. One word in your infernal website and they’ll be wondering what made those big bite marks on your corpse.”

“I wouldn’t,” I said. “I’d never do anything to hurt Naomi.”

“Good,” Rafiel Trall said. “Because I think the ruse will work best if you’re in on it.”

The plan unrolled. It was simple. She was to call them and tell them that I wanted to take her prisoner, to make her reveal other cryptids to me. She was scared. She’d heard me call my associates, and on the way out of town tomorrow evening, we were going to stop for dinner at a place called Three Luck Dragon. She wanted them to rescue her.

Naomi played her part word-perfect. She called from the back room – a storage room filled with bins of flour and racks of paper napkins – because it was quieter than the diner, and we didn’t want them to trace us. Meanwhile, the police changed my license plate, just in case. I was starting to get a feeling this was a very unusual town. I definitely had the feeling that these people were all shifters. I wondered into what and if one of them was the dragon in the picture. It didn’t seem worth it to ask. After all, what could I do? I’d never thought, when setting out to be cryptid hunter, that cryptids would have law-and-order problems or be policemen. Or young kidnapped females who turned into Afghan hounds.

They found some clothes for Naomi. The people in the diner seemed to have an endless supply of clothes in various sizes. “It is a side effect of our condition,” Kyrie, the waitress, and apparently co-owner of the diner said. “That we end up naked a lot.” It was one of the many problems I’d never considered for shape shifters. After all, in novels, they are always sexy naked or something, or have these little minimal bondage-like outfits that end up staying on throughout.

At any rate, the nakedness in stories comes with a lot of sex. I was getting a feeling there might or might not be sex for real shifters, but it wasn’t the entire reason for their lives. And being naked in public would be inconvenient. For one, being naked in public makes people stare. For another… for another it’s really hard to get help or food or anything when mother-naked, without a really good story.

They took us to a nearby house, where we could rest through the rest of the night and spend the day tomorrow, so we weren’t at risk of being discovered in the diner. It turned out Naomi mostly wanted to talk. She mostly wanted to talk about her parents. Her mom was a nurse and her dad was a mechanic. She’d had a completely normal childhood, until the shift came.

The stories always make it sound like it would be cool to shift. But all Naomi had got was being a young girl, barely coping with being a human and now having to handle another form too. She talked quietly, over endless cups of tea, at the kitchen table of the house I believed belong to Kyrie and Tom the diner owners, and also waitress and cook. “It’s very odd, and at first I barely remembered what happened when I was the dog,” she said. “Then I started remembering more and having more control. Also more control when I shifted. I still wish very hard that I didn’t have to shift.” She looked at me with very sad eyes, and I smiled at her.

“But you get the healing ability, and you’ll live longer.”

“I just want to be a normal girl,” she said, and didn’t cry but made me want to.

After a while she asked me about me, and Millie and Mike, and how we’d fallen into this very weird cryptid business. She laughed at the cavalier way in which we’d started, and I told her some of the funniest stories I’d hunted down, like the big lizard alien who turned out to be someone’s pet lizard photographed at a really high resolution. “You see,” I told her. “People don’t want to know… I mean, they really aren’t hunting for people like you. They just want an amusing story and the idea that the world holds wonders beyond normal life.”

“How odd,” she said. “For years I’ve dreamed of normal life.”

At night fall, when the people from the diner came for us, we were the best of friends. I never thought I could feel so much at home with someone who could shift shapes, but of course I’d been working with the idea of cryptids my whole life.

Tom and Rafiel gave me instructions. I was to drive to Three Luck Dragon, and go in with Naomi and order a meal. “Don’t worry. There will be no one else there. There rarely is. And then we wait, in the parking lot,” he said. “The… people who run the restaurant are allies, of sorts. They might help. They almost for sure won’t stop us. We’ve talked to them. Or at least sent message. Just delay till after the restaurant closes, and then come out. They will be waiting for you. And so will we.”

It all went according to plan—to a point. Kyrie had given Naomi a wraparound dress thing. She looked good. It looked like a date.

It wasn’t a date. I could maybe see sometime in the distant future where we might have feelings for each other, but for now, she was too much of a wounded thing, and I just wanted to protect her.

Dinner seemed quite normal, even if the restaurant was deserted. The food was good. I figured it was only this empty because it was a week night, and it was late.

I looked outside at the parking lot. My van, with its license plate back to normal, was the only thing in the parking lot.

What if the kidnappers didn’t come? What if the good guys didn’t come? Where were the good guys? Why weren’t there more cars out there?

We paid our bill and headed out, into the warm summer night. At the door, I paused and turned to Naomi to say something about how that was the best hot and sour soup I’d ever had. The sign at the restaurant door was just being flipped from open to close by a hand which showed surprisingly long clawlike nails.

A sound made me turn. There were men surrounding us. They were the men Naomi had been running from when I met her. Instinctively, I put my hand on her arm.

One of the nearest men, an unkempt guy with a bushy beard, snarled, “None of that. She’s coming with us now. She’s our bitch. You stay away if you know what’s good for you.”

“We should kill him, Joe,” another of the charmers said. “He might post pictures.”

The one nearest me was coughing, only I had a feeling it wasn’t a cough as such, and his body was spasming, the features acquiring a lupine cast.

From above came the sound of wings. Two dragons, one green and one red, descended. From the shadows of the parking lot, other… things emerged. A glossy black panther, a lion, a fox and a squirrel wearing a beret.

I was staring at the squirrel as the melee broke out. Someone pushed me out of the way. Other someones grabbed the men and coyotes and forms inbetween who’d surrounded Naomi.

And then suddenly I realized Naomi was nowhere in sight. I told myself that Afghan hounds not being a fighting breed, she’d probably have got out of the way, but I felt that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

It was dark in the parking lot and there were very large and very odd bodies fighting everywhere. I followed, no sound, no hint of presence, only the vague feeling that Naomi was somewhere around, that she was in danger.

From behind one of the boulders past the building, dividing the parking lot from an alley, came a sound like a sigh. “Naomi.” I ran.

I squeezed between the boulders and to the alley. The man was holding Naomi down, and from her position, he was holding something to her back. A gun? A knife? I’d never had to fight anyone since middle school.

But I thought that now that they knew that Naomi was likely to run away, they’d use even harsher methods to get her to obey. I didn’t know what they’d be, and I didn’t want to think about them. Then I thought about how much Naomi wanted to go home. And about the parents who’d missed her all these years.

I found myself pulling the man off her. He was holding a knife. I didn’t have much in the way of weapons, except my hiking boots. But as I turned to face him, I found Naomi pushing something into my hand. It was a rock.

Whoever said not to bring a knife to a gun fight never brought a rock to a knife fight. The rock is a lousy shield, and sucks as an offensive weapon. But I found panic gave me ideas. As the man thrust the knife at me, I sidestepped and hit his wrist hard with the rock.

He dropped it. I didn’t have time to stop and didn’t dare stoop for it, so I hit him again, hard, across the forehead with the rock. He came at me roaring. And he was twisting and writhing. The teeth that closed on my arm were canine. I screamed.

Suddenly Naomi was there. There was a swipe of the knife, and the creature – coyote? wolf? – latched onto my arm. Blood poured out of the animal, spurts hitting my arm. Then the teeth let go. My arm was bleeding too, but the animal fell to the ground, bleeding, writing, changing.

Where the coyote had been there was a dead, naked man. And Naomi was looking at me, “Are you hurt?” she said. “I couldn’t let him hurt you, see. Not after everything you did for me.”

Which was the last thing I saw before I passed out from blood loss or perhaps shock.

I came to with a man sewing my arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We get pretty good at fixing wounds, after a while.”

“Will I change into a werewolf?” I asked. And to the man’s blank expression. “I was bitten by one.”

“Nah. Doesn’t work that way. You have to be born that way, and then you change at puberty.”

“Good,” I said. I’d had a glimpse into how the other half lived. I didn’t want to become one of them.

I slept in Kyrie and Tom’s guest bed, on the back porch of their house, that night, and planned to head out on the road bright and early in the morning.

At least that was the idea, but Naomi called and I met her at the diner. They’re keeping it all pretty quiet still, just announced she was found and I gather there would be a story of amnesia. But that morning no one knew she had been found, and I could have breakfast with Naomi and Mr. and Mrs. Howland, who were like everyone’s dream parents, still unflappable and loving, after losing their daughter for ten years, and after – doubtless – knowing what had happened.

I shook hands with her father over the breakfast table, and smiled at Naomi. “You come back and visit now and now, son,” her father said. “Goldport is pretty pleasant, if you don’t come during a blizzard.”

“I will, thank you, sir. I’m not so far away.”

And then I headed back to the van, and headed back to Kansas and Mike and Millie. For the first time since college, I’m going to lie to my best buds. It was an art rendition of a dragon, I’ll tell them. Photographed in a storm, of course it looked real.

They won’t question it. We’ve had enough of wild goose chases. We’ll have a lot more in the future, at least if I’m concerned. There will be funny stories of someone’s pet lizard with paper wings glued to his back; spooky stories of legends of some lizardlike being living in top secret bunkers.

But as far as I’m concerned, no matter how much I travel, or how much people crave the fantastic, Big Foot, the Ohio Wolfman, Utah’s Bear Lake Monster, Denver’s Lizard Man, and the Carolinas’ Panthers are all safe from me.

They have trouble enough policing themselves and each other and trying to stay safe and on the right side of the law.

And in the end, all they want is to be normal people. Like everyone else.

I don’t need to add to their troubles.

Sarah A. Hoyt is originally from Portugal, but is a long time U.S. citizen. She’s the creator of the Shifter series, which began with Draw One in the Dark and Gentleman Takes a Chance, and continues with latest entry Noah’s Boy. She is also the author of the Prometheus-award-winning Darkship Thieves, as well as its sequels Darkship Renegades and A Few Good Men.

The Sorcerer of Daigawa

by Jon F. Merz

The stone fortress looking skyward looked as if it were erupting from the lush green of the valley floor. Towering walls of granite mined from a quarry many leagues to the east overlooked the river hewing its way between the Daigawa Mountains on either side. High above, towers and ramparts afforded the guards a perfect vantage point on every approach. It had been designed to thwart attack from any angle. To a traditional warrior, the fortress appeared insurmountable; it would take a large army prepared to lay siege for months to overcome its defenses.

But Ran, hidden in the shadows of the thick fragrant pine boughs, saw opportunity where others did not.

Two weeks previously, he had sat motionless in this same spot, watching the full moon cast its glow upon the eastern side of the keep. Bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, the imposing walls had revealed weaknesses. Divots in the stone blocks ran all the way up to the underside of the lowest rampart.

Where others saw mere imperfections, Ran saw handholds and footholds. They weren’t uniformly spaced. Nor would they made for an easy climb. But it was possible.

And possibility was the foundation of success.

Sinking back into the looming shadows of a massive pine, Ran waited. There would be a new moon tonight for his infiltration. Just as he had used the full moon to aid his observation a fortnight before, Ran adhered to the teachings of the ancient scrolls he had spent years studying by letting nature aid him whenever possible.

From a very young age, Ran had been schooled in the legendary arts of the Shinobujin, whom the outside world called Shadow Warriors. Masters of spying, infiltration, and nontraditional warfare, outsiders considered Shadow Warriors to be supernatural warriors able to bend the universe to their will and bewitch a stalwart sentry with a mere glance.

Ran smiled at the thought. Certainly, there was much he had yet to learn about the higher levels of the art, but magic? More likely those stalwart sentries had dozed off. Rather than face harsh punishment for sleeping on duty, they had simply concocted a tale that a shadow warrior wizard had cast a spell over them.

And Ran knew something else: his brethren at the Nine Daggers clan were happy to let others believe in the myths and legends because it would invariably aid them in their missions. So whether or not it was actually true – it may as well have been.

A light breeze lifted the branches around him, and the fragrant pine tickled his nostrils. Ran closed his eyes and opened his mouth to amplify the night sounds. He heard the cough of a guard far above him float down. He caught the clink of a spoon against a cauldron over a hearth in one of the homes in the tiny village nearby.

But little else stirred.

It was time to move.

Using a low-crawl, Ran eased himself out from under the tree and waited until the breeze rustled the grass against the foot of the fortress before moving again. Each time there was an ambient noise, Ran used it to cover his own approach. He resisted the urge to rush while moving across the open expanse of ground. Instead, he focused on controlling his awareness and his breathing, forcing him to take more time.

He finally arrived at the foot of the wall and looked up, centering his position beneath the lowest rampart, trying to visualize the location of the first handhold. He stepped up onto the lowest stone, keeping the pressure he exerted between his hands and feet equal. While one hand or foot would search out a new position, the other three maintained solid contact to hold him in place.

It was highly unlikely the guards would expect a solitary intruder to free climb a wall in this fashion. People, like animals, preferred the easiest routes. It was a natural instinct Ran would exploit as he made his ascent. And while he did indeed have a grappling hook whose ends had been wrapped in soft silk to absorb noise when thrown, he didn’t want to risk relying on it when one reasonably alert guard might discover its existence during the long climb ahead.

A line of sweat broke out along his hairline and cooled in the breeze as he continued his climb. He felt the muscles of his arms and legs stretching and flexing as he moved ever higher. Ran kept his breathing slow and steady, carefully flushing his system with enough air to power his muscles but also mindful that too much would cause him to become dizzy. One mistake at this height would mean certain death.

While he focused on the climb, Ran replayed what the leader of his clan had told him a month previously back at the training school hidden deep in the mountains of Gakur, nearly a hundred miles from where he was now.

* * *

“There is a relic of importance that we must have.”

Ran, fresh from a soak in the heated stone baths after a grueling day of staff practice, sipped the tea in front of him. “What is the relic?”

The leader of the Nine Daggers, a man by the name of Tozawa and a legend among the Shinobujin, had only smiled. “It is a special sword, forged by the smith known as Daisuke over two hundred years ago. Its blade is reputed to be the finest known to any warrior…alive or dead.”

“Do the dead have need of swords?”

Tozawa grinned. “As I am still fortunately among the living, I cannot answer that question.”

Ran had frowned. Only the traditional Murai warriors had such an unnatural love for their sword blades, believing them imbued with the souls of their ancestors. Shinobujin were pragmatic; they appreciated the sword blade for its ability to deliver killing blows.

Still, hearing one spoken of in such lofty terms unsettled Ran.

Tozawa had smiled at him. “I know what you are thinking, Ran. As skilled a pupil as you are, you still have much to learn. Bring back the sword. Accomplish this mission and you will graduate.”

* * *

Another breeze caused Ran to momentarily sway on the side of the fortress wall. He glanced back down and saw that he was perhaps a hundred feet up now. More than halfway to the top. He redoubled his efforts, ignoring the aches and pains from his arms, back, and legs. He moved in silence, always alert. A few minutes later, he paused just under the rampart.

Ran let his jaw relax and waited for the sounds of the immediate area to introduce themselves. Hearing nothing nearby, he reached up, grabbed the rampart, and folded his body over it. If anyone had been looking at that exact spot, they might have seen a small undulation in the wall as Ran’s body slid over. It was the moment where he was most exposed, but it was also extremely unlikely any of the guards would be watching the top edge of the wall, even if they were actually trying to do their jobs.

Ran huddled under the inside wall, swathed in deep shadows. Dressed from head-to-toe in a mottled array of deep blues and grays, the fabrics broke up his body lines and made him harder to see than if he’d been wearing absolute black. Around his head, Ran wore the traditional two piece mask of his kind. One part was carefully wrapped around the top of his head and the other over his mouth. He had also blackened the area around his eyes and other exposed bits of skin with bits of charcoal from the fire he’d cooked over earlier today. Only the whites of his eyes might give him away.

His scanned the scene before him. From this rampart, he could access the first tower to his left that spiraled up another fifty feet. At the top of this tower, he would be able to access the walkway leading to the main part of the keep.

His target.

Ran drew in a deep breath and exhaled smoothly. Forty feet further down the wall, he could see the back of one of the guards on duty. They’d been evenly stationed atop the battlements, and his scouting mission had revealed there were no roving patrols. These guards would remain at their posts until they were relieved at dawn, just a few hours away.

Ran was confident they wouldn’t hear him. He had spent years practicing how to move silently in all types of environments and conditions. The teachers at the Nine Daggers had shown him how to cross loose gravel, thick leaf litter, and even how to emerge from the water without any sound at all. Stealing across the thick stones that made up the rampart was easy by comparison. Of course, while his teacher’s punishments for failure were often very harsh, his life hadn’t been at stake. Ran took a few cleansing breaths to calm his racing heart.

With his eyes fixed on the entrance to the tower, Ran eased out of the deep shadows and used the special sideways walking method to cross the open space. He kept his body level knowing that any sudden motion would increase his likelihood of being discovered.

He reached the tower entrance and paused, sinking down low and easing just enough of his head around the corner so he could see what lay before him with one eye.

Torches burned in braziers high on the wall, their dancing flames throwing weird shadows all over the smooth interior. The staircase corkscrewed up to the next level. Able to move from shadow to shadow, Ran silently crept up the stone steps, keeping his back to the wall, hands spread to the sides to aid his balance during the ascent.

He heard the guard a moment before he saw him. Ran froze, sinking into the shadow he stood in—almost willing his body to become part of the wall. At the top of the stairs, a single guard loitered, looking out of the high window. If he’d been there a few minutes earlier, he might have seen Ran creeping over the wall, but only if he’d been paying attention to the spot where Ran had climbed over. The scrolls had taught Ran that most sentries did not pay attention when their castle stood towering over the rest of their world. It was this sense of impregnability that Ran and his Shinobujin brethren exploited.

But Ran still faced a problem: how to get past the guard? He had waited until the hour of the ox before starting his infiltration. If he was delayed too much, he risked exposure when the first rays of dawn broke the horizon.

With another cough, the guard suddenly moved off. Ran counted to ten and stole up the steps. He paused for only a moment and then nodded to himself when he saw the guard slumped in a chair nearby already settling himself down to sleep. Ran was relieved to discover this was not a roving guard; a guard walking on patrol was a much greater danger; they were much more alert and more likely to notice something out of the ordinary. Ran had assumed any guards on duty inside the fortress would also be at stationary posts, and he feared his assumption would be his undoing. Ran counted to sixty and then crept past the guard, hands ready to silence him if something happened. The guard never stirred.

Ran crossed the walkway and paused next to the entryway to the main castle.

* * *

Back in the safety of the shadow warrior stronghold, Tozawa had revealed a floor plan of the castle. Ran had studied it.

“Don’t you want to know how we acquired this?” Tozawa asked.

Ran frowned. His teacher was testing him. “Did we pay someone off for it?”

“Perhaps.”

Ran shook his head. “Purchased information is always suspect. The seller may feel regret afterward and inform the authorities thereby possibly leading to an ambush when we act on the information.”

“Correct,” said Tozawa. “The task of gathering this information was the graduation assignment of another student. It is reliable.”

Ran felt a measure of relief. One of his brothers or sisters had crept into the craftsman’s offices and copied the floor plan without being discovered. There was no risk of compromise from using the information.

* * *

Now, as he huddled in the shadow of the heavy door that was deeply recessed into the thick outer wall of the keep, Ran kept the image of the floor plan in his head. Once he got through this door, he would need to move quickly.

He sensed the presence of the guard a moment before he heard the shuffle of footsteps. Ran froze and allowed his ears to pinpoint the location of the sentry, rather than risk turning his head and having the movement seen. The guard was off to his left and moving toward the door Ran huddled by.

There were no easy options: Ran couldn’t move away from the recessed door without the guard spotting him. He had to get through the door and fast.

The latch on the door was locked. With his heart hammering in his chest, Ran bent close and examined the simple mechanism. His ears were still attuned to the movement of the sentry and Ran knew he had precious little time to make his entry.

From his sleeve, he drew out a fine sliver of metal bent at an odd angle. Fitting this into the lock, he twisted twice and then applied pressure. The lock held.

The shuffling guard drew closer. Ran risked a look over his shoulder and saw that while the shadows he hid in were keeping his presence concealed, they soon would not as the guard moved closer. He turned back to the lock and reapplied the pressure.

The guard coughed and Ran could swear he felt the wind on the back of his neck.

But then the lock slid open. Ran felt the door give and he slid inside and closed the door behind him.

Barely a moment later, he heard the sentry pass by.

Ran allowed himself a sigh of relief. He’d avoided the guard just in time.

Now he had work to do.

* * *

For perhaps a minute, Ran stayed motionless in the narrow recess to the side of the door he had just entered. He watched and listened, trying to determine if he had somehow disturbed the tranquility of the fortress and prompted a guard to come investigate. But as he counted down in his mind, he saw nothing and heard nothing to indicate his presence had been detected. Ran scanned the area again, but this time with the intent of figuring out which direction he needed to travel.

A few more torches burned in this chamber, leading out to the main reception area. Ran disregarded the wider passageway and headed left toward the narrow side corridor. Further down, he paused and listened. The interior sounds of the castle were different from those outside and he needed to give himself some time to acclimate.

Ahead of him he saw a single winding staircase that looked old and rickety. Ran eyed the wooden steps and wondered if they would squeak when he put his weight on them. He had little choice but to risk it. As he stepped up onto the first tread, he made sure to put his foot closest to the wall where the stair was strongest.

No sound betrayed his presence and Ran moved up the stairs in this manner, testing each step for noise before placing his full weight upon it. Despite all of his intense physical training, his legs were burning from the strain of the slow climb to reach the door at the top of the stairs. Beyond it, he thought, there should be the room where the sword would be. At least that was what Tozawa had told him. Ran saw no guards and frowned. Odd that such a priceless relic would be kept in a room with no sentries. But he moved closer and then tried the handle to the room. It was also locked.

Ran frowned. He was exposed on the staircase and the longer it took him to get through the lock meant greater chance of compromise. He felt reasonably certain this staircase would be a priority for any guards given that it led to the sword room.

He knelt in front of the door and peered into the opening. He saw little in the flickering torchlight, but judging by the keyhole, this lock was much more complex. Ran removed his picks and took several deep breaths. A calm state of mind was imperative for successfully picking any lock. If he allowed his anxiety to intrude, he would fail.

Ran slid the first pick into the lock and began working, aware that each click and clink sounded like an thunder clap of noise in the still corridor. He eased his breathing further and visualized the lock opening. Twenty seconds later, his patience was rewarded with the dull clunk of the bolt sliding back into its recess.

He crept into the room. A candelabra overhead dripped wax as the candles burned low. But there was enough light to see around.

Ran stood in a room about twenty feet by fifteen feet. It looked like a library of some sort, and Ran saw books and scrolls piled high on elaborate tables carved with ancient runes. What drew his attention most, however, was the stone altar in the middle of the room. He moved over to it and saw grooves running all around the rectangular flat top that descended toward a recessed basin, presumably used to gather liquid.

Blood.

Ran’s eyes grew stony. No doubt, the altar was used for sacrifices.

He glanced around the room and saw the elaborate tapestries depicting scenes of bloodshed and carnage. In each of the garish depictions, a wizard seemed to be sacrificing an animal, woman, or child to some sort of ebon demonic overlord.

Black magic.

Ran frowned beneath his mask. He’d heard whispers and legends, of course. But to see the implements of evil in this manner. It caught at his gut and twisted him up.

He took a breath and shrugged off the feeling of doom that hung over this room. The sword was supposed to be here somewhere. He crossed to the back of the nearest table and froze.

Someone was in the room with him.

In an instant, the shorter curved sword he wore flashed out at the ready. Ran’s eyes darted around the room, but he saw nothing. Was this more sorcery at work?

And then he turned and saw something he’d missed earlier upon entering. There was a smaller door leading off of this room. And at the top of the door, there was a metal grate covering a window into the room that lay beyond.

Ran crossed over to it and peered inside.

A slave girl lay on the simple plank bed that had been covered in straw. She was asleep and it was her breathing Ran had heard.

A heavy lock hung on the door and Ran looked at it. The girl was being kept prisoner, presumably to be sacrificed.

He turned away. He didn’t know what gods they worshipped here, but he had a tough time believing that any decent god would want an innocent life taken in his name.

Enough. Ran was annoyed with himself and his lapse of discipline. He was there for the sword, not to debate theology. But where could it be? Was there a chance that the wizard had it moved to another room? Ran didn’t have time to search the entire castle.

He started to move away from the door when a small voice, but one tempered with strength, broke the quiet of the room.

“You’re here for the sword, aren’t you?”

It was a whisper that sounded like an explosion. Ran wheeled around, his sword already at the ready.

But no one stood behind him. As Ran calmed his nerves, he realized the sound had come from behind the prison cell door. He resheathed his blade and moved toward the door. A shadow moved behind the bars. And peering closer, Ran could see the pretty face the voice belonged to. He smirked. So, she hadn’t been asleep after all.

“I know where it is,” she said. “I can tell you where he keeps it hidden.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

She looked at Ran like he was an idiot. “Does it look like I want to be here? You’ve got to free me, obviously.”

“And risk my mission? I can’t do that.”

“You’ll never find it then,” said the girl. “He keeps it well-hidden. No doubt because he’s afraid that the likes of you will come looking for it.” She sighed. “But if you’re going to be stubborn about it, then be my guest and keep searching. I suppose by the time you find it, he’ll be back already and then you’ll have to fight your way of here.” She eyed Ran. “You might do well for a short time before you’re outnumbered. Then you’ll either die quickly or else you’ll join me in here and become a sacrifice as well.”

Ran frowned. “Do you always negotiate like this?”

She shrugged. “Are we negotiating?”

Ran sighed. If he let the girl go, his mission could be compromised. He was supposed to leave no sign of his presence. Only the missing sword would ever point at the fact that someone had infiltrated the castle.

Freeing a captive girl hadn’t been on his agenda. Worse, the likelihood of discovery went up immensely if he had to drag her around. On the other hand, the girl had already seen him, and if he tried to leave her, she might call for the guards, hoping to bargain for her life with his.

He glanced around the room. How much time did he have to search? Every moment in the castle meant a greater chance that something else would go wrong. Ran’s eyes narrowed as he thought through the various scenarios and then reached a decision.

He drew close to the prison cell. Even with her tangled hair, he could see the slave girl was beautiful. She drew away from the door and Ran saw she was dressed in a gauzy tunic with a rope braided belt about her waist that accentuated her slender form.

“Tell me where he keeps it and I will free you.”

Her green eyes danced. She hesitated only a moment. “If you don’t free me when I tell you, I will scream and have the whole castle down on you within moments.”

Ran nodded. He could kill her, of course, but he disliked the idea of taking a life for no real purpose. Besides, it would be nearly impossible to kill her quickly and quietly with heavy door between them. “I will do as I said. Tell me.”

She pointed. “Behind that furthest tapestry lies a hollow brick in the wall.”

Ran crossed the room and drew back the fabric that depicted a particularly garish scene of a demon suckling blood from a woman’s breast. Trying to ignore the image, he ran his hands over the bricks and found one that moved. He slid it out of its resting place and reached into the dark hole, wondering if this might be a trap. But his hands wrapped around the silken bag and he drew out the sword.

Carefully, he replaced the brick and then slid the tapestry back into position. It should not have been obvious to anyone that anything was amiss.

He turned and bowed to the slave girl. “Thank you.

She kept her voice a whisper. “I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Keep yours.”

Ran crossed to the prison cell. “And how will you escape once I free you? You’re not coming with me.”

“Let me worry about that. Just unlock the cell.”

Ran bent and examined the lock. It was a fairly simple mechanism and he opened it with ease. When he drew back the door, the slave girl passed so close to him she might have brushed his body.

“Thank you.”

Ran nodded. “Our arrangement is now complete.”

Her gaze roved over him and he could see the wonder in her eyes. “You are one of the ones they call the shadow warriors.”

He paused only a moment. He could have lied, but what was the point? “I am.”

“I could come with you.”

“No.” Ran hefted the sword. “This is all I have come for. I must leave now. And so should you. Judging from the paintings, you will not have long to live.”

“He worships an evil god, you know. One that crawls from the deepest pools of filth and depravity.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Ran. “But how did you come to be his prisoner?”

“He kidnapped me from my lands far to the west of here. I was a princess there.”

Ran frowned. “And how do you know of my kind?”

She smiled. “I take the time to study the legends of various lands. My name is Cassandra. What is yours?”

“I am known as Ran.” He regarded her. “How will you leave the castle?”

“I will find my way.”

Perhaps, he thought. But without help she would have little chance of getting past the guards. He sighed. The way he saw it, he had three options. He could kill her right then and there. Fast and quiet before she could alert the guards. He could hide her back in the cell and be away before anyone discovered her body. But was murdering her out of expediency for his duty to his clan elders much different than sacrificing her to some dark god? He smirked. Akimoto, one of his instructors back in Gakur, would have no doubt slit her throat without a second thought. But he wasn’t Akimoto.

Ran could simply turn her loose. While her escape attempt might distract the guards in a way he could exploit, more likely it would raise the alarm, bring lots of reinforcements, and make Ran’s own escape that much more dangerous.

Or he could help her escape. He mulled it over. There was no risk of alerting the guards with a potential struggle, corpse, blood trail, or any other signs. If they succeeded and went on their separate ways, any pursuers from the fortress might think Cassandra had the sword and chase after her. Regardless, Ran would take steps to mask his own trail, so they would undoubtedly follow Cassandra.

He had to act.

From inside his jacket, he drew out a a single-edged battle knife, its blade blackened steel but otherwise unremarkable. It might have come from any forge around, but it had been crafted by the smiths in Gakur and would never break. He handed it to Cassandra.

“Take this and you may indeed have a chance.”

She hefted the blade and took a few slashes in the air. He appreciated her skill. Someone had taught her to wield a knife.

“I must leave now.”

Cassandra held his arm. “If you ever find yourself in the lands to the west, inquire at the court of Valrus and tell them you are the one who freed me from the wizard they call Seiryu.”

Ran held her gaze for a moment and then turned away. “I will guide you as far as the castle entrance and then we will part ways.”

He relocked her cell and then checked the room. It would pass a cursory inspection, but he suspected within an hour she would be discovered missing. Then the sword disappearance would be noted. Both of which would make his exfiltration more difficult if they closed down the passes leading from the valley. Time was of the essence.

“Follow me.”

They left the room and Ran relocked the door. They encountered no one on the stairway, but at the main entrance, they had to pause while two guards walked dangerously close. Ran pressed a hand over Cassandra’s mouth to keep her from crying out and she responded by pushing her body into his. Ran may have waited an extra few seconds before moving again.

They slid through the shadows and despite his reservations, Cassandra was fairly adept at moving in silence. Ran found himself admiring her more and more. He wondered what sorts of things they taught to princesses in the strange faraway land of Valrus.

He led them down toward the entrance and past the guard that had fallen asleep on duty. Each step they took made Ran’s heart beat faster and he could tell from the way Cassandra breathed that she was terrified. But never once did she utter a sound.

Near the lower rampart, Ran brought out a length of black silk rope. It was strong enough to hold him, but not two of them at once. He frowned and then whispered to Cassandra. “You go first and I’ll lower you down.”

Cassandra smirked, took one end of the rope and wrapped it about herself in a way Ran had never seen before and tugged once to make sure it held. From what he could see, the harness was expertly tied.

Cassandra winked at him and disappeared over the rampart, easily rappelling down to the ground below. Ran looked after her and then shook his head. She was full of surprises. He quickly doubled the rope up and rappelled down after her, tugging the rope loose immediately afterward. As soon as he coiled back up inside of his tunic, he pointed out their direction of travel and they headed away from the castle.

Ran led them into the copse of pine trees a half mile away. The night had grown long and he knew dawn was perhaps an hour off. A breeze blew through the boughs and he felt it cool the sweat the had accumulated on his brow.

Cassandra glanced around and then peered into Ran’s eyes. He could almost read her thoughts.

“It is safe to talk.”

She exhaled in a rush and pushed herself into his arms. “Thank you, thank you.”

It was as if the weight of her predicament had been lifted. But Ran knew she still had a long way to go before she could truly think of herself as free.

Her hand came up and touched the silken cloth that wrapped around his face. “I have no right to ask given what you have already done for me, but may I see your face?”

Ran hesitated and then unwrapped the mask. The cloth came away in his hand and he could feel her eyes boring into him. Ran had never given much thought to his appearance before, thinking it only another tool that might enable him to complete his missions. But as Cassandra’s fingers slowly traced his jawline and then touched his cheekbones, he suspected there might be other ways to appreciate this asset.

Before he could break contact, he felt Cassandra’s lips brush his and then press themselves fully upon him. He tasted her fear, her excitement, and the salty brine of sweat that showed the measure of her exertion. She pressed her whole body into his and he felt himself respond.

They stayed there for perhaps a minute before Ran’s mission once again intruded on his consciousness. He broke their seal and allowed himself a small grin. “You must go now if you have any hope of making your escape.”

Cassandra smiled at him. “I would thank you even more, but for our current situation.”

“I will consider it a debt to be repaid at a later time.”

Cassandra laughed. “Make sure you come to collect.”

“Valrus,” said Ran. “Its name is locked in my memory. But not nearly as much as you.”

“Good luck, Ran.”

Ran looked once more into her eyes. He gave her a deep bow and then turned toward the trees. To Cassandra, he was there one moment and the next it was as if he had simply dissolved into the darkness.

* * *

In the glow of the torches, Tozawa, the elder master of the Nine Daggers clan, unsheathed the two hundred year old Daisuke sword blade and allowed the light to gleam off its edge. He smiled and then returned the blade to its scabbard. He turned to Ran. “You have done well.”

Ran bowed. “Thank you.”

“And how did you find the mission itself? Surely it was not easy.”

“It was not without its challenges.”

Tozawa helped himself to some more tea, cradling the delicate porcelain cup in withered hands that belied any indication of strength. “Please elaborate.”

Ran looked at him. “What do we know of the sorcerer they call Seiryu?”

Tozawa sipped from the cup and then placed it off to his left side. “Seiryu is said to be a master of black magic. It is no surprise that he holds most of the Chibu valley under his sway. From the reports we have gathered, he is intolerably cruel.”

Ran sipped his own tea. “Why then have we allowed him to remain in power?”

Tozawa looked at Ran a moment. “What happened in his castle?”

“The sword was not where it was supposed to be. It was hidden. Had there not been a prisoner in the same room, I doubt I would have been able to locate it. Seiryu had disguised its resting place well.”

“A prisoner?”

“A kidnapped princess from the court of Valrus to the west. She was to be sacrificed to whatever master claims Seiryu as his servant.”

“Indeed.” Tozawa sipped his tea again. “And what became of this prisoner?”

“I do not know. She revealed the sword’s hiding place. And in return I gave her freedom.”

Tozawa eyed him, a vague frown creasing his forehead. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

Tozawa sighed. “And did you first think about the repercussions of such an action?”

“I did indeed. I would have been forced to kill the girl to keep her from screaming and revealing my presence. But then her death would have also alerted the castle to my presence. The best way to continue the mission was to make a bargain and then part ways as soon as possible. That is exactly what I did.”

Tozawa was silent for a time. Finally, he reached into his robes and brought out a small scroll, unrolling it before them both. Ran recognized it as a coded dispatch from one of the clan’s informants. They had eyes and ears everywhere, such was the vastness of their network of spies.

“Would you like to know what has happened since your mission? Since you freed the girl?”

Ran frowned. “What?”

Tozawa turned the scroll so Ran could read it and pointed. “Seiryu was furious about both the theft of the blade, but especially about the escape of the slave girl. He has exacted a heavy toll on the villages closest to his fortress. Instead of killing that one girl that you freed, he had his troops march into the villages and kidnap twenty women, all of whom were put to the blade early this morning.”

Ran took a breath, but Tozawa cut him off. “Your action in saving one life resulted in the death of twenty.”

Ran flushed the memory of Cassandra’s face and the sensation of her lips from his mind. “My action was not motivated by anything but the success of the mission. I did what I deemed necessary to preserve the parameters set forth by you.”

Tozawa took another sip of tea. “Do not blame this on me, Ran. You were successful in acquiring the sword of Daisuke. But in so much as the mission itself, it was a failure.”

“I disagree,” said Ran. “The mission was as successful as it could have been under the circumstances. Further, I achieved each of the goals set by you in order to earn my graduation scroll. I have earned my place in the clan; I have earned my rank.”

Tozawa regarded him for a moment. “And what have you to say about the twenty villagers put to death because of your actions?”

“Regrettable,” said Ran. “And their deaths may well be on my conscience forever. But Seiryu should not be allowed to live another day.”

“That is not for you to decide, Ran. Such decisions are above you.”

Ran bristled. “I would have my scroll.”

Tozawa nodded. “You are correct, of course. You did fulfill your mission objectives. You have earned the right to graduation.” From the small table beside him, Tozawa brought forth a tightly bound scroll and unfurled it. “This will serve as your documentation of what you have achieved with us. The clan will be in touch regarding your first mission.”

Ran slid the graduation scrolls into his robe and stood. “I already have one.”

* * *

Seiryu had clearly learned from his mistakes.

Often times, a boastful enemy would not change their defenses, such was their arrogance. But Seiryu obviously did not suffer from such vanity. Where once he might have been exploited, now he was immune to attack. The entire castle was lit up with blazing torches that hung off the ramparts casting light into every nook and crevice that Ran had used previously to infiltrate the castle.

The number of guards had also dramatically increased. Ran counted three times the number on the ramparts and towers. They were mercenaries, most likely, bought with promises of gold and power over the terrified local villagers.

No, Ran would not be entering the castle the way he had the first time. He smiled and walked back into the depths of the forest. Fortunately, his teachers had been thorough. And there were many ways to infiltrate a fortress.

While Seiryu might have thought himself invulnerable from attack now, he had also inadvertently given Ran the opportunity he needed.

The next morning, Ran showed himself in front of the castle gates. He was dressed like a wandering traditional warrior, with his curved long and short swords thrust through his belt.

The guards at the gate regarded him with a mixture of amusement and disdain. One of them approached Ran with a swaggering step. “And what do you want?”

“Tell your master that his new chief of guards is here.”

Ran spoke using the Fudo Kiai, the immovable voice. Judging by the way the guard glanced at his partner then quickly went inside the castle grounds, clearly Ran had gotten the tone just right. Apparently his years at training had not been for naught.

When he reappeared ten minutes later, Ran was standing in the exact same spot. He had not moved a muscle during the entire time the guard was gone, knowing that he’d been under observation for at least five minutes.

The guard waved him up the steep ascent and into the castle. Beyond the gate, the actual captain of the guards, a hulking behemoth of a man whose hands looked like they could crush stones without any effort at all, met him. He looked Ran up and down and then burst out laughing.

“You must be joking.”

“Are you the lord of this castle?”

The captain of the guards looked surprised. “No, I am not.”

“Then I have nothing further to say to you. Tell your master that I am here and would like an audience with him immediately.”

The captain chewed his lip thoughtfully. “And why would I tell him that and risk offending him?”

“Because if you do not, he will be even more upset with you.”

The captain turned as if to go, but in the next instant, he had unleashed a thundering punch aimed directly at Ran’s face. Ran waited until he was certain the captain had fully committed himself, and then stepped inside, delivering an elbow to the man’s solar plexus. The captain buckled to his feet. Ran looked down at him, disdain clear on his face. He heard a gasp from somewhere close by and saw another squad of guards staring in amazement at what they had just seen. Ran was almost a head shorter and easily fifty pounds lighter than the captain, yet Ran had dropped the huge man with seemingly no effort.

Ran let the wonder hang there a moment before waving at one of them. “You there, go and find the lord of this castle. Tell him he now has an opening and I am here to fill it.”

The guard needed no further encouragement and vanished into the castle. Ran folded his arms and waited while the captain gasped at his feet. Certainly, he was battle-hardened once before, but years in the service of Seiryu had softened him.

“What is your name?”

Ran looked up. On one of the balconies, he saw Seiryu for the first time. He was a shrunken wrinkled weasel of a man with beady eyes that betrayed his true intellect.

Ran frowned and pointed at the captain who was now trying to get to his feet. “Your captain is no longer employable. I’m here to take his place.”

Seiryu looked at the man who was now standing, albeit shakily. “He has been with me for years. Why would I replace him?”

“Because he’s incompetent.”

“Is he now?”

Ran sighed. “You recently lost something. It is this man’s fault that happened.”

Seiryu narrowed his gaze. “And how would you know that we lost something recently?”

Ran shrugged. “Men gossip worse than any garrulous woman. News of your loss is widely known. It is why I am here.”

Seiryu was silent a moment. Then he pointed at the captain. “And what of him? I cannot have two captains. That would confuse the rest of my men.”

Ran shrugged. “It is easily solved.”

In a blink, Ran’s long sword shot out and flashed through the soft tissue, hard muscle, and bone of the captain’s neck. Ran had flicked the sword over, hit the back of the pommel to further clear the blood, and then resheathed the blade in the briefest time it took the captain’s head to fall to the ground and loll to one side. He fought back the lurch of his stomach and the excitement that coursed through his veins; this was the first man he had killed. On the other hand, this man served an evil and corrupt master, and undoubtedly the blood of innocent villagers were on his hands.

Seiryu’s eyes widened. “Impressive.”

Ran tossed a small bag of gold to one of the other guards. “Take him into town and see that he is buried properly. If I find that you’ve spent any of that money on anything but this man’s burial, your head will join his.”

Seiryu waved at Ran. “Come inside and we will speak of your employment with me.”

Ran strode forward, aware that the eyes of every sentry in the compound were on him. He acted as though they mattered less than the dirt on the soles of his boots and went to meet Seiryu.

* * *

“Where…did you learn swordsmanship like that?”

Ran let his gaze wander the breadth of the reception room. On the walls hung elegant tapestries woven with gold thread depicting landscapes, and decidedly unlike the horrid ones he’d seen during his infiltration. Pedestals held silver jewel-encrusted vases overflowing with long-stemmed roses and orchids while elaborate sculptures bracketed the room. Before Ran and Seiryu, a low table dressed with a silken cloth held platters of fresh strawberries, melon, and grapes. Seiryu himself had already plucked several of the dark grapes from a bunch and plopped them into his mouth.

“My father,” said Ran simply. “He served under a master to the far north. In Kageyama.”

“Kageyama is beautiful, untamed country. The winters there are nature at her fiercest.” Seiryu smiled. “I used to study there. Perhaps I would know his name?”

“Doubtful,” said Ran. “Nor is it a name I wish to share. My father was a horrible man who beat his family mercilessly. I still bear the scars of his wrath after his drunken nights of debauchery.”

Seiryu nodded. “Understandable. No doubt we all have things we wish not to see the light of day.” He clapped his hands. “Still, it couldn’t have all been bad if he taught you how to handle a blade as well as you seem to.”

Ran smiled. “When I was old enough to fully appreciate his teachings, I used the skills he had shown me to kill him with my own blade.”

Seiryu paused in mid-gulp and then smiled wickedly. “An interesting summation of your life thus far. Still, to see such skill in one as young as you are… You cannot be more than twenty-eight summers old.”

“That’s a fair approximation. However, I’ve found that age and skill do not necessarily go hand-in-hand. Certainly there are many older than I that could never grasp the subtleties of combat.”

Seiryu nodded. “Granted. And yet you have experience. You must have gotten it from somewhere. Who else have you served under?”

“Matsumune was my first lord. He fell during the battle of Sekigomo. I took my leave and went to serve with Junkoniwa. He died from dysentery after a winter campaign to Hanayabe. After that, I decided my wallet would be better served if I wandered for a time and found employment to the south. A few days back I was in Nyoha drinking by myself when I chanced to overhear about your recent misfortune. Your name was whispered as if you possessed the might of a thousand suns and I thought that perhaps I would see for myself if I might improve both our fortunes.”

Seiryu smiled at the subtle compliment, but waved his hand around. “I would think that my fortune has been doing well enough as late.”

There seemed to be more wealth in the reception room than in all the rest of the surrounding area. But Ran merely smiled. “One could hardly argue that you have not been most prosperous. You are surrounded by such wealth as I have never seen. That said, you are not immune to the prospect of thieves trying to rid you of your hard-won possessions. I would suggest that with my appointment, theft would never occur within these walls.”

Seiryu clapped his hands and a pair of eunuchs brought tea forth. Ran waited for Seiryu to sip first before he sampled the sweet jasmine tea. After several moments of silence, Seiryu’s eyes narrowed on Ran and a small chuckle escaped from him. “The might of a thousand suns? Is that truly what you heard?”

Ran shrugged. “Am I your new captain of guards?”

“It would appear that I have a vacancy in need of filling.”

Ran smiled and bowed. “I may have perhaps embellished the thousand suns part of my tale.”

Seiryu hoisted his cup and Ran did the same. Seiryu smiled. “It was a good embellishment. And one that I happen to appreciate.”

They drank and then Seiryu leaned back on the thick cushions of the lounge. “For someone who has traveled far, you don’t seem to have much in the way of possessions.”

Ran drank the tea and shrugged. “I left my bag hidden in the woods. I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I would receive. And while I am confident in my skill, there’s no point appearing haughty.”

“I suppose that would depend,” said Seiryu. “Confidence is not such a bad thing.”

“Arrogance is never attractive,” said Ran. “And the ground is filled with the bones of men who could not back up their words with action.”

Seiryu said nothing for a moment and then nodded. “Tell me where your bag is located and I’ll have someone fetch it for you. There’s no sense is making you walk all the way back for it.”

“Under a towering pine that tilts to the left, not far from the main road leading into the valley. Have your man go a quarter way round the trunk and he’ll find a large stone. Dig down there.”

Seiryu called one of his guards and relayed the information to the man. The guard only bowed and then vanished. Seiryu stretched his arms overhead as if he was exhausted. “You must be tired after your journey.”

“Some rest might be welcome,” said Ran. He lifted his tea cup. “And this is especially soothing.”

“It should be,” said Seiryu. “It’s been treated with a special botanical distillate to induce paralysis in whomever drinks it.”

Ran froze. He had felt a subtle calming effect coming over him. But Seiryu showed no signs of adverse effects. In fact, even as he watched Ran, Seiryu continued to drink the tea.

“The plant has no effect on those who regularly consume it. And as you might have gathered, I drink this every day. It gives me the ability to neutralize those who might not otherwise trust my hospitality.”

Ran felt his muscles stiffening. Seiryu leaned over, plucked the tea cup away from him and placed it down on the table. “Tell me something, did you really think it would be so easy to fool me? That you could simply walk into my domain and not expect me to know your plans?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ran’s tongue felt thicker now. He slowed his breathing to combat the effects of the drug—that was what his instructors had taught him back in Gakur. But he’d never had the chance to practice it.

Until now.

Seiryu waved his hand as if Ran were a pesky mosquito. “It matters not, we will soon have all of your secrets. Whether you wish to divulge them or not. None can resist the power that is at my disposal.”

Ran sensed movement around him and then his swords were taken out of his belt by unseen hands. Powerless to stop them, Ran felt himself lifted and carried down from the lounge.

Seiryu’s face swam in front of his. “And then after we find out who you truly are, your blood will feed my master.”

* * *

When Ran awoke, he wondered briefly if was already dead. He had no memory of losing consciousness, such was the power of the tea he’d drunk. He cursed himself for being too trusting of Seiryu’s hospitality. Black magic, he frowned. Would that all the sorcerers in this world could be expunged with a simple thought. The world might be better off.

But he couldn’t concentrate on his mistakes. The safety of his home in Gakur seemed so very far away; he was alone and only he could save himself. The Nine Daggers would not ride in to rescue him; that was not their way. Ran opened his eyes.

He recognized the room; it was the same one he’d stolen the sword of Daisuke from.

The candles had been replaced by thick black, waxy ones that oozed as they burned and smelled like pitch mixed with human feces. Ran’s eyes watered from the pungent stench, but he could do little to stem the flow of tears since his arms and legs were stretched out akimbo on the stone altar

He’d been stripped down to just his leggings; his bare chest rose and fell toward the ceiling and he saw at the top there was a circular window. A sliver of the full moon appeared at the edge of the glass. Once the moon filled the window, Ran had little doubt he would be sacrificed.

He tested the ropes that held his wrists, but the cordage seemed pliable and without compromise. He tried to relax his breathing, but his heart thundered in his chest. He forced himself to remain calm. Panic would kill him as surely as the evil sorcerer would.

A hand appeared above his face and then Seiryu placed it atop Ran’s heart. After a moment, a wicked smile slithered across his face. “Your heart trembles in fear of the future.”

Ran bit his tongue and the pain refocused his mind. “It pulses with my desire to cut your head from your shoulders. Do not mistake it for anything else.”

Seiryu laughed. “Predictably, my men were unable to locate your belongings in the location you suggested.”

“Perhaps they chose the wrong tree,” said Ran. More of the moon filled the window overhead now.

“Doubtful,” said Seiryu. “They know these woods quite well. Which leads me to believe that you are not what you say you are. Not that I believed that story in the first place.”

“No?”

“There are few of your young age who are as skilled as you. And any that are do not come from the traditional Murai warrior schools.”

Ran smiled. “Then that makes me rather unique. Perhaps I’m even more valuable to you.”

Seiryu shrugged. “Not necessarily. For there are those who have the same abilities you do. I have heard rumors and whispers of your kind. Legends, they say. Supernatural warriors able to do most anything. Even scale the walls of a castle as high as this.”

Ran said nothing.

Seiryu leaned closer and spat the word. “Shadow warrior.”

Ran tested the ropes again, but they held fast. Seiryu smiled. “But you are not supernatural, are you? You and others like you take advantage of those superstitious fools who are scared of their own shadows. You use their fears against them to accomplish whatever ends motivate your clan.”

The moon grew larger in the window and now Ran heard a low chanting he hadn’t noticed before.

“Unfortunately for you, shadow warrior, I am able to bend the darkness to my will. But it levies a heavy toll, which must be paid. Tonight, you will be my payment. And it is one that I think will ensure I have more power than I need for some time to come.”

Seiryu gestured above. “When the moon fills the portal above, your end will come. I shall spill your blood and cut out your beating heart and offer it as tribute to my master. He will consume it whole…while you watch. Such is the power of his dark magic.”

Ran’s mouth grew dry. The weapons he had concealed upon himself had all been taken. Seiryu moved around and then held aloft Ran’s long sword. “This is not nearly as beautiful a piece as what was stolen from me.” He rested the blade against Ran’s chest and Ran caught his breath as he felt the razor edge slice his skin. “Tell me where my sword is.”

Ran frowned. “I don’t know anything about your sword.”

Seiryu smiled again and pressed the edge further. Ran grimaced as the blade bit deeper into his chest.

“I know that you are trained to reveal nothing under duress. But you should know that I have spent a lifetime studying the weaknesses of man. And I know that there comes a point in every man where he will break and reveal even those things he wishes most to keep hidden.”

Ran licked his lips. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Perhaps,” said Seiryu, “the sword rests even now with others in your clan? I have heard talk of a school for those like you that lies deep in the mountains. Protected by snow and fog and dead-end valleys and rockslides. Few dare venture there.”

“Fewer still would make it back alive,” said Ran. “Given such precautions.”

“But for one such as myself,” said Seiryu, “I could easily make the journey and find what belongs to me. And I could do it without even leaving the comfort of my home here, such is my power.”

The candles overhead flickered and a breeze swept up through the room. Ran caught a strange new scent and the chanting seemed overpowered by a low growl emanating from all around them.

Seiryu pointed at the portal overhead. “The time grows near and my master hungers for the blood of one such as you. Strength and vitality flow within your veins. Shortly, they will slake his unnatural thirst.”

Ran bucked against the ropes but even with his strength, he could do little to free himself. Seiryu’s laughter filled the chamber and the wind in the room grew even more powerful. The tapestries flapped against the stone walls and the chanting increased.

“Look at me now,” said Seiryu. “And you will look upon the visage of one who controls the depths of night and shadow. Where your kind only play, I rule with the power of the mighty overlord of darkness.”

Ran gasped and saw Seiryu’s features changing. His skull seemed to lengthen and draw out to an absurdly narrow shape. His eyes vanished and became blackened pools of obsidian. Serrated teeth burst from a gaping maw dripping with a greenish bile.

Seiryu turned around and lifted his hands to the open portal high overhead. He started chanting in a dialect Ran had never heard before.

Ran yanked at the binds holding his wrists.

And then felt one of them give.

He jerked his head to one side and saw a figure cloaked in black clothes slicing through the cordage with a darkened blade. It cut his left hand first and then his right.

Ran turned to keep his eyes on Seiryu, who still had his back to him.

The figure rushed to Ran’s front and cut away the binds holding his feet.

Ran rolled off the altar.

Seiryu turned and saw Ran free and roared. “No!”

Ran glanced at the figure that had cut him free and felt something thrust into his hands. His long sword!

Ran ripped it from its scabbard and held the blade in front of him.

Seiryu eyed him for a mere moment and then seemed to sigh as if Ran’s sudden freedom were nothing more than a slight delay in the inevitable procession.

“Kill him.”

From behind Seiryu six armed warriors rushed to either side. Ran recognized them as some of the guards he’d passed on his way into the castle earlier. They bore an assortment of short swords and other weapons.

Ran took a deep breath and moved to meet the first attacker. The guard swung a short sword down at his head and Ran stepped to the outside of the blade’s arc before cleaving up and through the man’s midsection with his long sword. He gurgled and dropped.

A second guard stabbed at Ran who barely managed to chop down and then backhand his blade up into the man’s throat, severing his neck almost entirely.

Ran spun and dropped, evading the third attack from his left side. He cut up and under the swordsman’s armpit, driving the blade deeply into it, hearing the man gasp and then slide off the blade.

More wind burst about the room and Seiryu continued chanting as if it would somehow aid his men.

But Ran was his own tempest now, sweeping left and right as his blade executed the finely honed movements that he had been burned into his muscle memory for many years.

He stepped under a fourth assault and drove his blade into the man’s heart, yanking it free and cutting horizontally as the fifth attacker attempted to cleave his skull with a war hammer. Ran sliced him open and then faced the sixth and final guard, who started to cut down at Ran’s head, only to suddenly freeze as the blade of a small knife suddenly exploded from his chest. He dropped and Ran saw the cloaked figure that had freed him standing there, still holding the blade.

Ran nodded curtly at the figure and then wheeled to face Seiryu.

The evil wizard now looked more like some bizarre creature than the man he had once been. But if Ran expected to see fear in its face, he was sorely mistaken. Seiryu seemed completely unfazed by Ran’s sudden quest for freedom and the death of six well-trained warriors in the space of mere moments.

The dark mage spoke now and the rasping gargle of words that spilled forth reminded Ran of a rabid animal, sick and evil as disease twisted its very soul. “You will never leave this room alive.”

Ran kept the altar between him and Seiryu, doing his best to use his environment to his advantage.

But then Seiryu—now more beast than man—bounded across the room and leaped over the altar, landing on Ran before the shadow warrior could even sense the motion. Seiryu’s fingers had become claws and they tore through the open wound on Ran’s chest, drawing deep crimson blood that stained the air and the ground alike.

A growling purr arose in Seiryu’s throat. Ran gritted his teeth and rolled, bucking the wizard from his chest. Seiryu wheeled and then sprang again, but Ran’s blade flashed in the air.

He felt the long sword bite deep into Seiryu’s side. He twisted his hips, driving the blade through bone and organ alike, spraying the room with the vile stench of innards and gristle.

Seiryu fell sprawling at the base of the altar, his blood spilling about him in an ever-widening pool.

Ran stepped forward to deal him a death blow, but the wizard lifted one quivering claw and a bolt of purple energy sizzled in the air, slamming into Ran’s stomach, knocking him back across the room. Ran slammed into the stone wall and felt his wind go rushing out of his lungs. He struggled to breathe, desperate to finish Seiryu off.

On the other side of the room, Seiryu clamped one of his claws across the wound Ran had given him and tried to rise. His features melted again, a swirling miasma of flesh and scale that defied anything natural. It was if his body was caught between two different beings.

Ran couldn’t afford to let either win.

He managed to rise, his breathing coming in short spurts. Seiryu caught the motion and sent another bolt of energy at him. But Ran ducked out of its path and moved across the room. The howl of wind attacked his ears, but Ran ignored it and reached Seiryu.

Seiryu’s voice croaked from his throat. “You will not kill my master tonight.”

“Perhaps not,” said Ran. He raised his sword and slashed down, cleaving Seiryu’s head cleanly from his shoulders. “But your death will do just fine.”

Seiryu’s head rolled to one side of the room and then stopped, his eyes open and opaque.

A sudden stillness dropped over the room.

Everything went silent.

* * *

Ran blinked. Sweat and blood ran down his torso; he let out a long shuddering breath.

He sensed movement behind him and whirled around, his sword at the ready.

The figure swathed in black approached. Ran frowned. Something about it seemed familiar.

“Ran.”

That voice.

And then the figure drew back the cloth wrapped about its head and Ran gazed upon the eyes of the woman he’d freed only a short time before. He smiled in spite of himself. “Cassandra.”

She glanced about the room. “It would appear as though the debt I owe you has been repaid.”

Ran frowned. “I rather thought that debt would be repaid by other…more pleasurable means.”

Cassandra laughed lightly. “No doubt. Who knows what your future may bring? You may yet live to see such bliss.”

Ran sheathed his sword. “But why did you come back here? He would have killed you if you’d been recaptured.”

“I never left,” said Cassandra. “Fleeing would have been futile; I made it as far as the western passes and found them closed. I would have never gotten past them alive. So I came back, biding my time until I could steal back into the castle and get close enough to kill him. Only then would I have been able to return to my home.”

“You meant to kill him?”

Cassandra eyed him. “Better I try and die in failure than live a coward’s life.”

“How did you get into the castle again?”

“You are not the only with certain skills, Ran. I’ve been watching the timings of the patrols that he sent out each day. This day, a squad of men headed to the place where we last parted ways. I heard them talking about someone who seemed to resemble your appearance. Getting back into the castle was far easier than escaping.”

Ran pointed. “I see you still have the knife I gave you.”

She smiled. “And a good thing you did give it to me. It saved your life tonight.”

Ran shook his head. “My life was spared not because of that tool, but because of the bravery of a woman to whom I am now indebted.”

“You owe me nothing. I would have languished in that cell until he saw fit to feed me to whatever creature he called forth from the depths of hell.”

Ran stepped over to the side of the room and slid his tunic back on, feeling the material quickly absorb the sweat and blood. Cassandra pointed at his chest. “You should get that treated. Seiryu’s claws might have had some poison under them.”

Ran frowned. “There will be time enough for that later. Right now, we need to get out of here.” He grabbed his long and short swords and thrust them into his belt. “Come on.”

They turned and froze. Seiryu’s body suddenly ignited with a bright green flame that devoured every inch of his flesh. It grew hotter in the room until they could stand it no longer. Flames leapt to the tapestries and then the scrolls blew into the rising inferno.

Ran grabbed Cassandra’s hand and they dashed from the room. More fire exploded in the hallway. Overhead, they heard a rumbling of bricks and stone. Bits of the ceiling crashed down around them.

From elsewhere in the castle, screams and moans filled the air. Ran pointed around them. “Whatever gave Seiryu his power seems to be taking it back.”

Cassandra gripped his hand and they ran back toward the main entrance. Flames and explosions rocked the castle around them, but they ducked back out onto the ramparts, following the towers stairs back down toward the main gate. The guards and servants paid them little mind and only one stood to confront them, but Ran cut him down with little more effort than a blink.

They dashed through the main gate and did not stop until they reached the edge of the forest. Turning, they saw the castle shudder and then tumble in upon itself, its lofty towers plunging toward the ground, until only a massive pile of boulders stood in its wake. A cloud of dust rose over the entire scene and then settled back onto the huge pile of rubble.

“I have never seen such magic,” said Cassandra quietly.

“Nor I.”

She looked at Ran then and kissed him quietly on his lips. “Where will you go now?”

Ran looked north. “Back to my clan. I will tell them what happened here tonight. Seiryu’s evil is no more. He is dead.”

Cassandra eyed him. “And what then, shadow warrior?”

Ran smiled. “I don’t know…yet.”

“Stay with me, then. Journey to the west with me. Let me show you my kingdom and the beauty it encompasses.”

Her eyes twinkled under the starlight and Ran felt his heart thunder for a different reason. She pressed close to him and he felt her warmth.

But then he stepped back. “I have an obligation to fulfill first.”

Cassandra nodded. “The rumors about your kind are not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are those who claim that your kind are without honor; that you are not true warriors.”

Ran grinned. “There are those who say that. Yes.”

“But they don’t know you the way I do.”

Ran chuckled. “Do you know me, Princess Cassandra?”

“Perhaps not as well as I would like. But I think seeing any man risk his life to thwart evil gives one a certain insight.”

Ran touched her cheek. “What insight?”

“Your ways are different, but no less honorable.” She smiled. “My offer still stands. If you find yourself in my lands, come visit me. I will see that the long trip is worth your time.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Ran with a bow.

“It would be, indeed.” Cassandra kissed him once more and then turned.

This time, it was the princess who vanished into the night.

* * *

“His sorcery is finished.”

Tozawa regarded him, but Ran could discern little from the expression on his face. After several moments, the clan elder cleared his throat. “You very nearly compromised the entirety of this clan and all it has worked so hard to achieve.”

“And yet, Seiryu knew plenty about us before my arrival.” Ran shook his head. “Perhaps our secrets are not as secure as we would like to imagine them.”

Tozawa sipped his tea and then placed the cup back down. “There are those within the Nine Daggers who would have your name stricken from our scrolls. They would have your head for the insolence you showed by pursuing a personal vendetta against Seiryu. Such things go against the very nature of what we do.”

“There was no vendetta,” said Ran. “Seiryu’s very existence was a threat to us. He should have been killed long ago.”

“As I told you, that was not a matter for you to decide. Such things are only for the elders of our clan to ponder.”

Ran held his tongue and waited for Tozawa to continue. “You showed a lack of foresight by returning. He might well have sprung a trap for you. Seiryu’s reputation for intellect and deception were reportedly second to none.”

Ran kept his eyes fixed on Tozawa. There seemed little point in relaying how Seiryu had indeed trapped him and how Ran had come so very close to death. Such revelations would only serve to undermine his accomplishments.

Tozawa sighed. “The point is that you disregarded the clan’s best interests in favor of your own. You put a personal matter ahead of the Shinobujin.”

Ran took a sip of his tea and let the bitter green taste settle in his mouth before answering. “You once told me that the point of all of this training was for us to reach a point where we trusted our own instincts—where we saw with our own eyes instead of relying on the word of others.”

“I did say that,” said Tozawa.

“And that is precisely what I did,” said Ran. “I was the one who had firsthand knowledge of what Seiryu was doing—the evil he was inflicting, the people he was terrorizing. And I used my knowledge to form what I believed to be the best course of action. Precisely as I’d been taught.”

Tozawa said nothing for a moment but then allowed a brief smile to split his lips. “You are young, Ran. And you believe that you know what is best. Very possibly, in some limited situations, you do. But there are things that you do not yet know. And there are things that truly are best left to an objective opinion, rather than a subjective one. Ego is a tool that we teach you to use; but it is also the one true curse of man. The line separating asset from liability is a very thin one, indeed.”

Ran bowed his head. “There is great wisdom in that.”

Tozawa nodded. “You are one of the finest pupils to ever graduate from this school. But you are inexperienced and rash. Such things can only be cured by time.”

Ran took another sip of the tea. “And what would you—and the others—have me to do to make up for this perceived affront to the clan?” asked Ran.

Tozawa chuckled. “Fear not, Ran. No one is going to kill you. As rash and hotheaded as you are, you are nevertheless far too valuable to us to permit such drastic measures.” His eyes narrowed. “However, something will have to be done. Punishment must be handed down.”

Ran waited, willing himself to accept his fate with steadfast resolve.

“Shugyo.”

The word spilled from Tozawa’s mouth and Ran nearly broke into a huge smile.

Tozawa pretended to look away, all too aware that Ran’s struggle to contain his glee was failing miserably. “Yes, I think that is the best thing for you.”

It was far more than Ran dared hope for. A wandering quest—the chance to go off and explore the world. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down.

“Don’t be so overjoyed, Ran. You will be without a home,” said Tozawa quietly. “Nor will we claim you as one of ours as long as your quest lasts. You will be without any protection from us and you will not be permitted to utilize any of our assets. You will be alone. More alone than you have ever been in your life so far.”

“I understand.”

Tozawa raised an eyebrow. “Do you truly, Ran? Do not treat this so lightly. While I know you envision a glorious time of adventure, know also that a wandering quest is also a time of severe trial and hardship. Many who go off on such ventures never live long enough to return.”

Ran nodded. “I will endeavor to learn as much as I may from this judgment.”

“See that you do,” said Tozawa. “And make sure you don’t come back here for a while. It will take some time for those who are clamoring for punishment to forget what you have done.”

“How long should I stay away?”

Tozawa shrugged. “You will know when it is time to return; nature is the one true protector and she will let you know. As you said, you apparently have an easy time listening to your instincts.” He winked at Ran. “I just hope you find that to be true once you are alone.”

“I hope so, too,” said Ran.

“You leave tomorrow at dawn. Take the night to pack your things, bearing in mind that you must adopt the manner of an ordinary person, even though you are anything but.”

“I shall.”

Tozawa finished his tea and looked at Ran. As he did, a smile broke out along the elder master’s face. “And where will you go first, Ran? Where will your quest take you first?”

Ran found himself wondering if Tozawa himself had once gone on a wandering quest. Had he seen things Ran could not even imagine? Had he tasted glory in faraway places and battled horrible foes? The young shinobujin hesitated only a moment, bowed to his teacher and then smiled.

“I shall journey west.”

Jon F. Merz is the author of The Undead Hordes of Kan-gul, Book 1 in the Shadow Warrior series.

Sweothi City

by Larry Correia

Sweothi City, Central African Republic.

December 15th, 1993.

1:25 PM.

The hotel had been evacuated since the government had collapsed and revolution had spilled over the countryside, but the lobby still stank of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Random cries, crowd noise, and honking horns resonated through the windows as the seemingly endless mob of refugees surged through the streets.

The refugees did not know they were doomed. With the Mouvement pour la Libération du Centrafricain (MLC) rebels tearing up the Ubangi river basin, there was no escape. And from what I had seen in the last forty-eight hours, they didn’t take prisoners. The CAR Army was in shambles from the coup, with half of them joining the rebels, and the other half fleeing for the Congolese border.

The lobby had become our improvised command center. Furniture, debris, and even some of the planking from the walls had been stacked against the doors to deter adventurous looters. Ramirez was on the roof, armed with an ancient DP machinegun and a radio. So far the MLC hadn’t made a move against the city, but they were massing, and every escape route was blocked.

There were twenty men in the lobby, two separate groups forced together, uneasy allies with only one chance for survival. You could feel the anxiety in the air, a physical buzz, almost louder than the refugee train outside. All of them were filthy, armed to the teeth, exhausted, and aware that death was coming, and it was coming hard and fast.

SWITCHBLADE was headed by Decker, the dispassionate mercenary leader. Someone had scrounged up a chalkboard, probably stolen from the missionary school next door and he was busy drawing a rudimentary map of the city and the route that the rebel army was most likely going to use to assault it. O’s were the bad guys. X’s and arrows showed his plan. Each X was one of us. Each arrow was an order given in a cold, emotionless, voice.

There weren’t very many X’s on that map. There were a whole lot of O’s.

Hawk, the weathered gunslinger, was second in command. The man always made me think of those gun magazines I had read as a kid, with the stories about blazing sixguns on the border. He was seemingly unfazed, even in our current situation. Cuzak sat on a barstool, head wrapped in a blood stained rag, still in shock from the landmine that had splattered Irwin all over the rest of us. Areyh, the former Israeli commando, was squatting next to the board, memorizing the plans while he ran a bore brush frantically through a filthy Galil. Doc was our medic, and he was off to one side attending to one of the wounded Portuguese mercs. I had a feeling that Doc was going to have a long day.

And me.

And that was all that was left of the illustrious mercenary company called SWITCHBLADE.

F***ing Decker. F*** Decker and his f***ing mission. He should have listened to me. If he hadn’t been so damn sure of himself, so damn proud, Irwin, Slick, and Sam would still be alive.

I hid my emotions behind a mask of mud and dried blood, and went back to dispassionately cleaning the Yugoslavian RPK that I had stolen, listening to Decker’s defensive plans, but already making plans of my own.

The other half of our ragtag group of survivors was all that remained of the Portuguese mercenary company out of Angola. They had been hit worse than we were. Nobody had expected the rebels to be this well organized and equipped, but apparently the Montalban Diamond Exchange had brought in a large group of Cubans to train up the disorganized MLC. The Ports had lost most of their leadership in the last skirmish, and the only thing holding them together was a short, angry, hairball of a man named Sergeant Gomes.

“If we put up enough of a fight along these streets, then the rebels will commit their reserves. Currently that reserve is blocking here, and here. And as far as we can tell, those are the shock troops. The groups moving into the city now are the irregulars. With them out of the way, we can then retreat down Kahiba Road toward Manova-Gounda. Then it’s a straight shot, fifteen clicks, to the airfield,” Decker explained calmly. “The plane is fueled, and ready to go, but they will not wait for us if the rebels approach the airfield. We do not have much time.”

He was calm now. The Belgian was always calm. He was calm when he got us into this suicide mission. Calm when we overthrew a government and brought hell down on these people to placate a diamond company, and he would probably be calm when I put my knife in his throat. I snapped a fresh drum into the Yugo and worked the charging handle.

“It’ll be tight, but we can fit in the truck, all of us,” the leader of the Portuguese said, referring to the deuce and a half they had stashed in the hotel garage. His English sounded strange, and had probably been taught to him by an Afrikaner. “Who’s gonna cause enough problems to get a division of rebels to concentrate enough to let us slip out though?”

“We’ll need a diversion. Someone will need to cause enough resistance to stall the irregulars, here,” he gestured at the board, “long enough for them to call in the Cubans and the trained MLC. We’ll need someone who can fight, and then slip away once we escape, someone who can disappear, go to ground. Stealth will be their only chance to evade capture.” He looked right at me as he said it.

So he knew.

I should have kept my mouth shut after this operation went to hell. But I didn’t. I violated my own rule of always being the grey man, the one that didn’t draw attention, the thief in the background. I had let my emotions get the better of me. And Decker must have sensed my anger.

And over the last year, he had seen what happened to people who made me angry.

So this was how it was going to be.

“Ozzie,” he nodded toward me. “I think you would be the only person who would have a chance.” Decker was good, very good. He didn’t display any indication that he was disposing of me. Rather, he was just the good leader, picking the best man for the job. “We’re counting on you. Force them to pull their reserves, if not, we’ll have to try a frontal assault, and since they have those APCs, it would be suicide in the open.”

The only surviving radio in the room suddenly crackled with static. Every head in the room swiveled towards it. “This is Ramirez. Militia forces are moving into the south end of the city. Looks like they’re going to burn it all.”

The room was silent, then broken by a fit of coughing from one of the wounded mercs who’d caught shrapnel in the lung.

“Do you mind if we have a word about this, in private?” I asked, perfectly calm.

Decker made a show of looking at his watch. “Certainly.” He gave an imperceptible nod toward Hawk. They had been around, and knew what was happening. “But we’d best hurry.”

“No s***,” Sergeant Gomes said, as a mortar shell exploded somewhere in the city.

######

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Decker said, as he strolled into the side room. He had his back to me. The spot between his shoulder blades and the ALICE suspenders was an inviting target, and I could feel the heavy weight of the combat knife on my hip. But Hawk was trailing behind me, and as fast as I was, I knew that Hawk was that much faster with that big magnum revolver.

“It is what it is,” I replied, too damn tired to try to put on any sort of act. “We killed the president. We caused this. The diamond exchange used us, and you let them.”

“How long have you been with SWITCHBLADE?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “A year, yes, a year. And honestly...” he finally turned to face me, his eyes sad, his spirit injured by the events of the last two days. “I saw great things in your future. You were nothing but a common thief when you joined us...”

“I was an exceptional thief.”

He ignored that. “But I saw a leader, a man that could make a difference. I could see you taking over, and running this organization.” Decker was sincere, at least. That I could tell, but sincerity doesn’t make a rattlesnake any less venomous.

“If you haven’t noticed, half your organization’s dead, because you screwed up.”

“I know...” Decker said, his voice cracking, the pain obvious. “This is the end of SWITCHBLADE. Even if we make it out, the diamond exchange will have us hunted down like dogs. I’m sorry about the men. They… they were like family to me.” I could hear the creak of gun leather as Hawk shifted behind me.

Also true, but it didn’t make me hate him any less right then.

“And I know that’s why you’re going to do your best to slow down these rebels. Because I know that Ramirez, and Doc, and Cuzak are like brothers to you, and you won’t let them down,” Decker said simply.

“True,” I answered.

“You had better hurry.” Decker put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. And I believed him.

And that was the only reason I decided not to kill him.

######

The refugees were panicking now, turning from individuals, into a deadly entity, discarding and crushing bits of itself underfoot. Screams filled the air. In the distance could be heard the boom of mortars and sporadic automatic weapons fire. The boards that had been blocking the front door flew into the street in a spray of dust as I booted them hard and pushed my way into the street.

It was hot. Muggy, sticky hot, and sweat rolled down my back and soaked my camouflage. The air stank of oil and smoke and fear.

The group had been low on ammo after two days of furious combat and retreat, but I had still commandeered every piece of hardware that I could carry. I had the RPK in hand, our last RPG slung over one shoulder, Cuzak’s Ithaca 37 over the other shoulder (he was in no shape to fight anyway), a Browning Hi-Power on my belt, and every spare round of ammo and frag grenade that I could scrape up. Any more munitions and I wouldn’t be able to move. Tsetse flies kept landing on my face to probe the dried blood patches.

Doc had tried to stop me. He understood what was happening, that I was a threat to Decker, and therefore expendable. I had just shook my head, and made him promise to get the wounded to safety. Cuzak hadn’t said a word, but he shook my hand solemnly, knowing what I was about to do. If I had one weakness, it was that when I occasionally made a friend, I was too damn loyal.

And it was about to kill me.

Decker gave me a brief nod. Hawk tipped his hat in my direction. Areyh spit on the floor.

So this was the end of SWITCHBLADE.

The others exited, fanning out, forming a perimeter around the hotel, where they would hold until Ramirez, acting as our spotter, could see that the road was clear. If I failed, their only choice was to attack straight into the Cubans and try to break through to the airfield. They would never make it. I walked away, the deadly mob of women, children, and old men parting before me like water, leaving the last year of my life behind, and knowing that I was probably going to perish in the next few minutes. The terrified Africans moved out of my way, my anger like an invisible plow.

The CAR was a blighted land. Torn by war for generations, poor beyond all comprehension, and I knew that probably half of these refugees would be dead in the next ten years from AIDS even if they managed to somehow survive the machetes of the approaching rebels. And we had come here, paid in blood money, to topple their corrupt government, and install another corrupt government that the diamond exchange liked better. And even then, the exchange had sold us out.

What a waste.

Then there was someone pushing forward with me. Sergeant Gomes, the Portuguese mercenary, appeared at my side, his burly form cradling the Port’s PKM machine gun. A stubby Steyr Aug was tied around him with a discarded web belt serving as a sling. His oddball camouflage was ripped, blood stained, and every exposed patch of skin was covered in caked on mud. He looked hideous.

But happy. “Let’s kill us a bunch of these rebel sons of bitches,” he grinned, his beady eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What’re you doing?” I shouted over the chaos.

“My men? They’re in no shape to fight. So I figure, nothing I can do for them,” he shrugged. “You could use the help. Might as well go fight.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

He stuck out his hand. It was calloused and strong. “Call me Carl.”

I had been going by Ozzie for the last year, but I knew that I couldn’t go back. Even if I lived through this battle, it would be best if I disappeared. I knew that the diamond exchange could not afford to allow any of SWITCHBLADE to survive, knowing the things that we knew. And if they didn’t get me, then Decker might very well try, just to tie up loose ends. It was time to start over, to disappear, to become grey again.

I said the first name that popped into my head.

“Lorenzo... My name is Lorenzo.”

#####

Sweothi City, Central African Republic.

December 15th, 1993.

2:15 PM

The crowd thinned out enough for the two of us to break into a run, counter intuitively, toward the sound of gunfire. Normally I was the type that liked to plan, but there was no time for that.

This part of Sweothi City was rougher than the rest. Half the buildings were the stacked mud brick type, but compressed between them was a maze of shanties built out of things like chicken wire, packing crates, and old tires. Some of them were already burning.

Carl grabbed me by the arm and pointed down the street into the emptying marketplace. Black smoke was rising from the neighborhood behind it. “The irregulars will come through here.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been fighting in Africa since my people lost Mozambique. They’ll come through here because they’re stupid rabble and it’s obvious. They’ll want to loot the shops, rape the stragglers.” He swept his hand to the right, and pointed down the other intersection. “When the Cubans come, they’ll move up this street, and then try to flank us through the shanties on the north. That’s how those commie bastards will do it.”

I nodded quickly, trying to burn the layout into my mind.

“Stick and move. Don’t let them pin you down. Most of these s*** birds can’t shoot, but they shoot a lot.” Carl hefted the massive PK. “Always attack. Make them react. Got it?”

“Got it.”

My pulse was pounding in my head as I turned and headed into the market and toward the rising smoke plumes of black tire-fueled smoke. The 75 round drum in the RPK was heavy and pendulous at the balance point as I let the muzzle lead the way. I moved in a crouch, Carl slightly behind me, gun shifting toward every sudden flash of movement. Several scrawny dogs ran past, tails between their legs.

Then I saw the first of the rebels. I raised my fist, signaling contact. We both crouched low and moved into the shadows beneath a meat stand. A thick black cloud of flies covered the hanging goats and chickens. A can of generic bug spray was under foot, surely used to spray the meat down to keep the flies off.

The first of the MLC were making their way through the bazaar, kicking over stands, and picking up anything left that looked shiny. They really were rabble. Nothing like the disciplined troops we had fought earlier. Most of them were scrawny, malnourished, conscripts wide-eyed with fear, or barely coherent on khat. I hunkered down, waiting for more of them to come into view before I opened fire.

Then there was a scream to the side. A woman. Carl and I both jerked toward the noise, just in time to see two of the rebels dragging a young girl by the hair from one of the brick houses into the street. She was hysterical, with tears running down her dark cheeks.

Carl’s machinegun shifted toward the two men, but I grabbed his arm and shook my head. The rebels hadn’t seen us yet. I jerked my thumb toward myself, made a slashing motion across my throat, and then pointed at the two would be rapists. Carl nodded, and trained his weapon back at the rebels collecting in the market. We only had one belt for the machine gun, and needed to make the most use of it.

I put the RPG, RPK, and Ithaca on the ground, as quietly as possible, and drew the Vietnam-era Air Force knife from my belt. I slid under the booth, and crawled through the dirt, brushing between hanging meat and half gutted chickens, using every shadow and piece of cover. Luckily my Rhodesian camouflage was so crusted with filth that I was the same color as the earth. I covered the thirty feet to the first rebel in a matter of seconds. This was my element. No one could move quieter or faster than I could.

The men were distracted. The first had shoved the girl down and was trying to rip her clothes off as she thrashed and screamed. He was obviously inexperienced at this whole pillaging thing, and the girl was wailing on him.

The second man got tired of waiting, lowered his machete, and pushed the younger man aside. “Ashti sangha m’baka, dummy.”

I moved in a blur, my knife humming through the air. I hit the first man in the base of the neck. The knife jabbed in under his ear, and out in a flash of red. The second man had time to turn, shock registering on his face, just as I kicked his knee cap backward. He went down on top of the girl. I grabbed him by the hair, jerked his head back, and slashed him across the jugular.

Neither man was making noise now, but both were thrashing, spraying arterial fluids everywhere. They would be dead in seconds. The girl looked up at me in shock as I grabbed the rags that served as her assailant’s shirt and hauled him off of her.

“Run.”

She heeded my suggestion, leapt to her feet, and bolted, trying to hold her torn clothing closed. I heard motion coming from the open door of her house, and quickly moved against the hot brick wall. Dripping knife held in a reverse grip, close to my chin.

Another rebel walked out of the house, AK in one hand, dangling useless, the other hand was holding some gaudy, cheap, necklace up to the sunlight. He was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with his plunder.

Enjoy it, mother-f***er.

He paused, realizing that his two friends were the source of all that blood, just as I grabbed him by the top of the head, jerked it back, and rammed the combat knife straight down, just above the junction of his neck and sternum. I used the knife against his ribs like a lever to force him to his knees as I sawed through his aorta. I yanked the blade out and let him thud lifeless to the ground. I wiped the knife on his pants, sheathed it, and grabbed his AK. The whole thing had taken less than twenty seconds.

Carl was staring at me in slack-jawed wonderment as I slithered back through the hanging meats.

"Filho da Puta…”

“Yeah. I get that a lot,” I muttered as I slung the RPG tube and the shotgun. I now had a Kalashnikov in each hand. This was getting kind of extreme.

“Contact right,” Carl hissed.

Sure enough, there was the main body of the irregulars. Now they were clustered in the marketplace, fighting like dogs over the scraps of a ruined civilization. There were at least thirty of them, armed with everything from meat cleavers to grenade launchers, and they were not in the least bit worried about resistance.

“On three,” his voice was a whisper as he slowly extended the PKM’s bipod. “One mag, then run like hell back to the intersection.”

“One.” I proned out behind the AK, using the magazine as a monopod, and centered it on a knot of men. They were less than one hundred meters away.

“Two,” Carl hissed as he took up slack on the trigger.

“Three,” I moved the selector to full.

BBBBRRAAAAAAPPPPP... BBBBRRAAAAAAPPPPP...

The PKM was horrendously loud as it cut a swath through flesh and bone. Whole knots of the rebels disintegrated in clouds of red as the 7.62x54R tore into them in great piercing blows. As Carl was swinging the reaper’s scythe, I tried to pick out anything he was missing. I centered the front sight on a running rebel, and cranked off a burst.

The wall three feet to his side exploded under the impact.

“Damn it!”

The sights on this thing were so far off that aiming was useless. I held the trigger down and swept the muzzle across the market, emptying the magazine in one burst. I let go of the AK and let it flop to its side. I was to Carl’s left, and the steel cases from the PK hit me with brutal impacts. I scooped up the RPK and prepared to cover his withdrawal.

Carl was saying something repetitive in Portuguese with every burst. In seconds, our hundred-round belt was gone. “Moving!” Carl shouted as he jumped up from behind the smoking beast.

“Move!” I answered as I scanned for threats. Carl ran for the intersection while pulling the Aug from its makeshift sling. The market was a mess, with the dead and dying spread everywhere. The rebels were in disarray, but that wouldn’t last long. Already there was movement as more came in from the south. I sighted in on one charging man, and stroked the trigger. The Yugo barked, and the man pitched forward into the street. At least this one was sighted in.

“Go!” Carl shouted as he took up position behind a brick wall.

I sprang to my feet, and leapfrogged past him, sliding into a position behind a bank of broken cinderblocks. The RPG on my back made it hard to maneuver, and damn near impossible to get low.

Several of the very brave, or very stupid, moved out into the open. In African warfare, you could often get away with this, as the fundamentals of marksmanship were not really known or taught by very many people here. For Carl and me, however, marksmanship was apparently not a problem. The rebels went down in a quick hail of gunfire.

The street was silent.

We had bloodied them, but I didn’t know what it was going to take to get those Cuban’s attention and get them off that damn road.

“Give them a minute, to get puffed up, get over the shock, and then they’re gonna charge. Then it won’t stop until we’re dead, or they’re dead. So let the dumb ones get popped in the open, and then we’ll fall back into the houses and alleys,” he jerked with his head in one direction, “and counterattack. When we hear the commie’s vehicles, move so we can hit the intersection.”

And then it was on. Rebels poured through the marketplace. Some ran straight at us, firing from the hip, others hung their guns around corners and blazed away. It was chaos. None of them could shoot worth a damn, but they made up for it in volume. Bullets tried to fill all the empty spaces. The cinderblocks around me exploded into powder and clouds of dust, and I swear some of those guys must have been shooting black powder from all the smoke. I fired at everything that moved and put rounds through anything that looked suspicious.

“Reloading!” Carl shouted as I hammered a line of impacts through some shanties. “Move to the buildings! Go! Go!”

The whole world had gone insane. I was up and moving as fast as I could, hot lead all around me, sounding like angry bees. The RPK sparked hard and spun from my hands, torn nearly in half. The hot muzzle smashed me in the face and my feet flew out from under me. I crashed into the gravel as gouts of flame tore all around.

“Technical!” Carl shouted as he lumbered past me, grabbing me by the straps of my LBV and pulling me up. This particular technical was a red Toyota pickup with a massive 12.7 DhSK machine gun mounted on the back. I hadn’t heard it roll up behind us in the intersection.

The huge gun tracked over us, spitting bullets past, and into the soldiers on their own side. Carl shoved me through an open doorway and into the cool darkness.

I lay on the floor, breath coming in ragged gasps. It was actually quiet. Or I think it was quiet. It was hard to tell over the ringing in my ears.

“Are you hit?” Carl shouted as he quickly poked his head through the door.

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

“Good.” Carl pulled back, just as the doorway exploded into mud fragments. The DhSK was seeking us again, probing for us with bullets bigger than my pinky finger. “Fodas!”

Now it was brighter as sunshine streamed through the fresh new holes in the wall. This home was a simple, one-room dwelling. There was a backdoor. I crawled toward it, rolled over, yanked Cuzak’s 12 gauge, and kicked the simple plywood door open. Leaning out, I could see that the door led into an alley. I scanned the other direction and—

CRACK

“Damn it!” I screamed as the bullet flew through the plywood and past my face. I fell into the dirt alley, right at the feet of a rebel. He looked down at me in surprise as he tried to work the bolt on his Mosin Nagant. I smashed the Ithaca’s steel buttplate into his groin. He stumbled back as I rose and smashed his skull with another butt stroke. I brought it down twice more in rapid succession, each impact a meaty thud. He slid slowly down the wall.

Someone else appeared around the corner, and I raised the shotgun without thinking, front bead centering on his head. I froze, as the unarmed old man raised his open hands and begged for his life. My trembling finger had almost pulled the trigger.

“Get down!” I shouted at the old man as the DhSK raked through the house again, with the bullets passing through multiple walls and into the alley. The old man vanished back around the corner.

I had to take out that machine gun. Now. I sprinted down the alley in the direction of the noise. I could hear Carl breathing hard as he tore after me. The alley was long, and twisty, with each mud house having a backdoor. “Watch our back!” I shouted as I thought about all those openings behind us.

The Aug barked twice. “On it!” Carl answered.

There was movement ahead, one of the plywood doors flew open, and the muzzle of an SKS snaked through. The rebel stepped through the doorway and I blasted him in the face with a round of double aught, pumped it, and swung around the door. The little house was packed with soldiers. Packed.

They looked at me. I looked at them. That one second stretched into eternity.

Then everybody moved.

Cuzak’s gun was the old style with no disconnector, so you just held down the trigger and pumped and it kept shooting, it also had an extended magazine, but I didn’t stop to think about those facts at the time.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM click

“Meu Deus,” Carl gasped as he viewed over my shoulder.

I reached one shaking hand into my pocket, pulled out some more buckshot, and started feeding them into the loading port.

“We’ve got to keep moving.”

2:22 PM

####

Sweothi City, Central African Republic.

December 15th, 1993.

2:35 PM

“We need to kill that technical!” Carl shouted into my ear as the walls exploded around us from heavy machinegun fire. Whoever was manning that DhSK was just working it back and forth across the houses. They didn’t know which house we were hiding in, or we would already be dead.

“Ya think?” I screamed back.

This was the third home we had leapfrogged into after the shotgun massacre. The area was covered in rebels now, shooting at anybody who didn’t look like they were from around these parts. Carl and I sure didn’t look like locals.

“You gonna use that thing--” he gestured at the end of the RPG launcher sticking above my shoulder like a psychotic blunderbuss. “Or just carry it around all day?”

I flipped him the bird, and pulled the heavy tube around in front of me. “Head for the alley so the back blast don’t kill you.”

He nodded once, rolled over, and low crawled for the back door. I knew once I opened that front door, I would have a clean shot at the intersection, but every scumbag in a three block radius was going to zero right in on us. I wouldn’t have much time.

I made sure the rocket was fully seated, the hammer cocked on the launcher, and push button safety deactivated. This was it. I stood, risked a quick peek through one of the approximately fifty-caliber holes through the wall, and spotted that damn little Toyota, parked in the middle of the road about ninety meters away. The tube settled heavy on my shoulder.

The plywood door flew open with a bang, powered by my boot and a whole lot of adrenalin. I centered the front sight through the lowest aperture, focused on it, with the Toyota a blur behind.

But then something caught my attention. I don’t know if it was the rumble of the heavy engines, or the crunching of debris under its tires. The RPG dipped slightly as I turned toward the lumbering thing coming from the direction, that sure enough, Carl had predicted the Cubans would use.

“BTR!” I screamed, as I pivoted toward the massive Soviet armored personnel carrier. It was all angles and armor, ugly, and swarming with Cubans. I aimed the RPG at the new, deadlier threat, and yanked the trigger. The tube boomed against my face and years of dust billowed from every surface inside the tiny African home. The rocket streaked to its target. It was deafening and awe inspiring.

The front of the BTR seemed to shiver for a brief instant before the grey steel tub belched flames in every direction. Several quick, massive blasts shuddered through the hulk, and I could see figures tossed, wind-milling, and spinning through the air.

I had not seen the second BTR enter the intersection. But it had seen me. Its cannon swiveled toward me. I turned and dove back into the house.

Suddenly the world was white. Brilliant flashing white. Up was down, and the ground was somehow now far below. It came up to meet me, very quickly.

Then nothing.

2:37 PM

####

Bob looked grim when he walked out of the hospital room and into the hallway. His eyes were red, puffy from crying, and at that moment he looked aged far beyond his seventeen years. My heart broke when I saw him, because Bob was our rock.

“Mom’s on her way,” I said quickly. She had been hysterical on the phone.

My older brother put one massive hand on my shoulder, using me to steady himself on wobbly legs. He towered over me, intimidating in his size and mass, though he never meant to be. “Dad wants to talk to you,” he croaked. Bob then let go of me, and seemed to melt, as he slid down into one of the waiting-room chairs. “You better hurry.” He put his head down and started to sob.

Several members of the hospital staff were clustered nearby, watching us. It was a small town, and everybody knew my foster father. They were all stunned by the senseless act of violence that had ripped our little community. I gathered up my courage, and headed for the door.

There was only one bed in the room. A bank of archaic instruments were beeping and clicking behind it. Doctor Smith nodded at me, placed his clipboard down on a small table, and silently left the room. The doctors had done everything they could, but the thugs that had attacked my father had been thorough. If Gideon Lorenzo lived it would be a miracle. Tubes and mysterious bags descended from the ceiling. Through the tangle, I could make out my father.

“Dad?”

“Hector…” he wheezed. His bandaged head tilted slightly in acknowledgement.

I moved to his side. He looked bad, with great dark circles around eyes so laced with blood that I couldn’t help but blink in sympathy. Always an amazingly strong man, it was shocking to see him in this state. I felt like someone had punched me in the throat. He was a good man, an honorable man. The idea of him being mortal had never entered my mind.

“I’ve got to tell you something…”

I waited, hot tears streaming down my face. This was the man that had taken me off the streets. This was the judge that sent the miserable wretch that had been my real father to prison. The Lorenzos had taken me in, welcomed me into their happy home, let me know what real family and loyalty was like. And now he was dying.

“What, Dad?”

“I’m worried about you...” His voice was barely a whisper. “I see things... in your future. Bad things.” I wiped my running nose on the back of my hand, and leaned in close. His red eyes were open wide, staring right through me. “You have a streak in you. You’re good, but you have... an evil inside. Don’t let it out. Please, whatever you do, don’t let it out.”

“I won’t.”

I flinched involuntarily as his hand clamped onto my arm, suddenly strong.

“Don’t avenge me. Leave it to the law, boy,” he hissed. “Don’t let the evil out...”

Then he was gone.

I stumbled back, crashing hard into the wall, instruments scattering across the floor, the strength gone from my legs. The machines began to scream and nurses rushed into the room. The wall was hard against my back, and the floor was cold beneath my legs. Bob was a hulking shadow in the doorway. A doctor began to pump his hands up and down on my father’s chest. I heard a wailing as Mom arrived, her hands pressed to her mouth, but the noise still coming through. I wanted to move to help her, but my body wouldn’t respond. Her scream was the word no, over and over.

My ears were ringing.

####

2:38 PM

My ears were ringing.

Where am I?

“Lorenzo! Come on!” Someone slapped me in the face. Hard. “Move, damn it!”

I woke up, and everything hurt. I was on my back, at an awkward angle, the Ithaca under me, stabbing me in the kidneys. It was hard to breath and the air was choked with dust and smoke. I raised my shaking hands in front of my face and saw that they were covered in blood and I had no idea if it was mine.

“What the hell was that?” I blurted, sitting up, and feeling something grate unnaturally in my chest.

“The Cubans are dropping mortar rounds right ahead of their advance.”

“They can do that?” I quavered as Carl pulled me up.

“Apparently. Good thing they missed. Can you move?”

“I think so.” Pain was shooting through me, but everything seemed to be connected. The house that I had been hiding in was... gone. “That was a miss?”

The area was now overlaid in swirling dust and smoke from the burning BTR. That mortar round had raised a mess. I could see flashes of movement through the fog, but I was lucky to see ten feet. This was our chance. We had accomplished our mission and gotten the Cubans to abandon their post. “Carl, head for where the technical was. Let’s hitch a ride.”

“Good idea,” he coughed as he inhaled a lungful of particulate. He pulled a black bandana out of his pocket and quickly tied it around his face like some bandito. Nice. I started toward where I thought the intersection was. Carl grabbed me by the shoulder, turned me 180 degrees, and shoved. I had really gotten turned around.

It hurt to move. It hurt more to breath. I was confused and disoriented, but I would be damned if I was going to die in this forsaken hell-hole. I hefted the shotgun and ran through the rubble and over the occasional body. This dust screen was going to settle fast.

It was like something out of a nightmare. Shapes appeared only to fade away through the haze. I slashed my leg open on a protruding piece of jagged rebar, scattering red droplets that disappeared into the ground like it was covered in sawdust, but I couldn’t even think of slowing down. A rebel materialized in front of me, and I instantly shot him through the heart with the 12 gauge. More men were moving to the side, and I fired at them as I sprinted past until the firing pin landed on an empty chamber.

Then we were out of the cloud, but we were in the open, running down the middle of a dirt street. My eyes gritted in their sockets, locking onto the technical, now only twenty meters away. A rebel was charging straight at me, a machete held high overhead, spittle flying from his lips. He was screaming something.

I tossed him the Ithaca. He caught it, looked at it in surprise, and then I crashed into him with my shoulder, bowling both of us to the ground. My combat knife was already coming out of the sheath as we hit. He screamed as I drove it between his ribs, but he still struggled to bring the machete into play.

Carl stepped past me, Aug shouldered, and opened fire on the Toyota. There were two men in the back, and both of them shook as the angry Portagee put bullets into them. The driver’s window shattered as Carl shifted targets.

The rebel and I rolled across the ground, locked in a dance to the death. I blocked the machete with my forearm. It cut deep, but he didn’t have the room to swing it. I pulled the knife out, and slammed it in again, and again, and again. Finally, he quit moving.

“Lorenzo, quit screwing around!” Carl shouted, as he scanned the wall of dust and flames. “We’ve got to go.”

I rose, panting, and sheathed the still bloody knife. Angry bullets whined past my head as more rebels saw us. “I’ll drive.”

“No, I drive. Nobody can catch me.” Carl answered as he opened the Toyota’s door, grabbed the dead driver, and hurled him out. “Get on that gun!”

I vaulted over the side of the pickup bed, landing on a pile of hot 12.7 brass. Carl revved the engine. Then the smoke wall opened and a great screaming beast roared through, muzzle flashes erupting from its machinegun.

“BTR!” I screamed as the APC rolled over a knot of rebels. But Carl was fast. He slammed the Toyota into gear and put pedal to metal. I slipped on the brass, and bounced off the truck bed walls as Carl cranked the wheel and took us through the rubble. I looked up in time to see an unlucky rebel bounce off the front fender and fly through a scrap-wood shanty.

Bullets puckered through our technical as we tore down the street and right through the militia. The remaining windows shattered. Carl bellowed in rage and pain as something struck him. I crawled up to the DhSK, but it was empty, with the feed tray cover locked open. I yanked the Browning 9mm from my holster and fired at the rebels one handed, the other holding onto the rollbar to keep from being tossed out.

We seemed to be going unbelievably fast.

The BTR was right behind us. For being so big, damn that thing was quick.

“Get on that gun or we’re gonna die!” Carl yelled, as he cranked the wheel and we took a corner far too fast.

THOOM

The 37mm cannon round flew past and most of the marketplace disappeared. The shockwave rocked the little technical onto two wheels, and then back. I spotted a big, green ammo-can and opened it. There were the huge 12.7 rounds, linked in a rusty, metal belt. I hoisted it out, put the belt in place, slammed the cover down, and yanked back on the charging handle.

I swiveled the DhSK around, but the BTR hadn’t followed us around the corner.

But there were plenty of other targets.

I opened fire on random MLC rebels as we drove by. The muzzle blast from the big Russian was like a mushroom cloud. The recoil shook the Toyota down to its suspension. Carl took another corner, trying to head south, out of the city, but the streets were a maze.

Suddenly the brakes locked up, and we slid to a halt. I had the gun trained to the rear, and craned my neck around to see what the problem was.

The road was on fire.

For a good thirty feet, the road was nothing but a blazing oil slick, with flames taller than I was. This had been the source of the great pillar of smoke that we had homed in on to get to the marketplace. It must have been some sort of gas station before the rebels had blown it up. There was no other way past.

I turned back. The way we came from was swarming with rebels, looking like ants. A bullet sparked off the Toyota’s tailgate. Ants with AK-47s.

The tail lights lit up, signaling that we were in reverse. Another bullet smashed one of the lights. We started back toward the pile of rebels.

“Carl? What are you doing?” The only remaining taillight shattered. Another round cut a chunk from my ear.

“We need a running start.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me...” I laid on the DhSK like it was the hammer of Thor, sweeping it across the street. It ain’t pretty what one of these things does to a human being. I held the trigger down, the concussion so deep that I could feel it vibrating the jelly in my eyes.

Carl stopped, ground the transmission, and floored it.

I dropped down, threw my arms over my head, and tried to think happy thoughts.

Fire. Everywhere. Holy s***.

It was hard to explain. I opened me eyes, and could see it, like it was a living thing, coming up over the edge of the truck, leering down at me, hungry and angry. The heat hit like a sledgehammer, evaporating all of the moisture from my skin. I held my breath, but could feel the poison crowding up my nostrils. It wanted to eat me.

Then we were through.

I jumped back up. The DhSK’s wooden spade grips were on fire. I smothered them with my shirt. The Toyota’s paint was burning, the wind quickly beat it out.

Carl turned back around and looked at me through the shattered rear window, beady eyes gleaming through a layer of soot over his bandito mask, and said, “Hey, Lorenzo, your hair’s on fire.”

Well f*** me. I rubbed it out.

This road seemed to lead to the edge of town. I could see down it, a straight shot, and in the distance was open country and room to run or hide. Carl shifted gears and we continued to accelerate.

Then I saw it.

The BTR was running parallel to us. It was one street over to the right, separated from us by a single row of mud houses and shacks. The grey hulk was going to intercept us. The Cubans inside opened up through their firing ports. Most of the rounds smashed into the buildings, but at each gap, some passed through. Tracers stabbed a dotted line across the road.

Two could play that game. I grabbed the smoking handles and swiveled the DhSK.

“Hey!”

“Yeah!”

“BTR on our right. Will 12.7 pierce their armor?”

“Hell yeah! They’re light plate.”

I wasn’t going to try to time it between the houses. We were almost out of town, and I didn’t want to square off with this thing in the open. I mashed the butterfly trigger down.

The DhSK roared. Homes disintegrated as we played tag to the death with the Cubans at fifty miles an hour. The mighty 12.7 rounds crashed into the monstrosity, zipping right through the armor and through the crew inside.

The BTR swerved hard toward us, smashed through a house, actually got some air, and careened onto our street. I kept the DhSK on it the whole time, stitching it from end to end, opening it like a teenager shooting a pop can with a .22. The BTR continued on at an angle and smashed through another house and disappeared onto another street.

“I think I got him!”

“No.” Carl pointed out the window. The BTR was now traveling down the street to our left. The 37mm cannon was rotating toward us. I cranked the DhSK back around and opened fire, bouncing wildly as the Toyota careened down the rutted road. Carl stomped on the brakes. I flew forward and smashed into the cab as the cannon bloomed flame. The round narrowly missed us and a pile of shanties exploded into flames and shrapnel.

I spit a mouthful of blood onto the roof and shoved myself back onto the machinegun. The BTR was slightly ahead of us on the next street over. Carl suddenly accelerated. Somehow I knew exactly what he was doing. I cranked the DhSK around toward the front.

Carl swerved, crashing us through a fence made of sticks and cardboard. A pile of chickens fell victim to the Toyota, and suddenly birds and feathers were flying everywhere. We seemed to be airborne for a brief second, then the tires struck earth, and we were behind the speeding BTR.

I mashed the spade grips, the sight lined up on the rear end of the BTR. The muzzle brake reverberated painfully off the Toyota’s roof. Carl stuck his fingers into his ears, and steered with his knees. Round after round ripped through the armored vehicle from end to end, and it careened wildly to the side and crashed into a ditch, flames suddenly licking out of its ports.

Carl pulled his fingers out of his ears, put one on the wheel, and one on the gear shift, and hammered the little Toyota forward. We zipped past the now burning BTR and toward freedom. A hot wind struck my back as it exploded behind us. Another black, oily, cloud was rising above Sweothi City as we sped onto the highway and past the sign pointing toward the Congolese border.

2:52 PM

####

The man looked up at me in fear, as he thrashed against the duct tape that held his wrists to the heavy chair. The old warehouse was deserted and I knew that nobody would hear him scream. “Please, come on, man, don’t do it!”

I held the syringe up to the flickering fluorescent light. “You know what this is?”

“No please, come on, I’m begging you.”

Did my father beg? No, of course not.

“It’s heroin. Mostly. The rest is drain cleaner. The heroin is to make this plausible. You’re just another scumbag junkie, got some bad stuff, had an overdose. There won’t even be an investigation. The drain cleaner is so this will hurt. A lot.”

“You can’t do this. T-Bone will kill you. He’ll kill you, man!” the thug screamed.

Did my father threaten violence? No. I’m sure he hadn’t. He was a man of peace and justice.

“T-Bone’s dead. I got him already. He fell out his apartment window. Landed on one of those pointy fences. Real nasty.” I gave a fake shudder. “The others are dead too. Ice got shot in a drive by shooting this morning. Little Mike is floating in the river. He fell in, couldn’t swim. Especially with those cinderblocks I tied to his legs.”

His eyes were wide. I could smell the fear. “Who are you!”

“A year ago, you were passing through a little place outside Georgetown. You beat a man to death. He was a good man. Why? Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know man! I don’t remember... He had a nice watch, or something. Come on, man, he was just some dude! We didn’t mean to kill him. Just mess him up, take his s***.”

I stabbed the needle into his arm and smashed the plunger down. I tossed the now empty syringe aside. He began to convulse as I cut the tape and stuffed the evidence into my pocket. He fell to the floor as I walked away. I shut the lights off on the way out and left him in the dark to twitch and foam. I started walking, and didn’t look back. I was sixteen years old.

The thing is, when you let the evil out, it’s hard to put it back.

Sorry, Dad.

####

10 Kilometers east of Banti-Guonda, Congo

December 16th, 1993

Dreams of home. So very long ago.

I woke up sore when I heard the sound of the airplane. The stitches on my arm, back, and legs were tight and itchy. Carl did good work. He was already awake, cleaning his Aug while leaning in the shade beneath a crumpled tree. He had a bandage wrapped around his torso, over the carpet of black hair that was his body. The ruined Toyota was hidden in the bushes.

He squinted at me with beady eyes. “Bush plane’s coming in. You think we can trust this guy?”

I yawned. “Yeah. He’s good people... Phil specializes in helping people move valuable things. He owes me a favor. So, Carl, you think about what you’re going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “My company’s gone. Most of us died in the coup. I don’t even know if my men made it out.”

“They’re with Decker. They made it.” I answered truthfully. As much as I hated the man, he was extremely good at what he did. “You know, I’m now out of work myself.” I pulled a black bag out of my pocket and tossed it to Carl.

He caught it absently, opened the drawstring, and shook some of its contents into the palm of his hand. He whistled.

“SWITCHBLADE had a few simple rules. The leader always got a double share, and he was the only one that has access to the Swiss bank account. Since the diamond exchange crossed us, I’m pretty sure nobody got paid. So we looted some of the treasury while we were in the palace. The six still gets a double share.”

Carl’s hand was filled with diamonds.

“I took the liberty of lifting Decker’s shares. And to think he called me a common thief. I’m pretty sure he’ll be massively pissed when he finds out. Good thing he thinks I’m dead.” I knew that was for the best. I would gain nothing by tracking Decker down. It was time for the evil to be put away once and for all.

“Not a bad haul,” Carl said, as he poured the diamonds back into the bag. He started to hand it back.

“No, that’s your share. I’ve got mine.”

“Serious?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking...” I said as the bush plane approached the runway, landing gear extended. “I’m going to go on my own, form my own team. Be my own boss. But I’m going to need help. Have you ever thought of stealing stuff for a living?”

“Can’t say I have,” he answered. “Unless you count twenty years of plundering Africa, but I’m sick of this place.”

“Well, I’m thinking about only robbing bad people. They’ve got all the money anyway, and screwing with them is a lot more fun.”

The little plane touched down with a squeak of tires. Carl chewed his lip for a moment, then extended his hand.

I shook it. “Carl, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

####

Larry Correia is the author of the New York Times best-selling Monster Hunter series, and the magic-noir Grimnoir Chronicles. He is also the coauthor, with Mike Kupari, of military action adventure novels Dead Six and Swords of Exodus. This story is set within the world of Dead Six and Swords of Exodus.

Out of True

by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Squithen was gone from the forest clearing, which was good. The stench of the recent carnage was starting to reach him now and had it reached her she'd been here still, covering her nose as well as her eyes, counting or vocabing, one or the other.

Klay'd had to yell at her, which he never did, since she was so often cowed into incoherence by even a stern word, but then she'd heard him, flawlessly pilot-signed assent, and dashed like a smart-one into the bush, back the trail they'd followed here from the Dulcimer. Likely she'd really do everything he'd told her.

"Squithy, go to the cousins and tell them to bring big guns and hurry, because there are so monsters here like Choodoy said, and I killed one and maybe another. You run and be safe and stay there! Tell them we didn't find the uncles, but I'm trapped. Go!"

The dead things lay there across the small clearing, two or three of the tiny forms sundered into iron-blooded mess, another half-dozen more just lying there still, with shapes that looked broken and wrong even though he'd never seen any of them before, and the wicket monster mostly between him and the dead, holes in its hide leaking dull copper. He could see heat or gas evaporating out of the husk, and dark splinters of structural bone where his third shot had struck home, right at eye edge of the thing.

It must have been that head shot, trying to hit something important, that had worked, stopping it long enough for them to flee and, in the end, dropping it in a heap. Good thing he'd had his training.

He'd been at the armorer's on Flason not too long ago, taking certification so he could carry on station, his pocket piece rousing extra interest from the staff there because of size of the pellet – it limited the carrying capacity yes, but it had stopping power. It had been his great aunt's and come to him as the first of his mother's children to go off ship for a crew exchange. He was a decent shot on the targets and for three days he could see "Klay Patel Smith" at the top of the week's hottest shooter list at the shop. They'd called him Kid Klay, and that was fine – both the Patels and the Smiths were skinny as a rule anyhow and if they thought him young it made him feel better than being called undergrown.

So he was alive, at least, since they'd walked into the star-lit clearing and then that thing had charged straight on, discovered in the middle of crushing the small creatures – and he'd fired before turning and running, properly getting between Squithy and the trouble.

What he should have done was charge directly back the path they'd come in on, like Squithy did. Instead, he'd been doing an intercept course, like the compcourses showed...

The damnedest thing is that he was trapped, just like a couple of the small ones had been on the other side of the clearing. He'd run through a small bush and next thing he'd known was the scrape of branches and the rattle of leaves. The sound had confused him, and made him pause long enough that the web came down directly on him.

He was good and trapped and he might also be injured, his foot tangled in a knotted cord of fiber changing hue from green to blue and back again as he tried to search out a weak point. He was young – maybe the pain he felt was the twisted restraint and not a sign of actual damage. . .

He fretted, pinned under the heavy webbing, his good cutting and hacking tools all "safe and under eye" as the cousins wanted it, back at the ship, and Squithy not allowed to carry something with a sharp point or a good edge, on account of her being her, so she'd be best at the ship even if he was stuck. Didn't need an uncle to tell him to send the silly kid home and hope she survived and so could they.

The web was sticky around the edges, and multi-layered. Unlike the dead thing, the web was near odorless. One gloppy strand was slowly moving down the side of his face – not moving alive, but moving as the sticky stuff stretched away from his skin as he twisted slow. He tried that with his foot, and found some give there. Maybe now... he gave a great kick, like he was kicking open a recalcitrant locker door. . .

The pain was exquisite, wrapping his foot and leg with pressure and twisting it more.

His vision phased to full sight – he hadn't realized that he'd lost clear sight for a moment until it came back.

He thought back over what he'd seen, felt the stickiness on his face going softer again. . .

There it was – even his foot didn't feel as bad. So rapid twisting and pushing made the trap tighter. Slow effort – very slow – might work.

No way to be sure how long this had all taken, no way to be sure he'd ever see a of help, given the cousins sitting there with the uncles out of the ship.

Squithy was the key. She was real sharp with a lot of stuff, but couldn't always reach it. She remembered patterns and numbers something fierce but she was scared of words. With Tranh and Rusko overdue, she was his hope.

He felt the breeze stir now, thought he heard one of those flying things in the distance. Maybe he heard something closer, but maybe it was the stuff on his face, drying in the breeze. Whatever made the noises, the wind brought with it more of the stink.

He felt his hand, the one still holding the gun. He could move it, and so he could shoot if he needed to, within much of his field of vision. Otherwise. . .if something came up behind him, say, he'd be in trouble.

Figuring that getting the stuff off from top down was the key, he moved as fast as he could, slowly.

#

It was hard to solve a puzzle from the inside, with both hands and both legs tied by gooey rope, and one hand needing to keep hold of the gun, just in case. It was harder with the breeze rising to colder and the star's illumination falling as it moved behind several of the overhanging trees. It did seem that as time went on the web-stuff was greener than blue, and that he could move faster. Maybe it was drying, or aging, or –

For a rare moment he wished that he was Squithy. Well, not that he was Squithy, but that he could have her absolute pattern recognition. He was sure that things had changed slightly in front of him, that the number of creatures appearing severely broken had fallen and that there were changes in the –

Yes, there were changes. Surely there's been six of the creatures hanging, apparently lifeless, in the web well across the way, and now there were three. Of the others – one of the remaining was no longer foot-caught, and there, had something in it's paw – in it's hand! – that was moving slowly.

"Murble la. Vemarmurble."

He'd been hearing little noises, like leaves moving quiet, to his right, where branches of the skinny trees tangled in high bushes. He couldn't turn his head quite that far to see what was happening, and he afraid to twist his whole body. Now, the sound grew to unknowable murmurs, like someone was talking real soft and long way away, talking in a language he didn't know. He listened, wondering if it was just those birds coming back. Birds made noises, flying things did, and some of them ate berries.

Still, with caution, he got his elbow a little looser from the gunky rope and raised it, to bring the aim of the gun lower. He'd had to shoot up at the creature who'd charged, but these sounds were lower to the ground, stealthy....

He heard now a distinct droning hum, and it came from across the clearing and from behind, it came from both sides and maybe even from the trees themselves. The sound rose, making it hard to keep track of the noises to his right, and then rose again as across the way brown, gray, and black furred creatures stretched, rolled over, sat up, stood up, turned to look at him, all at once, all unblinking.

Not all of the furry creatures were moving – but far more than he'd expected. Had they been stunned with fear? Paralyzed by the webbing? Yet the synchronicity of their movement was unnerving. And then the live creatures all blinked and stared at him at once and a kind of over-vision hit, as if he were watching a viewscreen through another viewscreen. More than that, he knew the drone was more than mere noise now.

He felt the questions more than heard them – not as if he was asked out loud in a proper language but buried in the drone – the idea, bouncing in his head until he knew that these weren’t questions so much as demands: Who do you know, one was, accompanied by out-of-true images of a dozen or two humans, and the other was an image of Squithy – clear as a viewscreen straight on – with overtones of where is and will she return?

Klay had no answers and a lot of questions himself.

#

Klay was sure his voice was lost in the vast clearing; the trees had leaves that absorbed sound, the grass and bushes must surely do the same, the breeze itself – and the sound the creatures made.

"My name is Klay, and I'm stuck. Can you help me? Can you hear me?"

The ambient sounds quieted – he hadn't realized the creatures were making so many sounds as they moved, as stealthy as they'd been. Eyes were on him again, and this time when he heard the murbles he was sure there was variation in them. Across the clearing a small group of the furries gathered, motioning and mumbling together so there was not doubt that they were communicating something to each other – the question was, what? Surely they'd seen him shoot the creature – were they more afraid of him than they were of him?

"My name is Klay Patel Smith and I need help. I've killed the monster. Can you get me out?"

Across the way now there were two of the creatures still hung up in the webwork, and only one of them active – and that one ignored now by the others, who were again staring in his direction, and as he managed to pull his left elbow free they gathered energy, moving in his direction.

Klay took a deep breath, carefully glancing to his elbow and using steady pressure peeled another inch or two of uniform away from the stringy mess, away from –

"Sssssss! Ssssss!"

He froze, hearing now not only another threatening sibilance but the giveaway sounds of movement close behind him. A tall green frond tipped with red fuzz swayed maddeningly on the edge of his sight, each movement accompanied by the sound of plant rubbing against plant.

The movement slowed, and then more of them bending and waving, until one frond end, much thicker than the rest, began to slowly lever downward into his sight, the swish of moving leaves accompanied by low hum he was starting to recognize as the willful mumbles of the creatures he shared the battlefield with. Another sound got louder, but it was more than that, it was a vibration of the netting he was swaddled in. A moment of dislocation as he felt a fleeting touch of that mind-vision and now, perhaps the out-of-sight sound and vibration started to make sense as chewing or clawing.

Clawing?

Twung!

They were there, and they weren't attacking him. Instead, they were trying to help.

"Thank you," he called out, but the mumbles got loud.

He shivered, and only part of it was the result of major web-thread shaking and then going limp. Now the mumbles were murbles again, and that mind-vision was trying to get him to do—what? He was getting a strange array of images, half of him and half like some fuzzy wraith in motion, like they wanted him to roll up into a ball!

Below him now, he saw heads and fists full of cord-wrapped stones. If he could pull his feet up some, tight, yes into a ball, the creatures could worry the rooted web easier.

The ball idea bounced around his head, and he risked trying to raise his feet, actually holding onto rather than denying the strands that held him. The web deformed around him, and another, much lighter twungging noise was greeted with acclamation from a multi-hued crowd that had grown from two or three to perhaps a dozen. The vibrations had grown to a constant, and he was bouncing as the creatures added their weight to his, stretching the overhead web at the same time they were tearing at the base.

His left boot and leg came away from the sticky base and he dared to grab a spot behind his knee with his hand. The bouncing increased and then his other leg was free.

That leg wasn't easy to pull up – Klay looked down and saw a face staring into his, a nonhuman face, somehow full of worry and concern and intent. The fur had silver-tips around the eyes and into the skull-top, with a dark almost black stripe swirling into brown around it.

The creature was testing his boot, he saw, gingerly touching his pants where they overlapped his boot, and . . .

He felt the concern enter his mind in the picture of something he didn't know – maybe a fruit. The picture of a fruit, sloughing its skin, and overlaying it the image of a foot – not his – falling away from a furred body.

Ah – he saw it, they were afraid they'd hurt him.

He looked at his left leg where he'd grabbed it, pulled on it to show that there was slack in the pants, thought at the creature of his leg inside the pants . . .

And the creature climbed then, grabbing his boots and then his pants, a free hand or paw wrapping a string of greenish vine around the webbing, stretching it to insulate or isolate the webbing from him, using a rock on a stick as a lever to pull the web away . . .

A loud murmur then, and a vision of Squithy running with others. At the same time an insistent vision of a fruit being pulled in many directions at once and the creatures around, including the one on his leg, all grabbing at web-strands and huffing and dashing straight away form him with their particular strands of the net . . .

Unexpectedly all the strands holding him parted, and he fell with bone-jarring impact on his hip, the added weight of the silver-furred one twisting again that foot that had been sorely stressed to begin with.

"Dammit!" he yelled, and fought for breath. A flash of light tore through half-closed eyes, and a horrendous explosive thunder shattered the near-evening glade's urgent murbles into silence, leaving Klay's ear's ringing in the aftermath.

A high human voice screamed "No, no, no!" as he scrambled to get up and instead fell heavily, face down into a crowd of furry shapes.

The unfamiliar smell of dirt and vegetation assaulted his nostrils but he spent only a moment righting himself and lunging to his feet from an awkward crouch. Across the way were crew members, and around him, thigh high and shorter, a dozen of the creatures who'd freed him. He stood on uncertain legs, startled to find he still held the gun in near nerveless fingers.

The noise was all over there, where a chemical cloud drifted away onto the looming dusk.

On the edge of the clearing Squithy stood, red-faced and yelling, purposefully standing between Cousins Susrim and Falmer waving her arms, not just standing there but actively disrupting any chance any of the three had to aim.

"You can't! You can't. They're good!"

Klay yelled too, instinctively moving between his silver-fringed helper and the weapons being leveled in his direction, too.

"Stop. I'm fine, don't shoot! They helped me!"

Instinctively Klay moved his hands repeatedly palm down, miming the slow slow slow one might use on moving stuff dockside, "Stand down, damn it, just stand down!" he said, trying to insist across the distance and not willing to trust his foot to move.

A sigh went through the glade, as if a wind of hums and murbles had worshiped itself into a breathy quiet, and all around, the creatures seated themselves where they were, silent and expectant, watching him, watching Squithy. Waiting.

#

Klay sat quiet in his berth, staring at familiar walls, waiting for a decision. The decision. What decision he wasn't sure of.

He'd studied some star charts. He'd thought of how it would be if he was in charge, what he'd change, what he'd keep the same.

Wasn't really wasn't up to him, but he thought hard about it, writing a file in his head but not recording it anywhere. Rusko and Trahn Smith – his uncles, officially – were Senior Pilot and Captain, and they were Trader and Senior Trader, one by one. For that matter they were Senior and standard everything else on the ship, from 'ponocists and medicos to tech and cooks and the cousins—Cousins Susrim and Cousin Falmer and Cousin Squithy – they were all general crew, 'cept they should have been more, but maybe not Squithy.

Anyhow, usually not Squithy.

And since he was a pilot and a tech, and mobile, too, at the moment he was back-up everywhere, a hardly known outside cousin to the general crew who'd lived the ship since birth. All awkward, and needing a cure.

Their ages, that was the problem, their ages and their experience. Everyone but Trahn was almost too young to be what they Was, the ship having come to them after a really stupid firefight on Trask-Romo took out Trahn's Da and Ma, who were Squithy and Susrim and Falmer's parents too.

Susrim was studied to be cook and arms, and was up to a local back-up pilot rating any day now, but he didn't have the credits from a recognized school or committee yet. Falmer, she was one cycle behind Susrim in age but ought to have been head cook awhile back, but Susrim was studied there and she wasn't. Falmer had some medico stuff and was in charge of Squithy when Trahn wasn't, which it turned out was most of the time. At the moment Trahn was Falmer's ward, hard as that was on both of them.

Captain Trahn was where he was because he took the warguilt payoff the bar came up with on account of the bloodshed and boom, brought in pretty Uncle Rusko, who'd not been much of a fit on his home ship despite his top grade piloting, on account of that ship, Proud Plenty, was looking for blood-heirs, and then that meant Groton needed a Patel or a Smith, and when it all filtered down through a standard of people-trades from ship to ship – Klay'd ended up here, on a ship where neither the Captain nor the Senior Pilot had ever run a crew meeting, and where the crew, aside from him and Rusko, had never even been in a real crew meeting on account of the Dulcimer's departed owners hadn't run a crew-share ship.

Now – well things had changed when he'd come out of hydropnics, where he was back-up to the injured Trahn. Trahn's legs... not good. One was broke just below the knee, and the other was ankle sprained. Falmer had seen one of those problems for real in life, meaning everything gettting done doing was by the file and devices, not from experience.

Rusko had cornered Klay yesterday, he being the mobile one of the high command at the moment, a finger-to-lip followed by beckoning motion bringing them both outside to the rough camp still in place beside the ship. They stood well within the clearing, the usual camp followers lounging watchfully around the fringes of the three new paths they'd made for themselves, and sometimes watching the path to the fight-scene.

"I see seven of them," Klay'd offered, not trusting that there weren't two dozen more sitting behind the weeds laughing at them. It wasn't that they were malevolent – but that they were so quiet and sneaky when they weren't talking to themselves or each other.

"Quick eyes, Pilot," Rusko said then, "really quick eyes. Squithy tells me that there's seven of them here most times but not the same seven – that three of them hang out all the time together and – she says they are living here – but the others change off. She's being a regular field biologist!"

"But she's not here with them right now . . ."

Rusko smiled a wan smile – "No, I had to come get her and ask her to talk to the Captain. She hasn't had a word to say to him, seems like. We need to get some stuff cleared up real soon . . ."

He'd let that sentence go reluctantly, and took up again, with a sudden urgency.

"Normally, on most ships, this is something command ought to know but not official. But since this is all so odd, we need to get things clear. Can you tell me what you've done – I mean, are you and Squithy playing pair?"

Klay shook his head as the recalled, remembering that he'd burst out laughing and then shook his head at the time.

"Muddy tracks, have you lost your mind?" Rusko'd sighed, and held his hands up.

"It doesn't matter to us, really – you're split cousins far enough away that's not a matter. But here, understand where we're coming from. And I mean we in this since it has been bothering Trahn so fierce."

Klay'd waited, maybe not patient, and Senior Pilot had made hand-talk of something like clear glide path before speaking again.

"Something happened. We know something happened. It wasn't just that you shot that thing, hard as that must have been, but did something happen between the pair of you before then? Because we all know that Squithy now isn't the Squithy she was before. And if she got that way because you paired in the bush that'll do for us. We just need to know . . ."

Klay knew it, he'd known it for sure the moment she'd stepped in front of the guns between her cousins and the clearing. She was changed – and he was afraid he knew why. He'd played it over a bunch of time in his head, wondering if the shock of the attack had done it, or if the air had done it.

"All we did was what I told the crew we'd do. Hadn't heard from you, so we walked out the trail you'd marked to the clearing, partly for some exercise, partly looking for you. Comms were coming up empty – not even time signal – and we figured, that is I figured three hours overdue was pushing things. It was on my head since you'd told Susrim and Falmer to stand tower watch.

"Got out the trail, and there you weren't. Hiked on to the clearing with three paths out, like you said, but the clearing wasn't empty – there were all the creatures there, trying to get some of them out of the webs, the rest quiet and waiting and watching, and then Choodoy's monster came in and –"

"The fight stuff, we have that recorded Klay, what you told us, and what you told Susrim right then. There's a couple things we'll need to talk about there, but some of it I'll have to clear with Trahn anyhow before I can say a word on it."

Klay hand signaled acknowledge.

"I mean, it all happened so fast. The thing broke out of the woods of a sudden, and it was like it looked at the littles and was just going to eat them all – I mean, we knew that's what was going to happen, we could feel it! – and then it looked at us, and Squithy yelled, 'No, you can't, Tobor! Klay, stop it!' and it looked at us and made that charge..."

He'd done the rehash twice more, from different directions, the while they walked the perimeter of the clearing. By the end of their walk one of the creatures, the one Klay called Oki, the one who'd done the most to free him, had come to them and walked as if part of the conversation for a turn, and then natural as could be grabbed Klay's hand and pulled himself on Klay's shoulder, the usual low murble of greeting suffused with the gentle mental touch he thought was a hello, or maybe a request for news or – something.

The expression on Rusko's face went from horrified to resigned with a shake of his head.

"Susrim told me that you and Squithy have both been too friendly with these things. I didn't believe you'd let them up in your face, though!"

Klay shrugged, the paw on his shoulder support enough for his rider.

Rusko stepped back with a sigh.

"I can't believe I need to ask you this, now. But I do. First, please put the creature down."

There followed a modest contest of will, and in fact the creature came down, leaning for a moment against Klay's leg until a strong glance and hand motion chased Oki away. The creature retreated a dozen or so steps and Klay looked meaningfully toward the nearest of the three paths, and waited until Oki started in that direction.

"He's down."

Rusko saluted the obvious and went on alert pilot status, pulling away his quiet and putting on the command aspect he seemed to shun when it came to people.

"Tell me this. This is professional evaluation, this is a command evaluation. Could you feel confident as a Pilot in Charge, assuming neither Trahn nor I was available? Could you take Dulcimer to the next port with current crew? Could you finish a cargo route with current crew sans Pilots One and Two?"

Klay'd blinked, thought to the boards, thought to the ship, thought to the crew.

"You're asking if I'd have taken – could have taken the ship on if we hadn't walked out from the clearing and found you? Or if you'd been killed instead of just have bruises and breaks?"

Rusko nodded, said, "Yes, exactly. If the cave in had killed us both, would you have been able to survive – either call in Choody or just get to the next port, which might have been better."

Klay harrumphed, sighed, nodded.

"Yes. The first – just to the next port – It wouldn't have been pretty, but it wouldn't have been hard, really, other than bodies or lack of 'em. The second thing – moving on – would be harder and we'd need some signature cards we don't have so I could sign for cargo and expenses – I hadn't got that far. But crew from number three down, yeah, we can run the ship. Shall I make a report for you?"

Rusko's turn to blink. Then: "You're positive?"

Klay's nod brought a quiet whistle from the pilot, who'd surveyed the ship and the landing zone solemnly, and echoed a nod.

"I'm going to be asking everybody the same question and so will Trahn. The ship's got to be sure of itself. Don't discuss this with anyone until were decide what we're going to do."

The stuff about Squithy … he thought on that some more. Hadn't much thought of her as a partner possible. Hadn't much thought about anyone being with Squithy. Wasn't impossible, but you like to feel the person you were talking to was on the same wavelength, and that didn't happen all that much with Squithy, in his experience. Or hadn't. But once they'd secured the clearing she'd been right there in helping find their way, and keeping the furries out of their way. More, she'd even told him she asked the creatures if they'd seen Tranh and Rusko, and they'd pointed the way. Then they'd walked them all the way back to the ship and circled 'round the clearing like they owned the place, trying to take Squithy to the three paths. She'd been patient with them, like she was paying attention and knew things that weren't just if her blood pressure was good or if she'd seen 77 red things on the day.

So really, if he ran the ship he'd just put her on breakfast once a week, just to test her….

The rarely used PA system burped a scratchy high volume tone, bringing the startled Klay to his feet. Following the noise came the pfffft of some quick huffing test of the microphone link, and then Rusko's quiet matter-of-fact voice.

"Dulcimer crew meeting for all hands begins in five minutes. Bring with you any local plants or wildlife in your possession, please. All crew members includes you, Squithy, no matter what you're doing. Five minutes, be prompt."

#

On the third day of Jump, Rusko on Board One and Klay on Two, Falmer was still sitting with Tranh. The break swelling wasn't going down so well for Tranh and he had some infection, so he'd been hit with heavy duty antibiotics and general relaxants to make him be quiet. He'd been able to hold the basic meeting before the lift, using the logbooks that Klay'd pointed out to him and some agenda templates Squithy'd dug out of ship-files. Basic meeting was a promise to make longterm changes – and a Captain's apology for having screwed up a run.

"Choody got me to go where he wouldn't go, and now that I'm injured won't come through on the pay for us having been there. So this is a ship-rule: Dulcimer don't deal on bar-deals without crew input. That a rule. Also, Dulcimer's not dealing with Choody, nor coming back to Thakaran, as long as I'm on the deciding side. That's a rule.”

He paused then, having shifted slightly and then gone white trying to move his leg a little with his hand. “I'll put you two”– that was said to Susrim and Falmer– "to finding long-range replacement runs for us to think on. Given Choody and his connections we're going to be dropping as many of the old runs as we can – Da never did make it big, and he kept rubbin' against the underside figuring he'd get a deal. But we're out of that side now – another ship's rule, no dark trading. I got some stuff Da and Jenfer left us, and … some other things … that we ought to be able to move quick as can and be good. Then straight cargoes, all."

At that he'd said, "That's after Port Chavvy," leaned back in his seat with half closed eyes, and said "Rusko's got the rest of it. It'll be a boring run out cause we're not for Choody's station, but we're set foodwise. Rusko's on after me."

At that he'd stared at Falmer and smiled. "Now I'll take that painloss you gave me, right?"

With that he pressed a patch against his wrist with a sigh, and waved his command hand one more time, wiping a little sweat off his forehead, and said, "We're going to Port Chavvy because we still have a Founding Member share there, so we can port as long as we need to while we spook up more business. You guys got work to do!"

Rusko'd done well, all things considered, and they'd planned their shifts as best they could, including Squithy in some, including the business of trying to shoo away the norbears, which Susrim had named by accident.

"I tried looking those things up," she said, "and all I got is images and notes – and they never was mentioned to be here on Thakaran. Couple of entries that they've been seen with scouts. Warnings from a couple sectors that they're contraband. Standing offer from Crystal Biogenics, and a competing one from University. Biogenics is paying a haul of cash for a Standard's visit, and University's looking for a breeding pair but don't talk money –

"And more, couple smuggler's myths that they showed up around old tech sites on a couple planets, no sense why, but that's it. A dozen different names, calling them shore dogs and green apes and some Liaden stuff that translates into sleepy bear Terrans. But they're not. They're mammals, but they are not dogs nor green apes nor bears!"

She'd scrunched up her face when she'd said it, and Squithy had laughed out loud without it sounding like hysterics for once, and repeated the words, pushed together.

"Norbear. If they aren't dogs or cats or dragons they're norbears!"

Which had put a cap on the all together part of the discussion since Tranh had fallen asleep.

Klay was still sore from some bruises, but that was minor compared to Rusko's –he tended to complain about the stiffness in his arms, and Falmer's suggestion that pulling Tranh out of the fallen cave roof had strained him apparently annoyed the pilot to the point of snippiness.

Still, ship stuff was going on and it being just before shift change he wasn't surprised entirely to see lights showing movement....

"Where's Falmer?" he asked, watching the lights.

"You need analgesic? Falmer's sticking with Tranh."

"Isn't Squithy on breakfast?"

"She is – you can go first if you need..."

"So that means Tranh's in with Falmer, Squithy's doing breakfast, you're here, I'm here, and Susrim's on sleep."

He'd gotten Rusko's attention, saw raised eyebrow and quick glances to housekeeping boards.

" 'ponics door has opened a couple times here …"

Rusko made a noise that might have been a complaint, and reached to touch a tab.

"Susrim?"

Klay thought he'd heard motion over the connection, but the sound ceased.

"Pilot Rusko here, is that you Squithy?"

A light noise then, and another, and –

"Murble . . ."

Klay was out out of his seat instantly –

"We've a 'norbear" stowaway!"

"This isn't good! Take it," Rusko ordered. "And get Squithy to help you."

Klay ran, half-bouncing off the slide-door on his way out.

#

"I thought so!" was what Squithy said, her step light behind his as they squeezed into the right angle passage. There were marks in the passage, in fact all up and down the passage, some scuffed over, some clear, near handlike foot prints in white.

Klay looked toward the lower corner where the door would open first – but Squithy was moving in that direction.

His palm hit the waist-high release, wondering of the faint hand-shaped mark there was dangerous far too late, and the door slid open, Squithy on one knee, ready to catch …

Ready to catch the norbear, who, rather than rushing to escape was sitting quietly in a comfortable pose on top of Growcase C, staring at the greens, sipping from a wide-mouthed sampling bowl, a trail of splashes and white spots leading back to the push-spigot. Both arms were white, and there was a vague halo whitish about the chest.

"Oh, good!" said Squithy. "Holdhand herself!"

"Holdhand? You know this one?"

"'Ponics? What's happening?"

"Murble lamurbla," said the norbear, using bright care to sit the cup down without spilling, it, and glancing at the speaker. Then, she reached toward Squithy, offering her hand to hold.

"Norbear is in here in 'ponics, Pilot. Admiring the carrots, I'd say."

"Capture it. We'll have to put it out an airlock I guess."

By then Squithy had the norbear in her arms, and stared up at the speaker, the murbles almost drowning out out her denial.

"You can't, Rusko. They saved Klay." Her voice quavered then and rose in volume to a whine dangerously like Squithy of old.

"Squithy, don't start now. We figure out a way to make it quick but …"

"Stop talking!"

That sounded even more like Squithy of old....

Klay ventured "Rusko, let's …"

Squithy held onto the creature, cuddling her …

"It's my fault she's here! She believed me when I told her we'd be leaving and never coming back to that planet. And now she's here. She's a widow and she came here because Klay's here to keep us safe and … Oh no!"

Klay saw her stare behind him and turned as a chorus of murbles broke out behind him. He heard Squithy, but it didn't sink in immediately, she was going on and on about something –

"Rusko, Pilot! Don't you see, they think slow and it helps me thinks slow. And they saved Klay and they make me real crew! And it isn't all of them, just …"

Klay saw two more of the norbears at the door, these even more covered in white, the flour falling off of them and falling on to the floor and on the tiny creatures they held to breast and who clung to their feet, the trail of flour down the passage toward dry stores….

"The widows, Rusko, only the widows came."

Squithy looked hard at him, but he'd already noticed the shy touch of a hand at his knee, heard the murbles.

"We'll have to talk, Rusko," Klay said steadily. "We'll have to be convincing for Trahn!"

"What's Trahn got to do with it? This is on my—”

"That Crystal Biogenics, Rusko. I'm guessing they're about as dark as you can get and still be seen. But they'll probably take Trahn's old tech, and whatever you're hiding from that cave, too."

"Murble?"

"What?" The last speaker was Rusko, the former was the norbear climbing to be held, and the reaching for the beaker of water Holdhands had left on the greens case.

"I'm thinking we've got a little clean-up to do... might need some help. The widows and kits, they're a little dusty. Guess the place is a little out of true."

#

Port Chavvy was being a challenge for Dulcimer, both internally and externally. They'd been on port four days, and the problems …

Rusko'd been threatening calling sabotage and spacing the lot of the norbears, and Squithy and Klay with them. While he wasn't quite serious only the slowly improving health of Tranh cheered him at all – while he swore they'd not lift ship until the stupidity of several generations of Smiths and Patels was cured.

They'd rented a tool rack, which sat here externally – it had taken cash up front to get it delivered, and promise of a full-time responsible guard to let it stay. That stricture had Squithy get all antsy because she thought, it being "all her fault for thinking too fast and thinking too hard" she ought to be guarding it – which no one wanted beside her, since the norbears were all over her wherever she went. She could be gone a few minutes at a time, but after that, they got restless.

Internally, the rack meant Klay got elected for most guard time while Falmer, Susrim, and Rusko did clean up and Tranh fumed and took his meds, Falmer having convinced the port hospital that med-officer meant med-officer without having to transport Tranh the whole way down there.

Klay peered at the rack, as he was supposed to from time to time, counting the tools and checking the inventory sheet. Squithy'd been out just once, Falmer four times, and Rusko once. Rusko was currently making sure the free-stacked stuff from the cleaned hold was still under watch, and grabbing a couple of breaths of flourless air as well.

The flour – shouldn't have happened. The norbears had found the unsecure dry-food storage door and wandered in, Squithy's vague information about lying down for lift-off giving them an urgency which brought them to push things around so the kits could snuggle against their moms. Then some of the kits had discovered pulltabs, and gone on a binge of bag openings, and others of the kits … had found the secret door.

For like all indie spacers, the Smiths and the Patels fancied themselves could-be smugglers – just like Tranh and Rusko had with their secret deal to gather Old Tech for Choody! – and they'd their hidden compartments and secret latches and … and then the elders gunfought and lost without telling their ship kin the wheres and whens of things.

Klay'd yet to see all of it. He'd heard enough to see what had happened – the discovered cubby holes had led to a secret compartment with some secret stuff in it, and that fed to another place, and the kits having figured out latches had ended up in closet of the ship's full toolroom, and thus – once the air ways was open – the ship's automatics and stinks systems had started up with vengeance. The tools, the stores, several passageways, all covered in flour.

Rusko, a neat man at all times, only had a little flour on him.

"Everything's coming along," he said before signing out another hand-pull airspray, "and we got Trahn doing inventory inside. There's a lot of cleaning going on...."

Klay nodded, and asked, "How's she holding up?"

She, of course, was Squithy. She'd run herself ragged the day before, finally getting the norbears to understand how they could help – and what "stay out of the way" meant.

"I'm watching her, and I swear it feels like she's finally figured out how to pace herself. She's doing good."

"Do you believe her?"

Now that was a loaded question, since it brought in norbears, which they all agreed they wouldn't mention, not even to each other, outside the ship – and it also put Rusko on the spot. If he believed the whole thing – that Squithy hadn't let them into the ship on purpose, but had simply explained they were going away, and told them about the ship …. and they'd got the details of how things worked by listening to her and watching her mental tour of the ship …. and that they'd got the idea that having their families somewhere where there were no Tobors to trap and eat them was a good thing all on their own.

Rusko looked away, following the progress of an odd group of crewmen, all of an almost golden skin tone, all small – smaller than Klay, for sure, and a couple of them dressed like – like – rich folk.

"What are they, Liadens?"

Klay laughed.

"What else? They've been stomping up and down the dock every few hours – guess it must be exercise class. Got themselves a tradeship like hardly stops here. They asked me ‘what ship’ the first three times I saw 'em, but they've stopped. We're boring."

Rusko snickered.

"Liadens! Space sure is getting strange, isn't it?" Rusko fiddled with his airspray, making pfffufff a couple times.

"It is, isn't it?" Klay agreed. "And Squithy?"

Rusko shrugged.

"Well, asked that way, she's not as strange as she was. I'm thinking she's not out of true anymore, all told."

Klay fixed Rusko's eyes with a straight look, asked "And so that means …"

"That means we're not looking to offload her anytime soon, or you, or the … excess cargo. I'll send her out with a handwich. You'll be wanting to get used to having her around."

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller are the creators of the best-selling Liaden Universe® series of science fiction novels, including latest entry Trade Secret. They maintain an active and entertaining presence on the web at Korval.com.

Mars Farts

by Ben Bova

“A Catholic, a Jew, and a Moslem are stuck in the middle of Mars,” said Rashid Faiyum.

“That isn’t funny,” Jacob Bernstein replied, wearily.

Patrick O’Conner, the leader of the three-man team, shook his head inside the helmet of his pressure suit. “Laugh and the world laughs with you, Jake.”

None of them could see the faces of their companions through the tinting of their helmet visors. But they could hear the bleakness in Bernstein’s tone. “There’s not much to laugh about, is there?”

“Not much,” Faiyum agreed.

All around them stretched the barren, frozen rust-red sands of Utopia Planita. Their little hopper leaned lopsidedly on its three spindly legs in the middle of newly-churned pockmarks from the meteor shower that had struck the area overnight.

Off on the horizon stood the blocky form of the old Viking 2 lander, which had been there for more than a century. One of their mission objectives had been to retrieve parts of the Viking to return to Earth, for study and eventual sale to a museum. Like everything else about their mission, that objective had been sidelined by the meteor shower. Their goal now was survival.

The meteors in question were a barrage of tiny bits of stone, most of them no larger than dust motes. Once they had been part of an icy comet, but the ice had melted away after god-knows how many trips around the sun, and now only the stones were left when the remains of the comet happened to collide with the planet Mars.

One of the rare stones, almost the size of a pebble, had punctured the fuel cell that was the main electrical power source for the three-man hopper. Without the electrical power from that fuel cell, their rocket engine could not function. They were stranded in the middle of the frozen, arid plain.

In his gleaming silvery pressure suit, Faiyum reminded O’Connor of a knight in shining armor, except that he was bending into the bay that held the fuel cell, his helmeted head obscured by the bay’s upraised hatch. Bernstein, similarly suited, stood nervously beside him.

The hatch that had been punctured by what looked like a bullet hole. Faiyum was muttering, “Of all the meteoroids in all the solar system in all of Mars, this one’s got to smack our power cell.”

Bernstein asked, “How bad is it?”

Straightening up, Faiyum replied, “All the hydrogen drained out during the night. It’s dead as a doornail.”

“Then so are we,” Bernstein said.

“I’d better call Tithonium,” said O’Connor, and he headed for the ladder that led to the hopper’s cramped cockpit. “While the batteries are still good.”

“How long will they last?” asked Bernstein.

“Long enough to get help.”

It wasn’t that easy. The communications link back to Tithonium was relayed by a network of satellites in low orbit around Mars, and it would be another half hour before one of the commsats came over their horizon.

Faiyum and Bernstein followed O’Connor back into the cockpit, and suddenly the compact little space was uncomfortably crowded.

With nothing to do but wait, O’Connor said, “I’ll pressurize the cockpit so we can take off the helmets and have some breakfast.”

“I don’t think we should waste electrical power until we get confirmation from Tithonium that they’re sending a backup to us.”

“We’ve got to eat,” O’Connor said.

Sitting this close in the cramped cockpit, they could see each other’s faces even through the helmet visors’ tinting. Faiyum broke into a stubbly-chinned grin.

“Let’s pretend it’s Ramadan” he suggested, “and we have to fast from sunup to sundown.”

“Like you fast during Ramadan,” Bernstein sniped. O’Connor remembered one of their first days on Mars, when a clean-shaven Faiyum had jokingly asked which direction Mecca was. O’Connor had pointed up.

“Let’s not waste power,” Bernstein repeated.

“We have enough power during the day,” Faiyum pointed out. “The solar panels work fine.”

Thanks to Mars’ thin, nearly cloudless atmosphere, just about the same amount of sunshine fell upon the surface of Mars as upon Earth, despite Mars’ farther distance from the sun. Thank God for that, O’Connor thought. Otherwise we’d be dead in a few hours.

Then he realized that, also thanks to Mars’ thin atmosphere, those micrometeoroids had made it all the way down to the ground to strafe them like a spray of bullets, instead of burning up from atmospheric friction, as they would have on Earth. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, he told himself.

“Tithonium here,” a voice crackled through the speaker on the cockpit control panel. All three of them turned to the display screen, suddenly tight with expectation.

“What’s your situation, E-three?” asked the face in the screen. Ernie Roebuck, they recognized: chief communications engineer.

The main base for the exploration team was down at Tithonium Chasma, part of the immense Grand Canyon of Mars, more than three thousand kilometers from their Excursion Three site.

O’Connor was the team’s astronaut: a thoroughly competent Boston Irishman with a genial disposition who tolerated the bantering of Faiyum and Bernstein – both geologists – and tried to keep them from developing any real animosity. A Moslem from Peoria and a New York Jew: how in the world had the psychologists back Earthside ever put the two of them on the same team, he wondered.

In the clipped jargon of professional fliers, O’Connor reported on their dead fuel cell.

“No power output at all?” Roebuck looked incredulous.

“Zero,” said O’Connor. “Hydrogen all leaked out overnight.”

“How did you get through the night?”

“The vehicle automatically switched to battery power.”

“What’s the status of your battery system?”

O’Connor scanned the digital readouts on the control panel. “Down to one-third of nominal. The solar panels are recharging ‘em.”

A pause. Roebuck looked away and they could hear voices muttering in the background. “All right,” said the communicator at last. “We’re getting your telemetry. We’ll get back to you in an hour or so.”

“We need a lift out of here,” O’Connor said.

Another few moments of silence. “That might not be possible right away. We’ve got other problems, too. You guys weren’t the only ones hit by the meteor shower. We’ve taken some damage here. The garden’s been wiped out and E-one has two casualties.”

Excursion One was at the flank of Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain in the solar system.

“Our first priority has to be to get those people from E-one back here for medical treatment.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Give us a couple of hours to sort things out. We’ll call you back at noon, our time. Sit tight.”

O’Connor glanced at the morose faces of his two teammates, then replied, “We’ll wait for your call.”

“What the hell else can we do?” Bernstein grumbled.

Clicking off the video link, O’Connor said, “We can get back to work.”

Faiyum tried to shrug inside his suit. “I like your first suggestion better. Let’s eat.”

With their helmets off, the faint traces of body odors became noticeable. Munching on an energy bar, Faiyum said, “A Catholic, a Moslem and a Jew were showering together in a YMCA...”

“You mean a YMHA,” said Bernstein.

“How would a Moslem get into either one?” O’Connor wondered.

“It’s in the States,” Faiyum explained. “They let anybody in.”

“Not women.”

“You guys have no sense of humor.” Faiyum popped the last morsel of the energy bar into his mouth.

“This,” Bernstein countered, “coming from a man who was named after a depression.”

“El-Faiyum is below sea level,” Faiyum admitted easily, “but it’s the garden spot of Egypt. Has been for more than three thousand years.”

“Maybe it was the garden of Eden,” O’Connor suggested.

“No, that was in Israel,” said Bernstein.

“Was it?”

“It certainly wasn’t here,” Faiyum said, gazing out the windshield at the bleak, cold Martian desert.

“It’s going to go down near a hundred below again tonight,” Bernstein said.

“The batteries will keep the heaters going,” said O’Connor.

“All night?”

“Long enough. Then we’ll recharge ‘em when the sun comes up.”

“That won’t work forever,” Bernstein muttered.

“We’ll be okay for a day or two.”

“Yeah, but the nights. A hundred below zero. The batteries will crap out pretty soon.”

Tightly, O’Connor repeated, “We’ll be okay for a day or two.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Bernstein said fervently.

Faiyum looked at the control panel’s digital clock. “Another three hours before Tithonium calls.”

Reaching for his helmet, O’Connor said, “Well, we’d better go out and do what we came here to do.”

“Haul up the ice core,” said Bernstein, displeasure clear on his lean, harsh face.

“That’s why we’re here,” Faiyum said. He didn’t look any happier than Bernstein. “Slave labor.”

Putting on a false heartiness, O’Connor said, “Hey, you guys are the geologists. I thought you were happy to drill down that deep.”

“Overjoyed,” said Bernstein. “And here on Mars we’re doing areology, not geology.”

“What’s in a name?” Faiyum quoted. “A rose by any other name would still smell.”

“And so do you,” said Bernstein and O’Connor, in unison.

The major objective of the Excursion Three team had been to drill three hundred meters down into the permafrost that lay just beneath the surface of Utopia Planita. The frozen remains of what had been an ocean billions of years earlier, when Mars had been a warmer and wetter world, the permafrost ice held a record of the planet’s history, a record that geologists (or aerologists) keenly wanted to study.

Outside at the drill site, the three men began the laborious task of hauling up the ice core that their equipment had dug. They worked slowly, carefully, to make certain that the fragile, six-centimeter-wide core came out intact. Section by section they unjointed each individual segment as it came up, marked it carefully and stowed in the special storage racks built into the hopper’s side. “How old do you think the lowest layers of this core will be?” Bernstein asked as they watched the electric motor slowly, slowly lifting the slender metal tube that contained the precious ice.

“Couple billion years, at least,” Faiyum replied. “Maybe more.”

O’Connor, noting that the motor’s batteries were down to less than fifty percent of their normal capacity, asked, “Do you think there’ll be any living organisms in the ice?”

“Not hardly,” said Bernstein.

“I thought there were supposed to be bugs living down there,” O’Connor said.

“In the ice?” Bernstein was clearly skeptical.

Faiyum said, “You’re talking about methanogens, right?”

“Is that what you call them?”

“Nobody’s found anything like that,” said Bernstein.

“So far,” Faiyum said.

O’Connor said, “Back in training they told us about traces of methane that appear in the Martian atmosphere now and then.”

Faiyum chuckled. “And some of the biologists proposed that the methane comes from bacteria living deep underground. The bacteria are supposed to exist on the water melting from the bottom of the permafrost layer, deep underground, and they excrete methane gas.”

“Bug farts,” said Bernstein.

O’Connor nodded inside his helmet. “Yeah. That’s what they told us.”

“Totally unproven,” Bernstein said.

“So far,” Faiyum repeated.

Sounding slightly exasperated, Bernstein said, “Look, there’s a dozen abiological ways of generating the slight traces of methane that’ve been observed in the atmosphere.”

“But they appear seasonally,” Faiyum pointed out. “And the methane is quickly destroyed in the atmosphere. Solar ultraviolet breaks it down into carbon and hydrogen. That means that something is producing the stuff continuously.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s being produced by biological processes,” Bernstein insisted.

“I think it’s bug farts,” Faiyum said. “It’s kind of poetic, you know.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re a sourpuss.”

Before O’Connor could break up their growing argument, their helmet earphones crackled, “Tithonium here.”

All three of them snapped to attention. It was a woman’s voice and they recognized whose it was: the mission commander, veteran astronaut Gloria Hazeltine, known to most of the men as Glory Hallelujah. The fact that Glory herself was calling them didn’t bode well, O’Connor thought. She’s got bad news to tell us.

“We’ve checked out the numbers,” said her disembodied radio voice. “The earliest we can get a rescue flight out to you will be in five days.”

“Five days?” O’Connor yipped.

“That’s the best we can do, Pat,” the mission commander said, her tone as hard as concrete. “You’ll have to make ends meet until then.”

“Our batteries will crap out on us, Gloria. You know that.”

“Conserve power. Your solar panels are okay, aren’t they?”

Nodding, O’Connor replied, “They weren’t touched, thank God.”

“So recharge your batteries by day and use minimum power at night. We’ll come and get you as soon as we possibly can.”

“Right.” O’Connor clicked off the radio connection.

“They’ll come and pick up our frozen bodies,” Bernstein grumbled.

Faiyum looked just as disappointed as Bernstein, but he put on a lopsided grin and said, “At least our bodies will be well preserved.”

“Frozen solid,” O’Connor agreed.

The three men stood there, out in the open, encased in their pressure suits and helmets, while the drill’s motor buzzed away as if nothing was wrong. In the thin Martian atmosphere, the drill’s drone was strangely high pitched: more of a whine than a hum.

Finally, Bernstein said, “Well, we might as well finish the job we came out here to do.”

“Yeah,” said Faiyum, without the slightest trace of enthusiasm.

The strangely small sun was nearing the horizon by the time they had stored all the segments of the ice core in the insulated racks on the hopper’s side.

“A record of nearly three billion years of Martian history,” said Bernstein, almost proudly.

“Only one and a half billion years,” Faiyum corrected. “The Martian year is twice as long as Earth years.”

“Six hundred eighty-seven Earth days,” Bernstein said. “That’s not quite twice a terrestrial year.”

“So sue me,” Faiyum countered, as he pulled an equipment kit from the hopper’s storage bay.

“What’re you doing?” O’Connor asked.

“Setting up the laser spectrometer,” Faiyum replied. “You know, the experiment the biologists want us to do.”

“Looking for bug farts,” Bernstein said.

“Yeah. Just because we’re going to freeze to death is no reason to stop working.”

O’Connor grunted. Rashid is right, he thought. Go through the motions. Stay busy.

With Bernstein’s obviously reluctant help, Faiyum set up the laser and trained it at the opening of their bore hole. Then they checked out the Rayleigh scattering receiver and plugged it into the radio that would automatically transmit its results back to Tithonium. The radio had its own battery to supply the microwatts of power it required.

“That ought to make the biologists happy,” Bernstein said, once they were finished.

“Better get back inside,” O’Connor said, looking toward the horizon where the sun was setting.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Bernstein muttered.

“Yeah.”

Once they were sealed into the cockpit and had removed their helmets, Faiyum said, “A biologist, a geologist, and Glory Hallelujah were locked in a hotel room in Bangkok.”

Bernstein moaned. O’Connor said, “You know that everything we say is being recorded for the mission log.”

Faiyum said, “Hell, we’re going to be dead by the time they get to us. What difference does it make?”

“No disrespect for the mission commander.”

Faiyum shrugged. “Okay. How about this one: a physicist, a mathematician and a lawyer are each asked, ‘How much is two and two?’”

“I heard this one,” Bernstein said.

Without paying his teammate the slightest attention, Faiyum plowed ahead. “The mathematician says, ‘Two and two are four. Always four. Four point zero.’ The physicist thinks a minute and says, ‘It’s somewhere between three point eight and four point two.’”

O’Connor smiled. Yes, a physicist probably would put it that way, he thought.

“So what does the lawyer answer?”

With a big grin, Faiyum replied, “The lawyer says, ‘How much is two and two? How much do you want it to be?’”

Bernstein groaned, but O’Connor laughed. “Lawyers,” he said.

“We could use a lawyer here,” Bernstein said. “Sue the bastards.”

“Which bastards?”

Bernstein shrugged elaborately. “All of them,” he finally said.

The night was long. And dark. And cold. O’Connor set the cockpit’s thermostat to barely above freezing, and ordered the two geologists to switch off their suit heaters.

“We’ve got to preserve every watt of electrical power we can. Stretch out the battery life as much as possible,” he said firmly.

The two geologists nodded glumly.

“Better put our helmets back on,” said Bernstein.

Faiyum nodded. “Better piss now, before it gets frozen.”

The suits were well insulated, O’Connor knew. They’ll hold our body heat better than blankets, he told himself. He remembered camping in New England, when he’d been a kid. Got pretty cold there. Then a mocking voice in his mind answered, but not a hundred below.

They made it through the first night and woke up stiff and shuddering and miserable. The sun was up, as usual, and the solar panels were feeding electrical power to the cockpit’s heaters.

“That wasn’t too bad,” O’Connor said, as they munched on ration bars for breakfast.

Faiyum made a face. “Other than that, how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”

Bernstein pointed to the control panel’s displays. “Batteries damned near died overnight,” he said.

“The solar panels are recharging them,” O’Connor replied.

“They won’t come back a hundred percent,” said Bernstein. “You know that.”

O’Connor bit back the reply he wanted to make. He merely nodded and murmured, “I know.”

Faiyum peered at the display from the laser they had set up outside. “I’ll be damned.”

The other two hunched up closer to him.

“Look at that,” said Faiyum, pointing. “The spectrometer’s showing there actually is methane seeping out of our bore hole.”

“Methanogens?” mused Bernstein.

“Can’t be anything else,” Faiyum said. With a wide smile, he said, “We’ve discovered life on Mars! We could win the Nobel Prize for this!”

“Posthumously,” said Bernstein.

“We’ve got to get this data back to Tithonium,” said O’Connor. “Let the biologists take a look at it.”

“It’s being telemetered to Tithonium automatically,” Bernstein reminded him.

“Yeah, but I want to see what the biologists have to say.”

The biologists were disappointingly cautious. Yes, it was methane gas seeping up from the bore hole. Yes, it very well might be coming from methanogenic bacteria living deep underground. But they needed more conclusive evidence.

“Could you get samples from the bottom of your bore hole?” asked the lead biologist, an Hispanic American from California. In the video screen on the control panel, he looked as if he were trying hard not to get excited.

“We’ve got the ice core,” Faiyum replied immediately. “I’ll bet we’ve got samples of the bugs in the bottom layers.”

“Keep it well protected,” the biologist urged.

“It’s protected,” O’Connor assured him.

“We’ll examine it when you bring it in,” the biologist said, putting on a serious face.

Once the video link was disconnected, Bernstein said morosely, “They’ll be more interested in the damned ice core than in our frozen bodies.”

All day long they watched the spikes of the spectrometer’s flickering display. The gas issuing from their bore hole was mostly methane, and it was coming up continuously, a thin invisible breath issuing from deep below the surface.

“Those bugs are farting away down there,” Faiyum said happily. “Busy little bastards.”

“Suns’ going down,” said Bernstein.

O’Connor checked the batteries’ status. Even with the solar panels recharging them all day, they were barely up to seventy-five percent of their nominal capacity. He did some quick arithmetic in his head. If it takes Tithonium five days to get us, we’ll have frozen to death on the fourth night.

Like Shackleton at the South Pole, he thought. Froze to death, all of ‘em.

They made it through the second night, but O’Connor barely slept. He finally dozed off, listening to the soft breeze wafting by outside. When he awoke every joint in his body ached and it took nearly an hour for him to stop his uncontrollable trembling.

As they chewed on their nearly-frozen breakfast bars, Bernstein said, “We’re not going to make it.”

“I can put in a call to Tithonium, tell ‘em we’re in a bad way.”

“They can see our telemetry,” Faiyum said, unusually morose. “They know the batteries are draining away.”

“We can ask them for help.”

“Yeah,” said Bernstein. “When’s the last time Glory Hallelujah changed her mind about anything?”

O’Connor called anyway. In the video screen, Gloria Hazeltine’s chunky blonde face looked like an implacable goddess.

“We’re doing everything we can,” she said, her voice flat and final. “We’ll get to you as soon as we can. Conserve your power. Turn off everything you don’t need to keep yourselves alive.”

Once O’Connor broke the comm link, Bernstein grumbled, “Maybe we could hold our breaths for three-four days.”

But Faiyum was staring at the spectrometer readout. Methane gas was still coming out of the bore hole, a thin waft, but steady.

“Or maybe we could breathe bug farts,” he said.

“What?”

Looking out the windshield toward their bore hole, Faiyum said, “Methane contains hydrogen. If we can capture the methane those bug are emitting...”

“How do we get the hydrogen out of it?” O’Connor asked.

“Lase it. That’ll break it up into hydrogen and carbon. The carbon precipitates out, leaving the hydrogen for us to feed to the fuel cell.

Bernstein shook his head. “How’re we going to capture the methane in the first place? And the how are we going to repair the fuel cell’s damage?”

“We can weld a patch on the cell,” O’Connor said. “We’ve got the tools for that.”

“And we can attach a weather balloon to the bore hole. That’ll hold the methane coming out.”

“Yeah, but will it be enough to power up the fuel cell?”

“We’ll see.”

With Bernstein clearly doubtful, they broke into the equipment locker and pulled out the small, almost delicate, welding rod and supplies. Faiyum opened the bin that contained the weather balloons.

“The meteorologists aren’t going to like our using their stuff,” Bernstein said. “We’re supposed to be releasing these balloons twice a day.”

Before O’Connor could reply with a choice, Fuck the meteorologists, Faiyum snapped, “Let ‘em eat cake.”

They got to work. As team leader, O’Connor was glad of the excuse to be doing something. Even if this is a big flop, he thought, it’s better to be busy than to just lay around and wait to die.

As he stretched one of the weather balloons over the bore hole and fastened it in place, Faiyum kept up a steady stream of timeworn jokes. Bernstein groaned in the proper places and O’Connor sweated inside his suit while he laboriously welded the bullet-hole sized puncture of the fuel cell’s hydrogen tank.

By mid-afternoon the weather balloon was swelling nicely.

“How much hydrogen do you think we’ve got there?” Bernstein wondered.

“Not enough,” said Faiyum, serious for once. “We’ll need three, four balloons full. Maybe more.”

O’Connor looked westward, out across the bleak frozen plain. The sun would be setting in another couple of hours.

When they finished their day’s work and clambered back into the cockpit, O’Connor saw that the batteries were barely up to half their standard power level, even with the solar panels recharging them all day.

We’re not going to make it, he thought. But he said nothing. He could see that the other two stared at the battery readout. No one said a word, though.

The night was worse than ever. O’Connor couldn’t sleep. The cold hurt. He had turned off his suit radio, so he couldn’t tell if the other two had drifted off to sleep. He couldn’t. He knew that when a man froze to death, he fell asleep first. Not a bad way to die, he said to himself. As if there’s a good way.

He was surprised when the first rays of sunlight woke him. I fell asleep anyway. I didn’t die. Not yet.

Faiyum wasn’t in the cockpit, he saw. Looking blearily through the windshield he spotted the geologist in the early morning sun fixing a fresh balloon to the bore hole, with a big round yellow balloon bobbing from a rock he’d tied it to.

O’Connor saw Faiyum waving to him and gesturing to his left wrist, then remembered that he had turned his suit radio off. He clicked the control stud on his wrist.

“...damned near ready to burst,” Faiyum was saying. “Good thing I came out here in time.”

Bernstein was lying back in his cranked-down seat, either asleep or... O’Connor nudged his shoulder. No reaction. He shook the man harder.

“Wha...what’s going on?”

O’Connor let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I gotta take a crap.’

O’Connor giggled. He’s alright. We made it through the night. But then he turned to the control panel and saw that the batteries were down to zero.

Faiyum and Bernstein spent the day building a system of pipes that led from the balloon’s neck to the input valve of the repaired fuel cell’s hydrogen tank. As long as the sun was shining they had plenty of electricity to power the laser. Faiyum fastened the balloon’s neck to one of the hopper’s spidery little landing legs and connected it to the rickety-looking pipework. Damned contraption’s going to leak like a sieve, O’Conner thought. Hydrogen’s sneaky stuff.

As he worked he kept up his patter of inane jokes. “A Catholic, a Moslem and a Jew – ”

“How come the Jew is always last on your list?” Bernstein asked, from his post at the fuel cell. O’Connor saw that the hydrogen tank was starting to fill.

Faiyum launched into an elaborate joke from the ancient days of the old Soviet Union, in which Jews were turned away from everything from butcher’s shops to clothing stores.

“They weren’t even allowed to stand in line,” he explained as he held the bobbing balloon by its neck. “So when the guys who’ve been waiting in line at the butcher’s shop since sunrise are told that there’s no meat today, one of them turns to another and says, ‘See, the Jews get the best of everything!’”

“I don’t get it,” Bernstein complained.

“They didn’t have to stand in line all day.”

“Because they were discriminated against.”

Faiyum shook his head. “I thought you people were supposed to have a great sense of humor.”

“When we hear something funny.”

O’Connor suppressed a giggle. Bernstein understood the joke perfectly well, he thought, but he wasn’t going to let Faiyum know it.

By the time the sun touched the horizon again, the fuel cell’s hydrogen tank was half full and the hopper’s batteries were totally dead.

O’Connor called Tithonium. “We’re going to run on the fuel cell tonight.”

For the first time since he’d known her, Gloria Hazeltine looked surprised. “But I thought your fuel cell was dead.”

“We’ve resurrected it,” O’Connor said happily. “We’ve got enough hydrogen to run the heaters most of the night.”

“Where’d you get the hydrogen?” Glory Hallelujah was wide-eyed with curiosity.

“Bug farts,” shouted Faiyum, from over O’Connor’s shoulder.

They made it through the night almost comfortably and spent the next day filling balloons with methane, then breaking down the gas into its components and filling the fuel cell’s tank with hydrogen.

By the time the relief ship from Tithonium landed beside their hopper, O’Connor was almost ready to wave them off and return to the base on their own power.

Instead, though, he spent the day helping his teammates and the two-man crew of the relief ship attach the storage racks with their previous ice core onto the bigger vehicle.

As they took off for Tithonium, five men jammed into the ship’s command deck, O’Connor felt almost sad to be leaving their little hopper alone on the frigid plain. Almost. We’ll be back, he told himself. And we’ll salvage the Viking 2 lander when we return.

Faiyum showed no remorse about leaving at all. “A Jew, a Catholic and a Moslem walk into a bar.”

“Not another one,” Bernstein groused.

Undeterred, Faiyum plowed ahead. “The bartender takes one look at them and says, ‘What is this, a joke?’”

Even Bernstein laughed.

© 2013 by Ben Bova

Multiple award winner and SF master Ben Bova’s new novel, Mars, Inc. is at booksellers everywhere.

The Virgin of Hertogenbosch

by David Drake

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

Manly Wade Wellman is now best known for his stories of John the Balladeer (Silver John), a minstrel who wanders the mountains of Western North Carolina fighting supernatural evil with his silver-strung guitar. The John stories are wonders, mixing folk tales and folk music with just plain folks. They have a permanent place in American fantasy and (I believe) in American literature.

Before Manly and his wife Frances moved to North Carolina, they lived in or near New York City. There in the 1930s and '40s, Manly wrote stories about other ghostbreakers (psychic detectives): educated, urban (and urbane) men like Judge Pursuivant, John Thunstone, and Professor Enderby. The heroes of these stories were of a type familiar in the pulps of the day, but they prefigure John in displaying their author's love of real legend and history.

Shortly after Manly died, I wrote my Old Nathan stories as a sort of homage (not pastiche) to him and to John the Balladeer. I had never written a classic ghostbreaker story, however.

Tony Daniel asked me to do a story for the Baen website to be put up in conjunction with the mass-market release of Night & Demons, my fantasy/horror collection. Tony (and Toni) gave me free rein for my subject, but I wanted something in keeping with the collection.

The stories in Night & Demons were mostly written during the '70s and '80s when I was becoming an increasingly close friend of Manly and Frances. I therefore decided to write a ghostbreaker story of the type Manly had written for Weird Tales.

It might seem to some readers that the character and attitudes of Professor Field aren't a million miles away from those of Manly Wade Wellman. I like to think that also.

THE VIRGIN OF HERTOGENBOSCH

Field squinted through the goggles. His eyes weren't what they'd been fifty years back. Ordinary glasses would probably have been sufficient protection and would have given him a clearer view of the 1962 dime he held in the Bunsen burner, but he didn't cut corners in matters like this.

Not that his present task had anything directly to do with magic.

Field set the glowing silver on the anvil and banged it three times with the rounded end of his ball-peen hammer. The hot metal spread enough for him to take a last stroke with the flat face and not hit the jaws of the pliers. That flattened the edges which had risen during the previous blows.

He thought of reversing the half-formed coin and striking what had been the back side, but the fingers of his left hand were starting to cramp. He opened the pliers--ordinary blacksmith's tongs were too clumsy to work on the small coin--and set them on the workbench, then raised the goggles to his forehead.

The calendar above the workbench still showed July. If Field remembered it when he was done working, he'd tear the sheets back to September, though it didn't matter very much.

The Buick dealer had sent a calendar each of the past two years. The color picture at the top showed Field and Louise in front of the dealership with their brand-new 1968 Wildcat. The car still sat in the drive, backed nearly to the street because Field liked room in front of the former garage when he was working in it, but Louise had died of a heart attack the night they brought the car home.

The silver dime was cooling on the anvil. In a moment Field would reheat it and flatten the portion which he'd been holding with the pliers the first time. After he'd tempered it again in the flame--hammering made silver hard--he could cut two crude bullet jackets from the former coin to be swaged onto lead cores.

A car with a thumping exhaust pulled up on the street, raced for a moment, and shut down. Field looked out the open door of the shop. A black Ford station wagon had parked in front of the house. There weren't proper shoulders in this subdivision, so the parked vehicle narrowed the pavement so that two cars couldn't pass in opposite directions. There wasn't much traffic out here, though.

Field wasn't doing much beyond looking these days, but the girl who got out the passenger side--and stumbled; the car's right wheels were in the grassy ditch--was well worth looking at. She wore a paisley halter-top with a button-front denim skirt and sandals.

Her long black hair swung gracefully when she moved. For a moment she looked so much like a girl named Slowly that Field's breath caught.

But that had been a long time ago, back when Field, GT, had been a reserve center on a football scholarship. A very long time ago.

The boy who'd been driving came around the front of the car, holding a paperback book in his right hand and in his left a package--it was of a size to be another book--wrapped in red cloth. He wore jeans with a pale yellow shirt, and over the shirt a brown leather vest. His chin was clean shaven and his moustache was as neat as Field's own, but his brown hair was shoulder length.

Field kept his lips from curling. Long hair was the fashion for men now; but it wasn't a fashion he was ever going to warm to.

Field removed the goggles and turned off the Bunsen burner, then stepped out the door of the shop. "Can I help you?" he called, working the gauntlet off his left hand. The pliers were too short to use without protection from the heat.

"I'm looking for Professor G T Field," said the boy. "They gave me this address at the School of Journalism."

"You've found me," Field said, "though I'm retired now. And yourselves?"

The couple walked down the drive, skirting the Buick. The fellow was in his mid-twenties, a young man, but the girl was at least six or seven years younger. She's certainly well-growed, though, Field thought; and smiled.

"I'm Aubrey Huber," the boy said, offering the book in his right hand to Field. "I'm a writer."

The book's title was Where Toad-Men Croak. Against an orange background a Negro spearman wearing a loincloth and a Greek helmet guarded stylized city gates. The publisher wasn't one Field had ever heard of.

"And this is Becca Walsh," Huber added as Field squinted at the cover.

Up close the girl was even prettier than Field had thought at first. Around her neck was a pendant with Celtic symbols on a braided thong. A separate ball-chain--Field thought of it as a dog-tag chain--disappeared into her halter.

Becca reached down into her halter top and came up with dog-tags and a silver St Christopher medal on the same chain. She held them out.

"We're married even though I don't wear a ring!" she said brightly. "These are Donald's dog-tags. Aubrey gave them to me when we found them in the safe-deposit in Memphis. This really makes me a Huber!"

She'd sound perky if she were announcing the end of the world, Field thought wonderingly. Of course, he wasn't sure that Becca would know what "the end of the world" meant, but she might be smarter than she seemed on this first meeting. And she certainly was pretty.

Aubrey glanced at the girl. He was trying to keep his expression blank, but Field didn't think he was best pleased with Becca's blurting.

Aloud the boy said, "My Dad was a paratrooper in World War Two. We found the dog-tags in the lock-box along with this thing I brought to show you."

He hefted the object in his left hand. The red cloth around it was a towel.

"Then let's go inside the house and you'll show me," Field said without noticeable hesitation. He didn't see as many people as he used to before he retired, especially not since Louise had died. A visit from personable strangers was a pleasure, if he looked at it the right way.

Field closed the shed and hung the hasp of the padlock through the staple to keep the wind from blowing open the double doors, but he didn't bother to lock it. There was nothing inside to draw a thief, and little enough that would be costly to replace. The anvil had been his father's, and the block it was set in was a section of tropical hardwood left over from a tree bole which Campa natives had hollowed out to make a canoe... but it wasn't of any monetary value.

Field walked toward the house with his visitors on either side. Unexpectedly Becca said, "Were you wounded in the war, Professor? Your arm?"

Field raised his left hand and clenched it to show he understood what she meant. He didn't think about his withered arm, any more than he thought about the fact his hair was thinning or that he needed glasses to read unless the light was very good.

"I was not," he said. "This happened when I was six. My father ran a clinic for the Presbyterian Church in Brazil, and one day a coral snake bit me."

He opened the kitchen door and gestured his guests through, glad that he'd made an effort to keep the house cleaned up. It wasn't as neat as it had been when Louise was alive, of course. Sometimes Field thought he could hear her chiding him for leaving things in the sink for a few days. When that happened, he got up and washed dishes.

"Like the coral snakes in Florida?" Aubrey said, pausing inside the simple kitchen. "Their bite is neurotoxin like a cobra's. A six-year-old would be lucky to survive if he got a full dose."

Becca was looking at the electric range. Two of the burners had stopped working, but Field hadn't bothered to replace them. There hadn't seemed to be any reason to. As he got older, there seemed less and less reason to do anything, but he tried to keep himself from feeling that way.

Field set Where Toad-Men Croak on the kitchen table. He liked the title, though he wondered if it was a deliberate play on words. The book seemed to be Robert E Howard stuff. In the course of that sort of story, the mighty-thewed hero was likely to croak any number of monsters, possibly including Toad-Men.

"Would you like beers?" he said, opening the refrigerator. "I'm going to have one myself."

"I'll have one, thank you," said Aubrey.

"I never turn down a beer!" Becca said. Giggling, she added, "Or much of anything else if you ask the right way."

Field took three Schlitz from the tray in the refrigerator door and set them on the linoleum countertop. They had twist-off caps, but it was easier for him to use the bottle opener waiting there.

"Here you go," he said, handing a bottle to each of them. He hoped that Becca was eighteen, drinking age for beer in North Carolina, but it wasn't enough of a concern for him to ask. "There's glasses in that cabinet--" he nodded "--if you need them."

Aubrey shrugged and drank from his bottle; Becca was already two deep drafts into hers. That was much as Field had expected; but he knew Louise would have insisted that he ask, so he had.

"Come into the living room," he said, leading the way. "And since we're on social terms, you'd best call me Gee. I always figured that Gee fitted me better than 'Professor' did, so it's what I had my students call me."

Aubrey and Becca followed. The boy turned to look at the egg-crate shelving to the right of the door.

Most of the items wouldn't mean much to a stranger. For example, the intricately carved billet of wood had been a guard's lignum vitae club around the turn of the century until it was scrimshawed into a work of art in a Kansas prison-mine. The man who gave it to Field on his deathbed had also described the 1908 riot. It had ended in a bloody massacre when a carload of guards, each carrying two revolvers, had emptied their weapons into gathered prisoners who were expecting negotiators.

You couldn't put memories on a knickknack shelf. When Field died, the memories would die also unless he had passed them on.

Becca was looking at the portrait of a seated man which hung between the front windows. She pointed and said, "He's a mean bastard. Look at that mouth, I mean."

"Louise would have agreed with you," Field said, smiling faintly. He settled into his easy chair in the corner, with bookshelves behind him and the side table and gooseneck lamp to his right. "Louise was my wife, my late wife. The painting is a self-portrait by my father. The two of them didn't get along."

"Where did these knives come from, Gee?" Aubrey said. He turned, holding a hilt of polished hardwood into which was set a mere sliver of steel--probably a horseshoe nail which had been hammered flat.

The boy was changing the subject, though Becca's comment hadn't bothered Field. His father had been a brilliant and many-talented man, but Becca hadn't been the first--or the hundred and first--to call him a bastard.

"From the interior of Brazil," Field said. "As I did--I was born at the medical station, and it wasn't till the snake bit me that I came to the United States. It wasn't coming back for me."

He let his mind drift into the past, as it did often these days. But he had guests, he mustn't be discourteous. Aloud he said, "You said I was lucky to have survived a coral snake's bite. You're right, and the luckiest part of it is that it happened while my father was on a turtle hunt, so the boys with me--Campa natives--took me to their own healer. I spent the night in his hut while he prayed and burned herbs."

The scene was as clear in Field's mind as it ever had been; though in truth, it hadn't been clear when it was happening. He didn't know how much he really remembered and how much his mind had created over sixty-odd years as he tried to make sense of what had happened.

"I saw warriors battling demons all through the night," he said. "And at dawn the demons fled. I woke up then, and I was alive."

Field shook his head with the memories, if that was what they were. "My father had arrived by midnight," he said, "but he didn't interfere. There was nothing he could have done, and for all his flaws--"

He smiled at Becca.

"--he never insisted on taking over from somebody who knew more than he did."

Aubrey had set his beer and the package on the built-in cabinet under the shelves when he picked up the knife. Now he put the knife back in place and brought the package over to where Field sat.

"It's about dreams that I want to talk to you," the boy said. "You've got a reputation for knowing about things that they don't believe in medical school. I think you can help me with this."

Field put on his reading glasses and turned on the lamp. "I've seen things that they don't believe in most places," he said. "But I believe what I` see. Most times, at least."

Aubrey offered him the package. Field held it in his right hand and peeled back the layers of folded towel. He could already tell it wasn't a book after all. It felt more like a short length of board....

Field opened the last fold, and his breath caught. It was a length of board, in a manner of speaking: a hardwood panel, about four inches by five or maybe a little larger. On it was painted the Virgin Mary in a dark blue robe, wearing a crown rather than a halo. She held a spindly Jesus on her lap, more an emaciated midget than a child.

It was very old. The painter had signed his name around the edge of the yellow circle that framed the Virgin. Though the Gothic letters were too small for Field to read without the handglass he kept in the drawer of this table, he already knew what the words would be.

"Dad said it was painted by Hieronymus Bosch," Aubrey said, saving Field the trouble of taking out the glass. "He brought it back from Europe with him."

Field kept his eyes on the painting. It was as serene as you could ask, not at all the sort of subject that you thought of when you read Hieronymus Bosch pinxit; but there was something unpleasant about it nonetheless.

I don't want to turn my back on it, he realized.

Aloud Field said, "Where is it that your father found this painting?"

"Well, it wasn't Dad who found it," said Aubrey, leaning over Field's shoulder to look at the painting also. "He traded a Luger to a British sergeant for it. The sergeant said it was valuable but he didn't want to keep it because it gave him bad dreams. Dad said he wasn't worried about worse dreams than he had from the Ardennes already, but after he had it a while he knew what the fellow meant and he didn't want the painting around either."

Aubrey laced his fingers together and stretched them backward. Field glanced up at the boy but said nothing.

"Dad talked about the painting," Aubrey said, "but we never saw it. I thought he must've sold it or traded it away. But there it was with his dog-tags when we opened the lock box after he died. And the St. Christopher's medal was on the chain too, wrapped around the painting. He said the medal had saved him at Cheneux when everybody else in his platoon was killed or badly wounded."

"Umm," Field said, a place-holder while he thought. In sudden decision he laid a fold of the red terrycloth over the painting again and switched off his reading light. He held the painting out for Aubrey to take.

"I'm not the person to come to for authenticating pictures," he said, "For what my opinion's worth, I think it's real. But I think your father was right in not wanting it around."

"I don't like it either," Becca said. "It's creepy."

Switching to a wheedling tone, she went on, "Aubrey? You know what we ought to do? We ought to sell it. Then we'd have the money to go to Las Vegas like we been talking!"

"Becca, just shut up till you've got something useful to say!" Aubrey snapped. The anger surprised Field, though the whine that underlay Becca's voice no matter what she was saying had gotten on his nerves already.

"Look, Gee," Aubrey said, turning from the girl again. "I don't care who painted this picture or how much it's worth. I'm not going to sell it. I want to use it."

"Use it how?" Field said. He took a sip of his beer. His mouth felt dry, but the beer didn't taste right either. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Look, I'm just breaking in to writing," Aubrey said. "The fantasy writers who really made it big were able to unlock their subconsciouses. Lovecraft wrote the things he dreamed about. Robert E. Howard said when he wrote the Conan stories, it was like an old frontiersman was sitting at his elbow and dictating--it wasn't Howard himself writing it."

Field tried the beer again. It was all right this time.

"I know that's what they said," he said, looking up at Aubrey. The boy seemed tense, desperate even. "I've known enough writers over the years to doubt anything they say about writing, though. And it seems to me that you're writing already--"

Field gestured toward the door. He wished he'd brought the book with him instead of leaving it in the kitchen.

"--so you don't need dreams."

"Toad-Men isn't real publishing!" Aubrey said. "Powell offered me five hundred bucks and they still owe me a hundred of that. If I'm going to really make it as a writer, I need to access my dreams. I thought this would be the way--"

He hefted the covered painting.

"--but I slept with it and I didn't feel anything like what Dad talked about."

"I think you should thank your lucky--" Field began, but he broke off when his eye fell on Becca. She was sitting on the couch under Dr. Field's picture. She had stopped pouting and taken rolling papers and a glassine bag of marijuana out of her purse.

"Miss Walsh!" Field said. "I'll thank you not to smoke a reefer in my house."

Becca flushed. Her hands covered the marijuana reflexively, but she said in an angry voice, "Why not? A joint never hurt anybody! You ought to try it yourself some time!"

"Becca, we're guests," Aubrey said. His voice had none of the anger he had shown moments before when the girl suggested that he sell the painting. To Field he said, "I'm sorry, sir, it's your house as you say. Drugs aren't nearly as dangerous as the government wants you to think, though. Even cocaine has no long term effect unless you overdose. It's not addictive."

"That's not my experience," Field snapped, angry but keeping hold of his temper. He generally did unless he'd had a few drinks, but that didn't mean that it didn't get his dander up when somebody talked twaddle to him like a preacher in church.

In a more settled voice he said, "My first newspaper job was in St. Louis during Prohibition. It was on the drug route from Mexico to New York, but a lot of the coke and heroin didn't make it over the Mississippi. Or the reefers either, come to that. You can believe what you please, but I generally believe my own eyes. Whatever they may be teaching doctors in med school now."

Becca got up abruptly. She'd stuffed the marijuana back into a big leather purse she'd probably bought at a street fair.

"We better go now," she said to Aubrey in a harsh voice. "I told you we should see my brother instead."

Field got up from the chair, using his arms to help him rise. He regretted that things had gone this way, but he wasn't going to be lectured by a fool girl in his own house.

Though if I was Aubrey Huber's age, I might feel a bit different. Field grinned and suddenly felt better.

"Becca, sit down," Aubrey said. "Gee, I'm sorry this happened, but it's nothing to do with what I came here for."

Aubrey waggled the painting again. Becca did sit down, though the two men were now standing.

"I want you to unlock the dreams for me," Aubrey said earnestly. "If I can put real nightmares down on paper, I'll be as great as Lovecraft and Howard. I've got the talent. All I need is material like they had!"

Field looked into the boy's face and saw the hope in it: hope that an old man who'd seen and learned a lot of things during his life could help a boy with a dream. Field had been a boy like that himself, many years ago.

"I know something about dreams," Field said, choosing his words carefully. "I shouldn't wonder if there were some locked in that painting. But if so, I think they ought to stay there."

"Can you open it so that I can decide for myself?" Aubrey said, his tone sharpening.

"It might be that I could," said Field, "but I think it's better that I not. Better for you--"

"That's my own business!"

"Yes, it is," Field said, nodding. "But better for the world too, than that the sorts of things that Hieronymus Bosch knew should be loosed on it."

Aubrey began to refold the towel. "All right, Becca," he said. "We'll go see Jimmie in Memphis."

To Field he added, "I gave up medicine to be a writer. I'm going to make it, whatever that takes."

Becca hopped from the couch. "My brother knows black magic!" she said to Field. "You'd call it black, anyway. A friend taught him."

"No real friend would teach a man black magic," Field said. He kept his voice calm with an effort. "And yes, any magic that opens the way for what's in this painting is what I'd call black. That much I can feel in it."

"It was his cellmate in Brushy Mountain," Aubrey said. "The Tennessee state prison. Jimmie says he can let the dreams out, and that's what I want. What I'm going to have."

"It was just drugs," Becca muttered, but she wasn't looking at either man as she spoke.

Field sighed. "Let me see the Bosch again," he said, holding his hands out for the painting. Becca's brother might very well be able to open a way to the things in the painting: letting things loose wasn't nearly as difficult as closing them up again.

Instead of giving Field the painting, Aubrey unwrapped it and held it facing the older man. The Virgin was serene. The Child, though not a real child as a modern artist would have painted Him, had a detached glory which threatened no one.

Yet there was a threat. Field didn't need the testimony of Aubrey's father and the soldier who'd traded him the painting to know that.

"If I open the painting," Field said, his eyes on the Virgin rather than on the boy holding it, "then I'll take precautions to be sure I don't let out more than I mean to."

He looked at Becca, then back to Aubrey. "Which somebody else might not do, or do as well," he said. "That's the only reason I'd do this thing for you; but you have to let me do it my way, then. Do you give me your word as a man that you'll let me do it my way?"

"Sir, if you can let me dream, I don't care how you do it," Aubrey said, holding out his right hand. "Sure, you're in charge."

Field shook with him, wishing that this business weren't happening but determined to follow through now that it had come this far. Aloud he said, "I'm going to do this because I said I'd do it, but I want you to think about something, Aubrey Huber: this picture gave your father dreams without any need of spells to open it up, but you say you don't get anything. Why is that?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Dad was, well, he didn't talk about the war really, but he'd seen things, and I guess the Brit he got the painting from had too. I'm not a veteran."

Field nodded. "That might be," he said. "Though you might think what it means that the Battle of the Bulge brought them closer to what's in this picture."

He gestured with his left hand. Though withered, his hand and arm worked normally. They just had no more strength than those of the six-year-old boy he had been when the boichumbeguacu, the largest of the coral snakes, bit him.

"But there's another way it might be," Field said. "When did you get this notion of needing the dreams to be able to write? Because you'd been writing fine without them, hadn't you?"

"Well, I've been writing, but I wouldn't call selling a book to Powell Publications 'fine,'" Aubrey said. "When I saw the painting I remembered what Dad had said about dreams, and it came to me. I'd get my chance!"

"When you saw the Bosch?" said Field. "Or was it when you took away the silver medal that your father had put there to keep something inside"

Aubrey shook his head angrily. "Look, it was the same thing," he said. "I unwrapped the picture and I saw it when I unwrapped it. Now, are we going to do this?"

"My word's always been good before," Field said. He didn't quite snap the reply, but it wouldn't have bothered him if he had. "We'll do the business out in the shed, where I was when you came by."

As he stepped into the short hallway to the bedrooms, he said over his shoulder, "I've some things to gather up. I'll be back in a tick."

When Field returned to the living room, he'd put on an old tweed sport coat. Both side pockets bulged, and the sleeves bagged a little at the elbows. He still wore the long-sleeved shirt he'd had at the forge. His gray wool pants with moth holes in the right leg were the same also.

"Before we go out...—" he said to Aubrey, taking a sheet of coarse yellow paper from the cabinet under the egg-crate shelving. He used this paper to make carbons when he was writing articles, and it was fine for the present disposable use as well. "I'll write the words you'll be saying. You have to speak them, since the spell's for you. Do you know Latin?"

Aubrey shrugged. "I had two years in high school," he said. "I can't read it now, but I can pronounce it well enough."

"That's all you need to do," Field said. Using the pen from his shirt pocket, he wrote in a sprawling hand, O spiritus Neyilon et Achalas, accipite sacrificium ut nihil contra me et contra clavem istum valeat.

He handed the sheet to Aubrey and said, "You're just asking a pair of demiurges to accept a sacrifice and not allow anything to stand against you and the key. The sacrifice is the white cockerel whose throat I cut when I made the Key of Pluto. "

He paused to reach onto one of the higher cells of the egg-crate and brought down a heavy piece of iron.

"Which is this."

The object had a loop handle and a crossbar two-thirds of the way down the shaft. It was rusty, and the crossbar had been crudely pinned and welded to the shaft.

"The key has to be made from a piece of metal found by chance," Field explained. "What I found was a railroad spike by the right-of-way where some track had been replaced. That was thirty years ago, just before the war started, and I've never had cause to use it since... but I think this is the time."

"Why did you make it if you weren't going to use it?" said Becca.

Field grimaced. It was a question he'd have preferred not to be asked, but he'd always said that if you can do a thing, you ought to be able to man up to what you'd done.

"Louise and I didn't have a child and we wanted one," he said, his eyes on the Key rather than on his visitors. "I made the Key to open a way for the child. Before I used it, though, I thought again and decided that we'd regret anything we got by that method."

He looked directly at Becca. "We never had children," he said, "and that was a pain to both of us, especially as we got older. It's a worse pain to me now that Louise is gone and I'm alone. But I think I made the right decision."

Field turned sharply to Aubrey and said, "And I think you'd be wiser not to use the Key of Pluto as well, but we've had that discussion. Bring the spell and the Bosch out to the shed, and I'll bring the Key."

A ragged straw hat hung from a coat rack in the corner between the egg-crate and the rarely used front door. Field hesitated, then put the hat on and led the way back through the kitchen. A little extra luck couldn't hurt.

"Will we need hats?" Aubrey said. He paused to let Becca go ahead of him as Field held the outside door open. "The sun isn't bad, and you said we'd be inside."

"This was my father's from Brazil," Field explained, closing the door as he followed the boy out. He touched the brim. The individual palm fibers had been split so fine that they might have passed for linen. "The band's from the skin of the snake that bit me, though it lost its colors long ago. I broke its back with a canoe paddle before I passed out, and the Campas skinned it for my father."

The Campas had also eaten the snake's flesh, he was sure. Protein was scarce in the great forest.

Field opened one door of the shed and Aubrey swung the other back. They were both working one-handed: the boy hadn't given the painting to Becca, nor had Field put the key in a pocket of his jacket.

Field was used to working inside the shed, but it looked tight when he saw it with the eyes of a host. The anvil was in the middle of the space, now; he'd moved it forward to take advantage of the light through the doorway. There might be enough room still, but...

Field looked at the boy, waiting with him on the threshold. "Give me the picture to hold and slide the anvil toward the back to give us some elbow-room," he said. "And then fetch the charcoal grill that hangs on the wall there, if you would."

Aubrey handed over the Bosch without hesitation and stepped into the shed. He tested the anvil's weight by pressing the sole of his shoe--he wore ankle boots--against the base. Then he bent over and pushed it all the way to the back wall in a single smooth motion, never losing the inertia after he'd gotten it moving.

Field watched the process with a grim smile. When he was Aubrey's age, he could do the same easily; but he hadn't been that age for forty years and more. He wouldn't trade his present wisdom and experience to be young again, but there were times he missed his youth nonetheless.

Everything came with a cost. That was more true of experience than of most other things.

Aubrey lifted the charcoal grill from its hook above the workbench. Becca said, "Why do we need that? Are you going to cook something?"

"In a manner of speaking," Field said. "I've spells written on shavings of rowan wood. We'll set them to char and let the smoke touch us before we open the Bosch. Try to open it, anyway. There may be some protection in the smoke, and I'm not in a mood to turn down even a little help in this business."

He didn't add that he had a bad feeling about it, but he surely did. The boy was fixed in his purpose, so there was no point in talking further about the risk.

Field looked at Becca, wondering if it would have been safe to let this Jimmie Walsh do the conjuration. Probably not; and anyway, he'd given his word.

"Want me to put this outside, Gee?" Aubrey asked, hefting the little grill.

"I'll light it, first," Field said, bending to get the bag of charcoal under the workbench. Aubrey took back the painting while Field filled the grill--the brazier, rather, for he'd removed the grill itself so that there was only the pan for charcoal. He took a book of paper matches from his pocket.

"Shouldn't you use some kindling?" Aubrey said. He looked around for old newspapers or something else suitable.

Smiling, Field lit the Bunsen burner, then played its flame over the briquettes until hints of white ash appeared. He shut off the burner--it was fed by a twenty-gallon tank under the workbench--and carried the brazier by two legs into the driveway between the shed and the Buick's front bumper.

"Now," Field said, stepping back into the shed, "we'll get the picture ready for the ceremony. Set it on the bench there with the cloth under it for a pad."

The boy obeyed. Becca was standing very close to him, her hand on his left arm. Her expression was tight with concern. Field didn't think it was the spell that worried her: Becca didn't really believe in magic, not as anything more than a horror movie safely at a distance on the screen. But she could tell that Aubrey had completely forgotten about her, for the time at least.

"Now," said Field. "Put the dog-tags and medal back around the painting the way they were when you found the picture in the safety deposit box."

"No!" said Becca, as Field had thought she would. "Not the medal!"

"Particularly the medal," Field said, directing his words at Aubrey, not the girl. He stood straight, as though he were being sworn in before testifying in court. "You said your father believed that the medal saved him in battle. Silver has value, and perhaps a saint's image does as well; but belief has the most value of all. Your father believed the medal would protect the world against the Bosch, and thus far it's done just that."

"No, I won't!" Becca said, pulling the chain taut while she clutched the tags and medal in both hands. "Aubrey, we're married! You said I could have them!"

"You can have them back after we're finished, Becca," Aubrey said. His tone was harsh, dismissive. "I need them now."

"They can't ever be taken away from the picture again," Field said. He didn't raise his voice, but there was no give in it. "Not when it's open. I'm not sure the picture's really safe now, but it lasted five hundred years without doing worse than giving a couple soldiers bad dreams. If I unlock it, then I don't know what will come out unless it's bound by your father's belief."

"I'm going," Becca said. Field stepped aside so as not to block the doorway, but Aubrey gripped the girl's shoulder. When she tried to twist away, Aubrey jerked her back to him. She yelped in pain and tried to peel his hand away with both of hers.

"You'll take the chain off now or I'll take it off you!" Aubrey shouted. He raised his other hand with the fist clenched.

Field poised to grab Aubrey's arm if he actually struck the girl. Field hadn't warmed to Becca and he didn't have any illusions about being able to hold the younger man in a temper like his present one, but he wasn't going to die remembering that he hadn't tried to stop a man from beating a woman.

"You can have it!" Becca shrieked. "Go on and take it, then!"

She pulled back, lifting the chain, tags and medal over her head. Field thought for a moment that she was going to fling them away, but instead she simply held them out.

Aubrey took them from her hands without a word. Becca moved deeper into the shed, rubbing her shoulder with the other hand. She might have a bruise, but she didn't appear to be seriously injured.

Aubrey lifted the painting and laid the doubled chain on the cloth, then ran the tags and medal over the face of the painting and laced them through the loop underneath. He stepped away and turned to Field.

"That's how it was," he said. "Except the towel was wrapped around it and I couldn't see what was underneath. I didn't know what was on the chain until I took it out of the lock-box."

"We won't need the cloth," Field said, pursing his lips. "It doesn't add protection, and it may be that there'll be changes in how the painting looks that we'll want to know about."

He decided to leave the Key of Pluto on the workbench where he'd set it. It was as safe there as it had been on the shelf in the living room for these thirty past years.

"We'll use the protective spells, then," Field said. "Come out to the fire."

He glanced at Aubrey and added, "Unless you've changed your mind. Then we could avoid a bit of smoke."

He grinned to show that he was joking. When Aubrey saw the smile, his expression changed from a scowl to neutral, though he sounded a little strained when he muttered, "No, I don't mind smoke."

They stood opposite one another on the east and west sides of the brazier. The mild breeze was from the south--from the Buick toward the shed--though it wasn't enough to blow a flag out from its pole. It would drift the smoke, though, which was all that was required.

Field brought a paper lunch bag from his left jacket pocket as Becca joined them. She stood near Field this time instead of joining her boyfriend--husband?--on the other side. She was still rubbing her shoulder.

Field pinched half the rowan shavings out of the bag and sprinkled them on the charcoal. Those that landed on ash where the briquettes were fully lighted began to smolder at once. The spells he'd written in a crabbed hand were illegible even to himself on the curling rowan, but they stood out as shimmering lines while the wood charred beneath the India ink.

Field shook out the rest of the shavings and stuffed the empty bag back into his pocket. He'd readied them three nights ago to use the Mirror of Lylit, but he could make more at leisure.

The wood didn't flare up. He'd soaked the shavings in water so that he could hold them flat while he wrote, and they were still a little damp.

"Stand in the smoke, both of you," Field said, stepping to his left to put himself between the charcoal and the shed. Some of the smoke would be going inside the shed also, which couldn't hurt.

Becca sneezed. "It's bitter," she said. "How does this help?"

"It's protection," Field said. "It's like a raincoat against hostile magic, I suppose you could say."

And like a raincoat, it was useful in a drizzle but a real downpour would overwhelm it. You do what you can, he thought.

Field took the nearer hand of each of the couple in one of his, Aubrey with his left and the girl with his right. He stifled a sneeze, then said in a firm voice, "Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Emanuel Paraclitus, protegite nos!"

Becca pulled away. Field released the boy's hand also and said, "We're as ready as we can be. Let's go into the shed."

Field led the way. Aubrey was expressionless; Becca seemed angry, but that was understandable.

"Stand in front of the painting," Field said to the boy. "The Key's there on the table. Pick it up in your left hand. When you're ready, move it slowly from left to right across the painting and read the spell. Keep reading the spell until I tell you to stop."

Becca stood in the doorway, but after a moment she came in and slipped to the back. She didn't touch Aubrey this time either. The distance between them at this moment was wider than the few physical inches.

Aubrey picked up the Key, pausing for a moment at the weight. Field remembered how much work it had been to saw and forge the thick steel, then to drill it to pin the cut-off crossbar to the remainder of the spike, now the shaft.

He wished he hadn't made the Key, but then he would have to make it now; otherwise the boy would go to Becca's brother, which would be worse. If this attempt failed--if the Key of Pluto didn't open whatever was hidden in the painting--then Field wasn't worried about anything a couple of drug dealers were capable of doing.

"O spiritus Neyilon et Achalas," Aubrey said, moving the Key slowly in his hand. "Accipite sacrificium ut nihil contra me et contra clavem istum valeat."

Nothing happened. The boy looked at Field.

"Keep speaking the spell!" Field said. He didn't want this to work, but it had to be carried out properly before he could be sure that it didn't work. "And don't let the Key move right to left, just hold it fixed when you've finished the motion."

"O spiritus Neyilon et Achalas, accipite sacrificium ut nihil contra me et contra clavem istum valeat," the boy repeated, speaking so quickly that he slurred the words together this time. The painted Virgin seemed to be fading. "O spiritus Neyilon et Achalas, accipite--"

The shed's walls and metal roof seemed to expand to the volume of a cathedral. The painting was no longer there. The open doorway and the world beyond had vanished, but everything was suffused with blurred light.

A creature crawled up through the blank rectangle which had been a painting. Its gray skin was covered with shaggy black hair. Its head--his head; the creature's genitalia were prominent--was vaguely doglike with large, round ears, flaring nostrils, and two bony lumps on the forehead which might have been horns.

The teeth in the long jaws were spikes the length and thickness of a man's thumbs. The demon's open mouth stank like a St. Louis slaughterhouse on a hot August day.

Field didn't know where he was standing now: the shed and its contents had vanished. Around the demon and the three humans was a pebble-strewn plain. Though the demon's squat body stood on short legs, it was taller than either of the men.

A pink penis extended six inches from its sheath, standing out vividly against the demon's black fur. The creature reached for Becca, roaring in triumph. She threw her hands up and the creature recoiled with a startled yelp.

"Hey!" Aubrey shouted, thrusting his left hand toward the demon's throat. Though the Key didn't have any magical value in the present situation, it was still a length of railroad spike.

The demon's arms were much longer than the boy's. It lifted him by both shoulders and shook him. The Key of Pluto flew from his hand, though heaven knew where it went. It should have clanged off the roof, but there was only a gray sky in this place.

Field had the revolver out of his right jacket pocket. He reached past Aubrey's flailing legs and fired. The muzzle was so close to the demon's chest that the red flash ignited a patch of fur.

The demon bellowed and flung Aubrey aside. It reached for Field, who now didn't have to worry about hitting the boy. He fired three times more, as fast as his finger could pull the trigger. He held his arm out straight as he'd been taught, but he couldn't pretend he was really trying to keep the sights aligned.

At this range, it didn't matter. All three bullets hit the demon within a handspan of its breastbone. For an instant Field thought he saw the flames of Hell blazing through the four holes which the silver-jacketed bullets had punched in the shaggy hide. The demon dwindled away like mist in bright sunlight, leaving behind only the stench of sulphur.

Field leaned against the shelving on the wall opposite the workbench. His whole body was trembling. He thrust the revolver back into his jacket pocket, finding the opening with difficulty.

There were still two live rounds in the cylinder. He didn't want to chance firing again by accident if he continued to hold the weapon in his hand.

Those were the last two silver-jacketed rounds Field had prepared. He needed to finish the set of reloads he'd been working on when his visitors arrived; but not today, and perhaps not tomorrow. He was as tired as if he'd been tied to the bumper of a truck and had been running to keep up.

The workshed looked just as it had when they'd entered it a few minutes earlier; there was no sign of the demon. The Bosch painting was as it had been also. Wherever the demon had come from, it wasn't through the physical layer of paint.

Aubrey lay face-up on the floor, his eyes closed. The Key of Pluto was near his outstretched right hand. Field knelt carefully beside the boy and touched his throat. Though Aubrey was unconscious, his carotid pulse was strong and regular.

Both shoulders of his vest and open-necked shirt were ripped. Field fingered the edge of a torn patch. The leather seemed to have been seared or rotted; his touch made more crumble away. Aubrey's shoulders were red and swollen, but the demon's hands--two fingers and a thumb, all armed with claws--hadn't broken the skin.

Becca lowered her hands. Her sneeze seemed to surprise her as much as it did Field. Aubrey moaned without opening his eyes.

"What was that?" Becca said in a husky whisper. She looked at the painting, but there was nothing in it now to frighten her.

"That was the demon Hieronymus Bosch painted a Virgin over to keep where it was," Field said, rising to his feet even more cautiously than he had knelt. "The demon I released, because I'm a damned fool and I humored a boy who didn't know any better."

He lifted the painting from its pad of towel, sliding it out through the looped chain. The dog-tags were underneath, but the chain's catch had been opened and the silver medal was missing.

He set the painting down again. "Let me see your hands," he said. His voice was on the edge of control. "Open them now."

"I won't!" Becca said, her voice rising. "It's mine and he gave it to me. It's our wedding ring!"

Field stepped toward her. Becca lunged toward the door, but she stepped on Aubrey's out-flung arm and stumbled.

Field grabbed her left wrist before she got upright. He squeezed and twisted; for a moment, he wasn't an old man.

With a scream, Becca opened her hand; the St Christopher medal dropped to the floor. Field scooped it up. He dropped it into his pants pocket, where it clinked against his keys.

Becca got to her feet. She stared at Field, but she said nothing until he picked up the painting again.

"What are you doing?" she said as Field walked out of the shed.

"What should have been done five hundred years ago," Field said. "Maybe Hieronymus Bosch had a reason to keep it around, but I don't and the world doesn't."

"You can't!" Becca said, her voice shrill again. "It's worth thousands!"

"It's not worth that boy's soul," Field said, his eyes on the girl. He could imagine her picking up the hammer he'd been using on dimes and hitting him if he turned his back. "And that's what he almost paid."

He set the painting on the charcoal, wriggling it down into the heart of the fire. Only when he was sure the panel had caught did he jerk his hands away from the heat.

The paint suddenly blazed up. Beneath it Field saw for an instant the lowering demon he had sent away; then that too was gone.

He hadn't destroyed the demon, but he had closed forever the portal by which it had been reaching the waking world. The panel on which Bosch had painted the Virgin continued to crackle, but only wood was burning now.

Becca had followed him out of the shed. "What are you going to do now?" she asked in a small voice.

"Take the boy up the street to Doc Wagner," Field said. He was feeling more like himself again. "He's always home on Sunday afternoons; that's when his daughter and the grandkids visit. I don't guess there's any need for a hospital, but I'll let the doc decide that."

He started back to the shed. Aubrey rose to one elbow, then clutched his arms to his chest with a gasp of pain and collapsed again.

"Professor?" Becca said, her eyes on the gravel driveway. "What are you going to tell Aubrey?"

Field stopped and looked at her. She seemed suddenly vulnerable.

"I'm going to tell him the truth," he said quietly. "I always tell the truth. I don't have to worry about keeping my stories straight that way, and it stops people who know me from asking me questions they don't really want the answers to."

Becca snuffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was crying. Field thought it was the first thing he'd seen her do that wasn't theatrical.

She'll keep behaving like that all her life, Field thought. Because she's self-centered and not very bright.

But Becca wasn't actually evil; and she looked a great deal like a girl named Slowly Kimber, whom Field had known a lifetime ago. He fished in his pocket and brought out his key ring; from it he removed the Buick's ignition key. There was a spare in the house, but he didn't want to go inside just now.

"Here," he said. "Do you know where the bus station is?"

He tossed the key to Becca. She looked surprised but caught it between her hands.

"On Franklin Street?" she said. "I guess."

Field dropped his key ring back on top of the St. Christopher medal and drew his old black wallet from his hip pocket. "I want you to leave the car in the street there," he said. "Put the key under the floormat. You catch the first bus out of here, wherever it happens to be going."

"I don't have any money!" Becca said.

Field took a pair of fifty dollar bills from his wallet and held them out between the index and middle finger of his left hand. He wasn't a wealthy man, but he could afford this.

"These should tide you over," he said. "And just so you know: if the Buick isn't where it's supposed to be when Doc Wagner and I come to pick it up this evening, the Highway Patrol will be looking for you and a stolen car. Understood?"

Becca hesitated for a moment. Aubrey mumbled something, though Field couldn't catch the words. The girl snatched the money from Field's hand and got into the Buick. It started with a roar and spattered gravel as she reversed out the drive.

Field watched Becca go. She hadn't said anything. He hadn't expected thanks, but there'd beem a better than fair chance that she'd be shouting curses as she drove off. Silence was fine.

This might cost him a car, but Field didn't worry about that. Right after seeing a demon closer than ever before in an eventful life, he couldn't get too worked up about material things.

Aubrey sat up. He looked groggy, but he had his normal color back in place of his clammy whiteness just after the demon threw him down.

"What happened?" he said.

"You fought a demon," Field said, helping the boy to his feet. "The demon lost. If you'll give me your car keys, I'll take you over to a friend of mine's. I don't think you're ready to drive just yet."

Aubrey reached into the side-pocket of his jeans. He winced, but his shoulders seemed to be all right except for bruising. As he handed over the keys, he looked around. "Where's Becca?" he said.

"We'll discuss that over a drink," Field said, starting up the drive beside the younger man. "After my friend takes a look at your shoulder."

Field looked back as he got into the Ford. The shed doors were open, but that was all right. It would air out the sulphur fumes, and perhaps it would clear memories of something worse.

© 2013 by David Drake

David Drake is the creator of the RCN and Hammer’s Slammers science fiction series, as well as a new collection of dark fantasy, horror, and alternate history tales, Night and Demons.

Murder on the Hochflieger Ost

By Frank Chadwick

Munich Bavaria, aboard the (landed) Hochflieger Ost

December 10, 1887, late afternoon

Gabrielle Courbiere finished pinning up her hair and looked in the stateroom mirror to be certain she was presentable. She was. Men told her she was more than simply presentable, that she was in fact strikingly beautiful. If asked to describe her own appearance, she would have said it was ordinary in every respect—not unusually tall or short, figure neither exceptionally heavy nor thin, facial features very regular. It occurred to her, and not for the first time, that it was odd how men found the average of feminine characteristics so exceptional. She accepted this judgment on its face; she had no means of judging its validity as she did not find women sexually arousing herself.

Gabrielle had difficulty understanding any emotion which she did not herself experience, and so the feelings of others remained generally elusive, and their behaviors often surprising and seemingly irrational. Despite the potentially fatal consequences of such a disability in a spy, the men who headed the intelligence apparatus of the Democratic and Social Republic of France had given Gabrielle this covert assignment of a most critical nature. They had done so because she, who until then had worked only in the research department, asked for it and provided an extensive list of arguments as to why she was the correct choice, a list which would have been tiresomely long coming from any other aspirant but which her male superiors had listened to with the appearance of rapt attention, although in truth few of them would afterwards have been able to tell you even a fraction of what she had said.

Her assignment, while requiring both discretion and brazenness in turn, did not seem difficult to her. She was to contact an anarchist agent and exchange one leather document tube for another. They would make the exchange on the Hochflieger Ost, the enormous and luxurious commercial zeppelin which linked Berlin to Istanbul by way of Munich, Vienna, and Budapest. Gabrielle had boarded the zeppelin in Berlin early that morning and the other agent was to board here, in Munich. Once aloft over Austria and the Balkans, legal jurisdiction would be problematic and they could make the transfer with greater safety, at least from the authorities. The presence of hostile agents was always a danger to be guarded against, of course.

Gabrielle opened her purse and made sure the small LeFaucheux revolver was where she had positioned it. She pursed her lips. She would far rather have brought a shotgun for protection, but it would surely have been confiscated upon boarding. As this unsatisfactory toylike revolver was all she had managed to conceal, it would have to do.

Gabrielle did not know what the anarchist looked like. She only knew he would be travelling on a British passport and he had been told to contact the attractive blonde French lady travelling alone. Gabrielle hoped the agent’s notion of an attractive female corresponded to that of her superiors. She thought that aspect of the plan troublesomely vague.

Among the qualifications she had listed for the assignment was her fluency in both German and English, although she had omitted the fact that her English was learned from books and so she had little grasp of conversational idioms. Gabrielle had already decided that, to the extent feasible, she would conceal her knowledge of foreign languages in the hopes of provoking a loose comment or admission. Mentally reaffirming this part of her plan, she finished dressing quickly and left her cabin for the main salon, where she believed she stood the best chance of contacting the agent among the throng of boarding passengers.

*****

“Do you have any firearms or incendiaries?”

“Certainly not! Do you take me for the anarchist?” Etienne Villon—who was in fact exactly that—declaimed these words with what he imagined to be the outraged arrogance of an Englishman. He waved the folded document in his hand at the corpulent Bavarian customs clerk. “I have the passport Britanique!”

The official took the forged passport from him but eyed him with suspicion.

“Forgive me …” He paused to read the name on the document, “Herr Le Marchant, but you do not sound English, nor does your name sound English.”

“English? I am a subject of the British crown, but certainly not English. I am Dgèrnésiais, from the island of Guernsey.”

The official frowned and read the passport more carefully. “Gernezey? I have never heard of this.”

“Dgèrnésiais,” Etienne repeated impatiently, his pretended anger beginning to give way to the real thing. “From Guernsey.”

“Ach, ja. It says here you are from the island of Guernsey.”

“Yes, Guernsey, you great . . .” He choked off the expletive and took a breath to calm himself. It would do no good to enrage this representative of the German state apparatus. Frowning, the customs official spread the forged passport on his counter and selected a large and forbidding-looking rubber stamp from the rack in front of him.

“We have the long and glorious tradition of service to the Anglaise,” Etienne added hastily. “My grandfather was a general, Jean Le Marchant.”

The official stamped the passport and handed it back. “You may board now,” he said.

“He commanded Wellington’s cavalry at Salamanca. We thrashed those despicable Frenchies that day!”

“Ja, ja. Move along, bitte,” the official said, his attention already on the overweight lady and her bored daughter standing next in line.

Etienne, who was short and not particularly strong, puffed with exertion carrying his valise and the vitally important document tube up the folding metal stairway to the zeppelin’s boarding hatch. Perspiration suddenly ran down his face, and not simply from the physical labor. That was close! he thought. Ever since he had taken this assignment, his life had hung by the most slender of threads. The slightest misstep or mistake would surely lead to exposure, arrest, torture, and death. But what did it matter? The cause, only the cause mattered. What was his life compared to the cause of freedom? Nothing! His life was nothing and he would gladly give it for freedom. For freedom and justice.

And truth! Truth was the most important cause of all, he thought, as he pocketed his forged passport.

*****

Gabrielle took her place at a small table in the salon, chosen for its excellent view of the doors at either end of the long room. She ordered café au lait and thought through the mission.

A member of a covert anarchist organization called the Chevaliers Autonome de la Peuple (Independent Knights of the People) had stolen a complete set of engineering drawings of a new and quite advanced design of British aether battleship, to be christened the Prince of Wales. Unfortunately, the theft was discovered almost at once and all traffic across the Pas de Calais closed to prevent the agent’s escape to France. He had instead made his way by fishing boat to Norway and then had been helped to Munich by Volksritterbund, the German branch of his organization, generally known simply as der Bund. Once they made contact, she would exchange a sheaf of charcoal-sketched landscapes of the French countryside for the aether battleship plans, each rolled up in identical brown leather carrying tubes.

“I beg your pardon, Miss, but are you bound for Istanbul?”

Two middle-aged gentlemen—one lean and one portly--occupied the table to her left. The heavier man, who sat closest to her, had asked the question in English.

Although she understood him perfectly, she gave him a puzzled look. “Pardonez moi?”

“Ah. French,” he said to his lean companion, whose attention seemed more on his newspaper than the conversation. “Well damn me. Eighteen months ago in Belgium we and the Huns were shooting them down like swine, and now Frogs ride on the zepps as pretty as you please.” He turned back to Gabrielle and spoke slowly and loudly.

“YOU…” And he pointed forcefully at her several times, “GO…” Making a motion in the air back and forth with his left hand, perhaps representing the passage of the zeppelin although Gabrielle could not be sure . . . , “IS—TAN—BULL?” he finished and put his forefingers pointing up from the top of his head, like a bull’s horns. Gabrielle laughed.

“Ah, oui! Istanbul.”

“Jolly good,” he said and then turned back to his companion. “Nothing like a French tart to liven up the landscape.” His friend lowered the newspaper and looked at Gabrielle for a moment, nodded politely to her, and then went back to his reading.

“Best keep your mind on our business,” the slender man said.

“Well damn me, speak of our business and in it walks,” the first man said. His companion again lowered the newspaper and the two of them watched a new arrival carry his bags through the entryway and toward the bar. “Armbruster,” the portly man added, and his lip curled in a sneer as he said it.

“That chap behind the Prince of Wales mess?” his companion said, folding his newspaper and now clearly interested.

“That’s the one. A bounder for certain. We’d best keep an eye on him.”

The Prince of Wales! The name of the stolen aether battleship plans. Gabrielle felt a surge of excitement. Had she, by sheer chance, taken a seat by the very British agents she would have to guard against on this mission? And had they already identified the agent she was to contact? Trying not to show any particular interest she followed their gaze and saw a tall man shouldering his way through the crowd. He certainly dressed as an Englishman, in tweeds, and he carried a circular leather document tube over one shoulder! It was not exactly the same as hers—larger and a lighter shade of brown leather—which was inconvenient, but how was der Bund to know the exact dimensions and color of the case she would bring?

Without looking at the two British agents beside her she recalled their exact words—another of her particular talents— and combed through them for any additional clues. Most of the words she understood, but what was a bounder? The English always mispronounced foreign words, sometimes she thought as a matter of pride. Could he have meant a member of der Bund? And the lean British agent had described this new arrival as a chap. What was a chap? Some sort of code perhaps? What could it—Ah! Of course. Chevaliers Autonome de la Peuple. Ch-A-P!

The tall man stopped by the salon bar, lowered his valise and document case to the deck, and ordered a drink from a steward. Maintaining an appearance of outward calm, Gabrielle finished her café au lait and left a ten-pfennig coin beside the saucer. She rose and crossed the crowded salon toward the man who, whiskey glass in hand, now watched her approach. He raised an eyebrow in quiet inquiry and she answered in kind, bringing a knowing smile to his face.

Aware that the British agents would be watching, she did not look at him or address him directly when she reached his side, but instead stood with her hands on the railing beside the large glass windows which overlooked the landing ground and, stretching away behind it, the city of Munich. Her eyes on the crowd below, she said in a quiet voice meant only for his ears, “Bonjour, Monsieur. You are perhaps interested in a French lady traveling alone?”

Before answering he took a large swallow of whiskey.

“You must have read my mind,” he replied in a low voice.

“I hardly think that necessary. Your accent, it is quite good by the way.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be?” he said.

That was true, she thought. An agent passing for British would have paid special attention to this detail. “Do you perhaps have some pictures to show me?” she asked.

“Pictures?” he repeated and then smiled. “Why yes, I have some very fine etchings in my stateroom I think you may find quite interesting.”

“Bon,” she answered. Below the window the ground crews made ready to unmoor the zeppelin. Their shadows stretched behind them, rendered long and grotesque by the angle of the setting sun. The ship would be aloft in a few minutes. Gabrielle made a quick calculation as to how long before they would be safely over Austrian air space.

“I will come to your cabin at eleven this evening. What is the number?”

He took another swallow of whiskey and then fetched a key from his pocket.

“One seven nine,” he said.

“One seven nine,” she repeated. “Eleven this evening.” Without looking at him she turned and left.

Waldo Armbruster watched her leave, watched her walk the length of the salon, and felt a glow in his lower body not entirely the result of the whiskey. How could he be so lucky with women and so damned unlucky at baccarat? That was a mystery which sometimes plagued him, but wouldn’t trouble him much tonight, he imagined

He picked up his valise and the cylindrical leather fly rod carrier and set off to find his stateroom.

A few minutes later Etienne Villon--aka Etienne Le Marchant—entered the salon and found a prominent place in the center of the room where he would be clearly visible to the French agent, and where he might pick her out as well. How many attractive French ladies would be traveling alone on the zeppelin? Not many, he hoped. He waited for an hour, waited as the crowd gradually thinned. He felt more and more exposed and alone, more and more as if he had walked into a trap. Soon he became certain of it.

Very well. If the English had trapped him then he would at least show them how a man of ideals, a man of principles, could die with dignity. Although his stomach churned with anxiety and he felt slightly nauseous, he squared his shoulders and looked around the room with an expression of haughty disdain.

Ten minutes later the steward’s staff asked him to leave so they could set the tables for supper. To his surprise, no one attempted to arrest him when he did so.

*****

Later that evening . . .

Waldo Armbruster rose from his chair in response to the knock at his stateroom door. He examined his pocket watch and his eyebrows went up.

“Almost an hour early,” he said to himself. “The young darling must have been particularly captivated by my charm.” He drained the brandy and soda—his third—and walked somewhat unsteadily to the door. Throwing it open he prepared to greet the delicious French lady but his smile vanished. “Oh. I can explain.”

*****

At eleven o’clock precisely, Gabrielle turned the corner in the corridor which led to stateroom one-seven-nine and saw a small crowd of a dozen or so people in the passageway talking among themselves. As she grew near she realized the crowd milled before the open door to the very stateroom she wished to visit.

“You must clear the passageway,” a white-coated steward said in German, and made pushing motions with his hands. “All passengers will please return to their cabins at once, by order of the Hauptzahlmeister.”

Gabrielle wondered what would have brought the Hauptzahlmeister—the vessel’s chief purser—here. “What has happened?” she asked in German of a couple turning to leave.

“A murder!” the woman answered. “Quite ghastly, they say. A great deal of blood.”

Gabrielle pushed on through the thinning crowd of passengers and saw the two British agents leaving in the opposite direction. Were they behind this? What else was she to think? When she reached the doorway, the steward held out his hands as if to stop her.

“No, my dear lady, you must return to your cabin at once.”

“But I have important business with the man in this cabin. If there has been foul play, I may know the reason why.”

“Foul play?” she heard a deep voice from inside the stateroom repeat. A tall, stout, handsome man of middle age, dressed in white tie and tails, appeared beside the steward. He was clearly not a member of the crew and yet the steward immediately deferred to him.

“Baron Renfrew,” the steward said, “this lady says she had business with the deceased.”

“What sort of business?” the baron asked.

Gabrielle opened her handbag and retrieved one of the business cards her superiors had provided as a cover for her mission. It read:

Mme. Gabrielle Courbiere

Commisaire-priseur de Beaux-Arts

13 Rue Madeleine, Le Havre, France

“Appraiser of fine art?” the baron said. “I did not suspect Armbruster’s tastes ran to that.”

Gabrielle instantly noticed three things: the baron had no difficulty in reading French, he apparently knew the agent, and the agent’s assumed name was Armbruster.

“As to his tastes I have no opinion, having met him only once and briefly,” she said. “He corresponded with me and said he had a number of previously unknown charcoal sketches of the French countryside by Jean-François Millet.”

“Millet?” the baron asked.

“Oui. Millet was one of the founders of the school Barbizan. If the landscapes are authentic they are quite valuable. I paid Monsieur Armbruster a considerable sum in advance, with the balance to be delivered if I could determine their authenticity. I have a proprietary interest in them, you see? He carried them in a cylindrical leather case. Was such a case found?”

The baron’s expression flickered in surprise. “Cylindrical case? You’d better come in,” he said, and the steward immediately stood aside and bowed. “Wait out here and see that we are not disturbed,” the baron added to the steward.

*****

Etienne Villon closed the door of his stateroom behind him and leaned against it, his head reeling. His aimless wandering, looking for the French agent, had led him to the crowd at the murder scene and there he had seen the woman who must be his contact—the overheard discussion of the landscape charcoals, her French accent, and above all her dizzying beauty, left no doubt in his mind.

He had not dared to make contact with her in public, but now he seethed with anxiety. He saw her talking with Baron Renfrew, saw her enter the stateroom and the door close behind her. Was it possible she did not know she stood face-to-face with the very embodiment of everything they fought against? No! Surely a French agent would know this man on sight and understand the terrible menace he represented. But she had walked into unspeakable, terrifying danger without a trace of fear, or even of hesitation. This was bravery of an order he had never witnessed before.

Extraordinary bravery and celestial beauty combined in one woman, and all of it dedicated to their common cause. A woman truly worth dying for!

He must find a way to rescue her.

*****

“It seems to me the man simply fell and hit his head on the corner of this small table,” the slender ship’s doctor said as he polished the lenses of his pince nez glasses. Beside him the chief purser nodded rapidly but with a look of clear distress on his ruddy, black-whiskered face. Gabrielle could imagine numerous reasons why he would prefer an accident to a murder.

She took a step closer and examined the body. Armbruster lay on his stomach with the small wooden table beside him. A corner of the table top was jaggedly broken off and the left side of the man’s skull was cracked open, brains exposed.

That was quite interesting. She had never before seen a man’s brains.

There was also, as the lady in the corridor had suggested, a considerable amount of blood which had begun to coagulate but was by no means dry. Much of it had puddled on the hardwood deck around the dead man’s head but she also saw evidence of a fine spray of blood, probably from the impact with the table. She noticed that no one had stepped in the blood, so that aspect of the scene was certainly undisturbed.

“Perhaps he fell,” she said. “Or perhaps it was staged to look this way, n’est ce pas? If this was an accident, the drawings will still be here.”

The doctor forcefully put his pince nez glasses back on and scowled, clearly annoyed to have his opinion contradicted. The chief purser shook his head in alarm.

“No, you must leave this to us, Madame Courbiere,” the purser said, but the baron cleared his throat and the two other men immediately turned to him.

“Considering the strained international situation,” the baron said slowly, his voice serious, “and the delicate relations between Germany and France, the zeppelin line may prefer you to exercise a special consideration for this lady’s business interests.” Although to Gabrielle’s ear the baron offered this as if solicitous advice, not a command, the chief purser straightened to attention.

“Of course, Herr Baron. Danke schön! Now let us find this case.”

For the next ten minutes the four of them—Gabrielle, the baron, the doctor, and the chief purser—searched the small cabin for the leather document tube but found nothing but a half-empty bottle of brandy, a small book of salacious photographs, slightly more than twenty pounds sterling in British currency, and Armbruster’s clothing and toiletries.

“He had the leather case with him when he boarded this afternoon,” Gabrielle insisted.

“The lady is unfortunately correct,” the doctor told the chief purser. “I saw it myself.”

The chief purser stared in appeal at the doctor for a moment but then his shoulders sagged and he shook his head.

“Ach! A murder. Never before has there been a murder on Der Hochflieger Ost. When we land in Vienna later today the authorities will want to know everything. Our passengers will be detained. It will be a great embarrassment to the firm. You, Baron, of course, will not be inconvenienced.”

The baron nodded his acknowledgement of what was apparently obvious to everyone but Gabrielle.

“You are perhaps the owner of the line?” she asked.

He gave her a quizzical smile in return. “I have no formal association with the zeppelin firm. The chief purser allowed me to be present as a courtesy. Armbruster was a fellow countryman, and… an acquaintance.”

He did not say friend, Gabrielle noticed. “A countryman--you are English? Your German is quite good.”

“Not exactly English. Welsh, I suppose.” He paused and smiled again as if at a private joke. “My family is originally from Germany. I still have relatives there.”

“Ah, très bien. Now, as to the murder: the chief purser is concerned with the delay and scandal, oui? But if we discover the criminal ourselves before we reach Vienna, all will be well. The man who has the missing case is surely our murderer.”

The man . . . or men, she thought.

“But how shall we proceed?” the chief purser asked, and looked at the others in desperation. The doctor answered in a voice clearly accustomed to giving commands.

“I see no alternative to a polite but insistent search of the passenger cabins for the missing tube.” The chief purser began to object, but the doctor waved him to silence and pressed on. “Surely the Viennese police will do the same, and with less consideration for our passengers and less discretion.”

The baron frowned in thought for a moment and looked up when he realized the other men were waiting for his opinion. “Yes, I do not suppose there is a good alternative.”

Gabrielle took one last look around the floor of the stateroom to see if anything was amiss, a button perhaps fortuitously lost from the murderer’s coat, or something dropped from a pocket, but she saw nothing out of place. She did notice that the baron’s shoes were polished almost to a mirror brightness, but that there were three very small dull dots on them, three spots where they did not reflect the light.

Dried blood? Surrounded as she was by the baron’s allies, she chose not to reveal what she had just noticed.

*****

Etienne watched through the narrow crack of his partly open stateroom door as the young French lady, the baron, a ship’s officer and an older gentleman passed in the corridor. Once they were gone he entered the hallway and, walking in the opposite direction, soon came to the door guarded by one of the stewards. Etienne walked up to him as casually as he could manage.

“Quite some excitement, eh?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the young steward answered.

“And that woman . . .” He touched his fingertips to his lips.

“A real beauty,” the steward agreed with a smile. “And she is French, like you, sir.”

“Oh, I am not French!” Etienne corrected him. “I am Dgèrnésiais, from the island of Guernsey. We all love Queen Victoria there very much.”

The steward looked confused but Etienne forged ahead.

“Did you perhaps overhear her name? She seems quite charming.”

“Yes, uh, Gabrielle Courbiere. She deals in art.”

Etienne thanked the steward and walked back down the corridor in the direction he had just come. Gabrielle Courbiere! The name seemed to sing in his head. Gabrielle, he thought, and then shook his head. A woman this courageous and resourceful, this dedicated to their cause, would not be so frivolous as to go by her first name. Non. She would be simply Courbiere. She had the strength and majesty of . . . of a mountain, he thought. Yes, a mountain!

Mont Courbiere, he said to himself, and Villon repeated it, liking the sound of the name.

Now he must rescue her from her terrible danger, even if doing so cost him his life. First he would need to create a diversion.

*****

Gabrielle found one thing in this affair puzzling. If Baron Renfrew had murdered the agent Armbruster and taken the stolen plans—which seemed increasingly likely—why had he agreed to a search of the cabins? One possibility was that he was considered above suspicion and so his cabin would not be searched. Another was that he had hidden the plans, and perhaps already disposed of the leather document tube. But why would he do these things? Why not simply turn Armbuster over to the authorities and recover the plans in that manner? Germany was an ally of Britain and would surely have cooperated.

Then she remembered that in her own stateroom was a leather document tube containing charcoal sketches of the French countryside, and rendered in the style of Millet. She hoped she was above suspicion as well. Otherwise explaining the presence of those items could prove extremely difficult.

“Oh my,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” the baron said.

“I was just recalling that I forgot to lock my stateroom when I left it earlier. I hope nothing has been disturbed.”

“I would normally say you have nothing to worry about, but that seems patently untrue this evening.” He said this with wry humor, Gabrielle noticed. Despite the physical evidence, it was difficult for her to reconcile the man she observed standing beside her with a verdict of murder. On one hand he seemed genuinely puzzled by these events but on the other hand somehow amused by them, or perhaps entertained would be a better word. What sort of man is entertained by the events surrounding the murder of an acquaintance?

Another party of officers joined their group in the small passenger lounge they had appropriated as a headquarters. The chief purser raised his hands for attention and then explained the situation to the others. They would break into teams of two crewmen each, one a purser’s assistant with a pass key and one a ship’s officer for additional authority, and methodically search the passenger staterooms for the missing leather document tube. As the passengers would be asleep, they must wake them and conduct the search as politely as possible, and without alarming them, but with dispatch.

“What does this tube look like?” one officer asked.

“I believe I can help with that,” Baron Renfrew said. “I sent for my man Winslow and—right, here he is now.”

Gabrielle turned and saw a well-dressed man enter the lounge and he carried the very document case Gabrielle had seen with Armbruster. She nearly gasped with surprise but managed to restrain herself and maintain a look of outward calm.

“Madame Courbiere, going by your previous description it seemed this case of mine was similar to that carried by Mister Armbruster. Would you say that was so?” The Baron asked this with his eyes locked on hers and his expression intent.

Gabrielle stepped forward and looked at the case carefully.

“I would say it is identical.”

A murmur ran through the assembled officers.

“Of course, the case we are looking for contains rare art, doesn’t it?” the baron said. “This one contains only my fly rod.” He removed the lid and showed the officers its contents. Several nodded in appreciation of the obvious quality of the rod it contained. “Also, I doubt Mister Armbruster’s missing container will have my name on it,” he added and pointed to the engraved brass plate attached near the carrying strap. “A Christmas gift last year from my wife Alexandra,” he added.

He was very clever, this Baron Renfrew, Gabrielle thought. He had deflected any suspicion from having the plans by bringing Armbruster’s container here to display. Or perhaps it was the case’s double. Was he planning a switch of his own? But how would he know what the container looked like? No, unlikely. This must be the case itself. But why would Armbruster’s case have Renfrew’s name on it? Could the baron have affixed it to the case after stealing it? Perhaps.

“Are there any other questions?” the chief purser asked.

“I have two additional points to make,” Gabrielle added. The chief purser glanced to Refrew and, apparently having received the right nonverbal reply, nodded to her.

“First, the thief may have transferred the art to a different container, so look for any document tube.

“Second, and most importantly, you must under no circumstances open and examine the container. It contains very delicate artwork which is potentially priceless, both in its own right and for its historical significance. I have the equipment in my cabin to examine it and determine its authenticity, but none of you has been trained to handle such fragile items without damaging them. Such damage would be unconscionable.”

The chief purser, perhaps mindful of Baron Renfrew’s earlier advice concerning the delicate relations between France and Germany, reinforced her instructions not to open the containers, and then he sent the parties on their way, leading one himself. Gabrielle and Renfrew were left alone in the lounge.

Renfrew drew a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket and fingered it idly.

“You intend to smoke here?” Gabrielle asked.

Renfrew looked down at the cigar and then back to her with a smile. “No, I am not suicidal. We are surrounded by hydrogen gas cells and they are notorious for giving off a thin but constant stream of flammable gas. That is why all firearms and incendiaries are collected upon boarding, all the interior lights are Edison bulbs, and there are no carpets. Wouldn’t want to have someone shuffling along in their stockings and cause a static electricity spark. It’s a bother, of course. I rather enjoy a smoke now and then.”

Gabrielle realized with a sinking feeling that her own revolver would do her no good—unless she intended to incinerate herself and everyone else aboard, which she did not. Something still tickled at her brain. When had Renfrew’s name plate attached itself to Armbruster’s container?

“Your wife Alexandra, you are close to her?” Gabrielle asked. Renfrew frowned.

“An arranged marriage, and a complicated relationship. She is very dear to me, but in a distant sort of way. You have no doubt heard I spend considerable time with other ladies.”

“No, I know nothing of your personal life. How would I?”

He smiled at that, as if she had made a joke. Then he looked at her in dawning realization. “You are serious. You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I thought you were Baron Renfrew. Was that a lie?”

“It is one of my titles. I am Albert Edward, Baron Renfrew, Earl of Dublin, Duke of Cornwall and Rothesay, Prince of Wales, and heir apparent to the British throne.”

Gabrielle felt momentarily lightheaded as she realized the extent to which she had misinterpreted the situation in which she found herself.

“But . . . the name Renfrew—“

“Whenever I travel unofficially, I travel under that name, although everyone—everyone it seems but you—knows who I am. It is simply my way of making it clear I wish no fuss or ceremony.”

“Then, your relatives in Germany . . .?”

“Yes, you’ve probably heard of my nephew Willie. He’s the crown prince. As his poor father, my brother-in-law, is dying from throat cancer, I’ll wager Willie is Kaiser before the next year is out. That should prove interesting.”

Before Gabrielle could reply they both heard shouting in the hallway and the sounds of a tussle. The door burst open and two ship’s crewmen entered, holding between them a short, dark-haired man who struggled and shouted in English with a heavy French accent.

“I am the subject Britanique! You will release me at once! The prime minister will hear of this!”

“Now what’s all this?” Renfrew asked.

The chief purser entered behind the struggling trio and squeezed past them.

“This man was running in the corridor and pounding on doors, alarming the passengers with a story of a fire on board. It nearly started a panic but my men apprehended him. He claims to be English.”

“Dgèrnésiais!” the man practically screamed. “From the island of Guernsey!”

“Ah, oui, the Bailiwick of Guernsey,” Gabrielle said. “It is one of the Channel Islands between France and Britain. But you know, this man is not truly a British subject. The British passport is extended to them as a matter of courtesy, but he is a subject of the Baron Renfrew’s family directly, from before, when they still ruled Hanover, n’est ce pas?”

Most of the men, aside from Renfrew, looked confused by her explanation. The prisoner, his longish hair disheveled and nearly covering his eyes, stared at her like a wounded animal, as if somehow she had betrayed him. But how could she have? She had never seen him before in her life.

“Herr Hauptzahlmeister,” another crewman said from the open doorway, “we found this when we searched the man’s cabin.” He entered holding a leather document tube identical to the one in Gabrielle’s stateroom.

“Might this be the correct tube, Madame Courbiere?” the chief purser said, taking it from the crewman and handing it to her.

She stood holding the tube and looking at it as she thought. She looked up at the man being held by two crewmen in front of her, the man who spoke with a French accent and traveled under a British passport, and in an instant she understood everything. Well, nearly everything.

“I think you should take that tube to your stateroom and examine it, Madame Courbiere,” Renfrew said. When she looked at him she thought his eyes particularly serious and fraught with meaningful intent, although she could not determine the exact message he intended to convey. “If this is the artwork it will be quite valuable. Perhaps a man can accompany her.”

“Of course, Herr Baron,” the chief purser replied and gestured to the crewman who had brought the tube.

“Wait outside her door while she makes the examination,” Renfrew added.

That was convenient, she thought.

*****

In ten minutes she returned to the lounge, having quickly verified that the stolen plans were in the leather tube and having exchanged it for the tube containing the charcoal sketches. Only Renfrew and the chief purser remained of the previous crowd. She assumed the young Frenchman had been placed under arrest and removed to a holding cell.

“So, are these the drawings?” Renfrew asked with a small smile.

“Oui, but unfortunately they are forgeries: quite good, but unmistakable to an expert, and without value. Would you care to examine them?” When he shook his head she handed the tube to the chief purser. “Evidence, I believe,” she said.

“Danke schön, Madame Courbiere,” the chief purser said and then, after a glance at Renfrew, he departed and closed the door behind him.

“They have taken the man from Guernsey away?” she asked Renfrew when they were alone.

“No,” the baron answered. “The fellow shouted, ‘You will never torture her name from me!’ broke free, and ran. No one was much concerned, as there’s nowhere to run on a zeppelin a thousand feet in the air, but the fellow got out onto an observation deck and dove over the rail. Shouted a slogan of some sort as he went, but no one could make it out over the noise of the engines. You wouldn’t have any idea whose name he meant, would you?”

“He is dead? Really?” Gabrielle asked.

“I should think so. He would have to be the luckiest man on Earth to survive that fall and from what little I saw of him, he did not strike me as very lucky at all. So, you found the battleship plans and have them safely tucked away?”

Gabrielle again felt lightheaded, but retained her composure. Her first inclination was denial, but that would be pointless. The evidence would be easy to discover. Instead she took a moment to think.

“Had you wanted to arrest me,” she said, “I believe you would have done so while the chief purser was here. So you intend to allow me to keep the plans and return them to my superiors, oui? But your loyalty to Britain cannot be questioned. So I must ask, what renders the plans worthless?”

Renfrew smiled. “What do you think?”

“It may be that they are forgeries,” she answered, “intended to be stolen, but that would be discovered once they were examined by our engineers, so what would be the point? Perhaps they could be bait, to catch and eliminate whatever agents are involved. But for me that is too complicated to be believed. Or they could be authentic but simply of no use to us. This seems most likely. But then why is there such a fuss, closing the Pas de Calais crossings, and so close to Christmas?”

“Perhaps,” he answered, “because the men in charge of protecting them do not realize they will be of no use to you. Their job, after all, is simply to protect, and the less they know about the secrets themselves the better. As to the plans, this new class of aether warship relies for its superior performance on the use of an analytical engine of new design and enhanced function—the Improved Babbage, Model Three Hundred and Sixty. The place where the analytical engine will be installed is clearly marked on the plans, but without the device itself they will do you no good.”

“Ah. Three things remain unexplained,” Gabrielle said. “First, why do you not tell your security people to call off the fruitless and unnecessary search for the plans?”

“Because the head of security is a political opponent, and this failure of his will embarrass and weaken him. Your second question?”

“How did you know I was the spy?”

“Knowing Waldo Armbruster as I did, I knew he would never have come up with rare art or the idea of trying to forge it, so I concluded the entire story must be a fraud aimed at finding that case. But if it was the wrong case, as I knew it had to be, there must be a right one somewhere, and what might that hold of interest to France? The missing plans seemed the obvious candidate. It is gratifying to have my speculation confirmed. Your third question.”

“Knowing I am the French spy, why do you allow me to return with these worthless plans? If you intend to force me to be a double agent, I do not think you will succeed.”

“Nothing so dire as that, my dear. The truth is I wish your safe return to serve as a message to your superiors. There are times when the interests of Britain and those of France are actually congruent. Unfortunately, our governments can seldom work in accord in those cases while remaining publicly belligerent, and this prolonged state of public belligerence is too useful for too many politicians in both governments to be set aside. Do you understand?”

“You wish to open the door to discreet and unofficial cooperation with my department when our interests coincide?”

“Precisely.”

She thought about that for a moment. That explained almost everything, but left one critical question unanswered: was she standing in the presence of a murderer? If so, she knew she was still in profound danger.

“I cannot speak for my superiors,” she said, “but I will convey this desire to them. But I must repay my personal debt to you myself. For that I must ask one more question.” Renfrew smiled in warm anticipation. “Have you hired two body guards to travel with you?”

A look of surprise replaced his smile. “Bodyguards? No, nothing like that. I generally travel alone except for my valet Winslow.”

“Well then, I must tell you there are two men on board who harbor ill intentions toward you, and seem prepared to act upon them, although I do not know how they intend to do so.”

Gabrielle then explained the entire overheard conversation in the salon: the one man telling the other to attend to their “business,” and their attention on Armbruster as part of that business because he had been involved with the Prince of Wales in some sort of trouble.

“Ah, that would be baccarat,” Renfrew answered, “chemin de fer, to be precise. Armbruster introduced me into several games in London. He lost heavily, I’m afraid, and there was a row over his debts.”

“And this involved you? How?”

“Well, it was passed around that I was present, and baccarat is illegal in Britain.”

“Illegal? Really? A game is illegal? Why?”

“It can be very high stakes and anything which provides an opportunity for the wealthy to transfer their fortunes to their inferiors is generally frowned on. But as to these two chaps—“

“Chaps!” she interrupted him. “What does this word mean?”

“A chap is a fellow, that’s all,” he answered.

“Oh. And a bounder?”

“A bad sort of chap. Now as to these two men, was one thin and one heavy?”

Gabrielle nodded absently, her mind on her earlier mistakes. She did not reprimand herself. Her mistakes had been honest ones based on ignorance which had now been corrected. Still, she understood how remarkably fortunate she had been to escape disaster. In the future she would have to prepare more meticulously. But first she must finish the last bit of this affair. She noticed Renfrew was still talking.

“Pardonez moi?” she said.

“I was just saying I think I’ve seen those men before. I should have been more alert. From what you say they wish to uncover some indiscretion with which to embarrass the royal family. Now that you’ve alerted me, I can take steps, and I am grateful for that.”

“But they are English. Are they hired agents of an enemy power?”

“Doubtful. I suspect they are minions of my domestic political enemies.”

“Oh. And now I will do you one more service of a more personal nature. Please follow me.”

Again smiling broadly, Renfrew did as she asked and they passed through corridors and down companionways until they reached the door to the engineering spaces. Gabrielle had never been here before but she had studied the layout of the zeppelin carefully and knew what lay below. These areas were prohibited to passengers but she passed through without hesitation. Two crewmen working on an electrical generator looked up but then, as she anticipated, bowed quickly to Renfrew, then smirked and nudged each other as they saw Gabrielle leading him.

They passed along a narrow corridor, flanked by tanks of compressed gas which Gabrielle took to be hydrogen, then down another companionway and through a door into the open night air. The air was cold and the drone of powerful engines to either side assaulted her senses—Gabrielle was sensitive to loud noise—but her attention was immediately drawn to the landscape stretched below them. A winding river shone silver in the moonlight and the scattered lights of small villages among the miniature grey fields and forests seemed like enchanted fireflies which never winked out. The sense of height made her dizzy and she was completely aware that a man of Renfrew’s strength could simply throw her over the railing and no one would ever question him about it. Still, this was the only place she could also find a measure of safety.

The prince stood beside her, their shoulders touching, and he followed her gaze downward.

“Yes, the view is different without a glass window, isn’t it?” he said. “Somehow more immediate. I’ve never been down this low on the ship before.”

“Neither have I, but I noticed this platform when I boarded.”

She walked down the metal steps to the catwalk below, holding the brass railings for safety. When they were both there she turned to Renfrew.

“Now my service to you. The hydrogen leaks, but as it is lighter than air it all goes up. We are below the gas bags here. You may safely smoke your cigar.”

Renfrew looked around doubtfully. “That makes sense, but are you certain?”

“Observe,” she said, and pointed to several stubbed out cigarette butts near the side of the walkway. Renfrew smiled and lit his cigar. Gabrielle shivered in the cold and although Renfrew offered the loan of his coat, she refused. Instead she fit both of her hands into her cloth handbag, for warmth she told him. But inside the bag her right hand curled around the small LeFaucheux revolver. Firing it here would be as safe as Renfrew smoking his cigar. She slowly cocked the hammer and she rested her hands on the railing, the concealed pistol pointed at Renfrew’s torso and only inches away from it. For several minutes the two enjoyed the view in silence.

“How did Armbruster die?” she said at last. “Or should I ask, how did his blood splash on your shoe when no one disturbed the blood in the cabin?”

Renfrew took another long draw on his cigar before answering. “As the doctor said. He fell and hit his head on the table. He was quite drunk and when we hit a patch of turbulence, over he went. Damndest thing, and there I just stood for a moment. Well, there would be awkward newspaper headlines if I stayed around to explain, so I took what I came for and left.”

“Your fly rod case,” she said.

“Yes, although what I really wanted was hidden down in the bottom: a diamond necklace I had made in Amsterdam—Christmas present for my wife, Alexandra. It’s quite valuable, which I suppose is why Waldo pinched the case. Would you like to see it?”

“Merci, non. I never wear the jewelry. Its weight feels peculiar, especially around my neck. My clothes feel almost a part of me when I wear them, but jewelry feels hard and alien.”

“You wear a locket,” he observed.

“It was my mother’s before she died. I am used to it.”

Inside her handbag, Gabrielle carefully lowered the hammer of her revolver.

Renfrew took another long pull on his cigar.

“I assume you will be getting off at Vienna, now that you have what you want. You are a very odd young lady, Gabrielle, but I certainly hope to see you again.”

“Yes, I do as well, although I do not believe there will be the romance.”

“No?” he said and smiled.

“Non. You are a very handsome man, despite your thinning hair and being somewhat heavy.”

“You are too kind,” he murmured.

“Not at all. When I say something, it is because I believe it is true, never to flatter. So you are handsome. But your eyes show no pain, only determination or amusement. Either you have never felt pain, in which case you are a monster, or you are able hide it completely, in which case you are dangerous.”

“I must say,” he said after a moment, “you are quite good at avoiding flattery. The truth is I am rather occupied with Daisy Greville these days, so a romance would be unlikely in any case. But I would value your friendship.”

Gabrielle looked out over the railing and saw the clouds above them already pink with the dawn and the land below turning from black to grey. Far below she saw a flicker of movement, the wing of a hunting bird in a dive, perhaps an owl making the last kill of the night. She shivered.

“Why would someone take his own life?” she asked.

“I honestly can’t tell you,” Renfrew answered. “I won’t pretend that life is always easy or pleasant. It isn’t. But it’s so damned interesting. I can’t for the life of me see why someone would just step away.”

“Nor can I,” Gabrielle said.